Philip Castle was lying down in his bedroom, and Humblethorne found the time opportune for a thorough examination of both studies, but was unable by any discovery to shake the story he had been told. The _précis_ lay on Sir Roger’s desk, with pencil notes scrawled here and there in another hand; a dozen letters, all dealing with various business matters and bearing the previous day’s date, lay beside it awaiting the signature they could never now receive. As he had provided himself with the dead man’s keys, he was able to make an exhaustive search in all the drawers, but he found nothing but documents and papers, none of which helped him to build any theory whatever. “I am wasting my time here,” he said to himself at last with conviction: “if there was anything, there isn’t now. I’ll be better employed elsewhere.” He stepped out into the passage and, seeing the little door into the garden standing open to the warm air, turned that way. A minute examination of the lock satisfied him it had not been tampered with, and he passed outside on to a pleasant stone-flagged loggia which ran along the west side of the house between the two projecting wings formed by the drawing-room on the south and the study on the north. Several cane garden-chairs were ranged irregularly along the wall, and in one of these an old lady was sitting. There was a dignity about her which not even the evidences of physical weakness and mental suffering could destroy, an attraction in the delicate yet firm lines of her face which made it apparent that in youth she must have been really beautiful; but, even apart from the ravages which tragedy and sleeplessness had just impressed upon it, it was a sad face, worn with many lines. She sat motionless, white and almost haggard, gazing without purpose across the brilliant day. Humblethorne coughed apologetically, and she turned her head sharply with a nervous movement of her hands. “I beg your pardon, my lady,” said Humblethorne gently. “I had no wish to intrude. I am the inspector in charge of the case.” She gazed at him for some moments without speaking; her thoughts seemed to be far away and to be recalled with an effort. “Yes?” she said at last vaguely. “What is it you want?” “If your ladyship will excuse me,” said Humblethorne, anxious to make the most of the opportunity which had presented itself, “I should be glad if I might ask one or two questions.” She seemed to be utterly weary and hardly to hear. “Ask me what you wish,” she said listlessly. “Thank you, my lady. I only wanted to know whether you noticed anything unusual about your husband during the evening. Did he seem quite himself at dinner, for instance?” “Quite.” “Not anxious, by any chance?” “My husband was never anxious.” “I see. And then after dinner he went to his study: was that usual?” “Not usual, but work sometimes made it necessary.” “And you went upstairs, I suppose?” “I read for a while in my boudoir; I did not go straight to bed.”