Reggie, who was lighting a cigar, looked up and let the match burn his fingers. “Not suicide. No,” he said. “Was Bigod’s?” “Well, it was a deuced queer death by misadventure.” “As you say.” Reggie nodded and wandered dreamily out. This seems to have been the first time that anyone thought of comparing the Bigod case to the orphanage murder. When the inquest on the lady doctor was held the police had no more evidence to produce than you have heard, and the jury returned a verdict of murder by some person or persons unknown. Newspapers strove to enliven the dull calm of the holiday season by declaiming against the inefficiency of a police force which allowed murderers to remain anonymous, and hashed up the Bigod case again to prove that the fall of Sir Humphrey Bigod into his chalkpit, though called accidental, was just as mysterious as the cut throat of Dr. Hall. And the Hon. Sidney Lomas cursed the man who invented printing. These assaults certainly did not disturb Reggie Fortune, who has never cared what people say of him. With the help of Joan Amber he found a quiet remote place for the unhappy girl suspected of the murder (Lady Chantry was prettily angry with Miss Amber about that, protesting that she wanted to look after Edith herself), and said he was only in the case as a philanthropist. After which he gave all his time to preparing his house and Miss Amber for married life. But the lady found him dreamy. It was in fact while he was showing her how the new colours in the drawing-room looked under the new lighting that Dr. Eden called him up. Dr. Eden has a general practice in Kensington. Dr. Eden wanted to consult him about a case: most urgent: 3 King William’s Walk. “May I take the car?” said Reggie to Joan. “He sounds rattled. You can go on home afterwards. It’s not far from you either. I wonder who lives at 3 King William’s Walk.” “But it’s Mrs. Warnham!” she cried. “Oh, my aunt!” said Reggie Fortune; and said no more. And Joan Amber could not call him out of his thoughts. She was as grave as he. Only when he was getting out of the car, “Be good to her, dear,” she said gently. He kissed the hand on his arm. The door was opened by a woman in evening-dress. “It is Mr. Fortune, isn’t it? Please come in. It’s so kind of you to come.” She turned to the maid in the background. “Tell Dr. Eden, Maggie. It’s my little boy--and we are so anxious.” “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Warnham.” Reggie took her hand and found it cold. The face he remembered for its gentle calm was sternly set. “What is the trouble?” “Gerald went to a party this afternoon. He came home gloriously happy and went to bed. He didn’t go to sleep at once, he was rather excited, but he was quite well. Then he woke up crying with pain and was very sick. I sent for Dr. Eden. It isn’t like Gerald to cry, Mr. Fortune. And----” A hoarse voice said “Catherine, you oughtn’t to be out there in the cold.” Reggie saw the gaunt face of Captain Warnham looking round a door at them.