“I know that as well as you do, Birts,” retorted Castle irritably. “But I’m not accustomed, like you are, to meeting with such things as part of my ordinary life. For an old man to fall and kill himself in his hall without rousing the house is not impossible; the other seemed to be. But I realized, when I pulled myself together, that there was something more than accident about him. I tried the door; it was locked. I went as quickly as I could round the windows, both here and in all the adjoining rooms, making sure that I should find one forced, but they were all fastened. Then I did not know what to do, so I went and knocked up Fairlie. He was asleep of course, but I made him get up and dress as quickly as he could and come into the hall. After that I went and knocked at Miss Temple’s door, woke her up, told her and left her to tell Lady Penterton and Miss Celia, and came down here again.” “When did you send for Birts?” asked Humblethorne. “Oh, I don’t know,” returned Castle wearily. “I was here trying to think it out; it seemed so extraordinary. And then Fairlie suggested that I should try and telephone to Birts and the doctor; but I could get no answer whatever from the Exchange, though I tried ever so long. So finally I scrawled a couple of notes and sent them off by Alfred on a bicycle.” “It was 4.20 a.m. by the station clock when Alfred reached me,” said Birts. “Yes, I must have spent half an hour or more trying to get through, and I don’t suppose he hurried himself dressing and all that.” “Mr. Castle,” said Humblethorne quietly, “on what terms were you yourself with Sir Roger?” “On what terms?” repeated Castle with a surprised stare. “What do you mean? I was his private secretary.” “Yes, I know that; I mean, were you on intimate terms or what?” “Sir Roger was not on intimate terms with any one, so far as I know,” answered Castle with some confusion. “Why do you ask?” “It helps in a case of this kind to know everything,” replied Humblethorne suavely. “Well, then, yes, in a sense I was; that is to say, I’d been with him a long time and probably knew him better than any one else.” “That is a mere evasion of my question,” said Humblethorne softly. “Well,” cried Castle, “if you mean, did I like him, no, emphatically no! Did any one? Birts will tell you what sort of a man he was, if you don’t know.” “I didn’t mean that; I meant, did he like you?” “This is too much!” exclaimed Castle. “I won’t be cross-examined in this way. What are you driving at?” “I may take it then,” said Humblethorne, quite unruffled, “that there were differences between you.” “You may take it how you like,” replied Castle with some heat. “Differences, of course there were differences. If you think a man could live for eleven years without differences with Sir Roger Penterton, you’re mistaken.” “I quite understand, Mr. Castle,” Humblethorne said in a more conciliatory tone; “you mustn’t take offence at my questions; I am bound to ask them, you know.”