Reggie stared at him. “Yes. Yes, you have your moments, Lomas,” he said. “Suppose the butler did the murder. Why in the world should he wait to run away till Mark was certain to be found guilty?” “And suppose he didn’t, why did he run away at all? You can make up quite a lot of riddles in this business. Why should anyone but Mark do it? Why is Mark so mighty tender of the butler’s reputation? Why is anything?” “Yes, it’s all crazy--except Sir Brian. He’s reasonable enough, confound him.” “Yes. Yes, these rational men are a nuisance to the police. Well, well, begin again at the beginning.” “I wish I knew where it did begin.” “My dear fellow! Are we down-hearted? I’ll have a look at the medical evidence. You go over Carwell Hall and the butler’s digs with a small tooth comb.” But the first thing which Mr. Fortune did was to send a note to Miss Amber. MY DEAR CHILD,-- Mark can appeal. The ground for it is the disappearance of the Carwell butler--and a good ground. But he must appeal. Tell Miss Nest. R. F. Two days afterwards he went again to Scotland Yard summoned to a conference of the powers. The public prosecutor’s large and florid face had no welcome for him. “Any more new facts, Finch?” he said cheerfully. “Mark Carwell has entered an appeal,” Mr. Finchampstead boomed. “On the ground of the butler’s disappearance.” “Fancy that!” Reggie murmured, and lit a cigar. “Sir Brian doesn’t seem to have been very well informed, Lomas.” “The boy’s come to his senses, I suppose. But we haven’t found the butler. He left no papers behind him. All he did leave was his clothes and about a hundred pounds in small notes.” “So he didn’t take his ready money. That’s interesting.” “Well, not all of it. He left another hundred or so in the savings bank, and some small investments in building societies and so forth--a matter of five hundred. Either he didn’t mean to vanish, or he was in the deuce of a hurry to go.” “Yes. Yes, there’s another little point. Five or six hundred isn’t much to retire on. Why was he in such a hurry to retire?” “He may have had more than we can trace, of course. He may have gone off with some Carwell property. But there is no evidence of anything being stolen.” “The plain fact is,” Finchampstead boomed, “you have found out nothing but that he’s gone. We knew that before.” “And it’s a pity you kept it dark,” said Lomas acidly. “You wouldn’t have had an appeal to fight.” “The case against Mark Carwell is intrinsically as strong as ever,” Finchampstead pronounced. “There is no reason whatever to suspect the butler, he had no motive for murder, he gained nothing by it, his disappearance is most naturally accounted for by an accident.” “Yes, you’ll have to say all that in the Court of Appeal. I don’t think it will cut much ice.” “I am free to admit that his disappearance is an awkward complication in the case,” Finchampstead’s oratory rolled on. “But surely, Lomas, you have formed some theory in explanation?”