Mr. Fortune, engaged upon a minute comparison of the shades of tawny red in five different but exquisite roses, was disturbed by Superintendent Bell. He looked up at that square and gloomy visage and shook his head. “You disturb me. I have my own troubles, Bell. Darlings, aren’t they?” He made a caressing gesture over his roses. “But I can’t make up my mind which is the one I really love. Go away, Bell. Your complexion annoys them.” “We haven’t found her, sir,” said Bell heavily. “She’s not in the river.” Reggie dropped into a long chair and, watching him with dreamy eyes, filled a pipe. Bell glowered. “I thought you were going to say, ‘I told you so.’” Reggie smiled. “I don’t remember that I told you anything.” “That was about the size of it, sir,” Bell reproached him. “Well, I thought it was possible the body was in the river. But not probable.” “Nothing’s probable that I can see. Roses are a bit simpler, aren’t they, sir?” “Simpler!” Reggie cried. “You’re no gardener. You should take it up, Bell. It develops the finer feelings. Now, don’t be cross again. I can’t bear it. I haven’t forgotten your horrible case. Nothing’s probable, as you say. But one or two things are certain all the same. Sylvia Sheridan’s servants have nothing up their sleeves. They’re as lost as you are. They are being quite natural. But Rose Darcourt has a chauffeur who interests me. He is a convivial animal and his pub is the ‘Dog and Duck.’ But he hasn’t been at the ‘Dog and Duck’ since Sylvia vanished. The ‘Dog and Duck’ is surprised at him. Also he has been hanging about Sylvia’s house. He has suddenly begun an affair with her parlourmaid. He seems to have a deuce of a lot of time on his hands. Rose Darcourt don’t show. She’s reported ill. And the reputation of the chauffeur is that he’s always been very free and easy with his mistress.” Bell grunted and meditated and Reggie pushed a cigar-case across to help his meditations. “Well, sir, it sounds queer as you put it. But it might be explained easy. And that’s what Mr. Lomas says about the whole case. Maybe he’s right.” The thought plunged the Superintendent into deeper gloom. “What a horrible idea,” said Reggie. “My dear fellow, don’t be so despondent. I’ve been waiting for you to take me to the parlourmaid. I want a chaperon.” Inspector Oxtoby in plain clothes, Superintendent Bell in clothes still plainer and Mr. Fortune in flannels conducted an examination of that frightened damsel, who was by turns impudent and plaintive, till soothed by Mr. Fortune’s benignity. It then emerged that she was not walking out with Mr. Loveday the chauffeur: nothing of the kind: only Mr. Loveday had been attentive. “And very natural, too,” Reggie murmured. “But why has he only just begun?” The parlourmaid was startled. They had had a many fellows round the house since mistress went off. She smiled. It was implied that others beside the chauffeur had remarked her charms.