“Then, excluding the squabs, the only women tagged onto the case are the two Feudists.” “You’ve said it.” “And they didn’t act in collusion?” “Never!” “Then it comes down to a decision between Miss Prall and her companion or Mrs Everett and her maid.” “Not necessarily her maid.” “Crickets! Not her daughter!” “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve just started, Ziz. Help me, don’t jump around so.” “Well, bless his heart, he shouldn’t be tormented. He should just be guided, counselored and befriended by his faithful helper. Now, to start straight, what’s the motive in each of these two cases?” “Merely to get rid of the man who was for furthering the marriage of the two young people. Miss Prall knew that if Sir Herbert were dead, his fortune would be young Bates’ without any conditions and the boy could go on with his inventing in peace. Then, she felt, he’d get so engrossed he’d forget about the Everett girl, and as the Everett mother plans to move away all would be well.” “If the Everetts are leaving, why should Miss Prall go to the trouble of eliminating the Bun man?” “Point well taken, Zizi; but, you see, as long as the Bun man was around he nagged at nephew to go into Buns and give up his more congenial occupation.” “Pretty slim reason for a real live murder, I think.” “So do I. But it’s the best we can get in that direction. Now, coming to the Everett suspects, the widow may have more reason for wishing Sir Herbert dead than we yet know of.” “All we know of is so he can’t push along the romance of the youngsters.” “Exactly. And here’s the conclusion of the whole matter. I conclude that those two women are the ones to be looked up, not, of course, acting together, but one or the other of them. If we can get anything on either, let’s do so.” “And the business men?” “I want to look those up, too. There’s one Crippen, who considered buying out Sir Herbert’s business. Also, he was an old beau of the two enemy women. There may be a complication worth studying there.” “What is this bun business? I mean, does he merely sell the good will,—of what?” “Oh, no; he sells his recipe. It’s a secret process,—the making of Binney’s Buns,—and the recipe is the thing. No one has ever been able to imitate them successfully. All attempts are dismal failures. But with the formula any one can make them. It’s Sir Herbert’s great source of anxiety lest the recipe, or formula, whatever they call it, should be discovered.” “Or stolen!” “Stolen?” “Yes, don’t you see, he had the recipe and he was murdered for it.” “Oh, don’t go off wild-goose chasing! It might be,—or it might be he was murdered for his watch and chain, which they didn’t take after all,—but we have to have some shred of evidence to go upon.” “Sure we do. And, therefore, I ask you, where _is_ this recipe?” “Why, I don’t know,—truly I don’t.”