“You think so? Well, well. What I want to know is, was there any one at Mrs. Lawley’s party in Kensington who was also at the Home of Help party and also staying somewhere near the chalkpit when Bigod fell into it. Put your men on to that.” “Good Gad!” said Lomas. “But the cases are not comparable--not in the same class. Different method--different kind of victim. What motive could any creature have for picking out just these three to kill?” Reggie looked at him. “Not nice murders, are they?” he said. “I could guess--and I dare say we’ll only guess in the end.” That night he was taking Miss Amber, poor girl, to a state dinner of his relations. They had ten minutes together before the horrors of the ceremony began and she was benign to him about the recovery of the small Gerald. “It was dear of you to ring up and tell me. I love Gerry. Poor Mrs. Warnham! I just had to go round to her and she was sweet. But she has been frightened. You’re rather a wonderful person, sir. I didn’t know you were a children’s doctor--as well as a million other things. What was the matter? Mrs. Warnham didn’t tell us. It must----” “Who are ‘us,’ Joan?” “Why, Lady Chantry was with her. She didn’t tell us what it really was. After we came away Lady Chantry asked me if I knew.” “But I’m afraid you don’t,” Reggie said. “Joan, I don’t want you to talk about the small Gerry? Do you mind?” “My dear, of course not.” Her eyes grew bigger. “But Reggie--the boy’s going to be all right.” “Yes. Yes. You’re rather a dear, you know.” And at the dinner-table which then received them his family found him of an unwonted solemnity. It was agreed, with surprise and reluctance, that engagement had improved him: that there might be some merit in Miss Amber after all. A week went by. He had been separated from Miss Amber for one long afternoon to give evidence in the case of the illegitimate Pekinese when she rang him up on the telephone. Lady Chantry, she said, had asked her to choose a day and bring Mr. Fortune to dine. Lady Chantry did so want to know him. “Does she, though?” said Mr. Fortune. “She was so nice about it,” said the telephone. “And she really is a good sort, Reggie. She’s always doing something kind.” “Joan,” said Mr. Fortune, “you’re not to go into her house.” “Reggie!” said the telephone. “That’s that,” said Mr. Fortune. “I’ll speak to Lady Chantry.” Lady Chantry was at home. She sat in her austerely pleasant drawing-room, toasting a foot at the fire, a small foot which brought out a pretty leg. Of course she was in black with some white about her neck, but the loose gown had grace. She smiled at him and tossed back her hair. Not a thread of white showed in its crisp brown and it occurred to Reggie that he had never seen a woman of her age carry off bobbed hair so well. What was her age? Her eyes were as bright as a bird’s and her clear pallor was unfurrowed. “So good of you, Mr. Fortune----” “Miss Amber has just told me----”