As he rose from the table Wendover could see a look of acute anxiety on his face. He left the door open as he went out, and the sound of his voice at the telephone came back into the room. “Driffield speaking . . . Did you say burglar or burglars? . . . All right, don’t bother to tell me any more now. I’m coming across at once. Good-bye.” Sir Clinton came back to Wendover. The anxiety on his face was as deeply marked as ever; but the prospect of action seemed to have raised his spirits slightly. “Come on, Wendover. Get the car out, will you? There’s been a burglary at Whistlefield last night. I’ll need to go across and look into the affair.” When they reached Whistlefield, they were shown into the study where they found Ernest Shandon and Stenness waiting for them. “Now you might give me the whole story, Mr. Shandon,” Sir Clinton requested as soon as he had greeted the two. “It may be a case where time means a good deal; and we want to get our hands on these fellows at once, if we can.” Ernest pulled out his cigarette-case. He seemed to be in a very nervous condition. “D’you mind if I smoke?” he demanded, perfunctorily. “It soothes one, I always think; gives you a better chance of putting things calmly and not getting mixed up in your story.” He peered thoughtfully into his case for a second or two before he could make up his mind which cigarette to take; but at last he found one to his mind and set it alight. Wendover fidgeted slightly, but Sir Clinton evidently recognised the uselessness of trying to hasten Ernest in his operations. “There’s been a burglary here last night,” he announced at last. “Or rather, when I say last night, I really mean this morning because it was a good deal after midnight when it happened.” “Can you give me the exact time?” Sir Clinton asked. Ernest looked at him owlishly, reflected for a moment or two, and then shook his head in a care-worn fashion. “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t look at the clock, you know. It was after midnight, that’s all I can remember.” “Begin at the beginning, then, Mr. Shandon, and give us all the details you can. Anything may turn out to be useful for all we can tell.” “I usually go to bed quite early,” Ernest began, “but last night, after you went away, I thought I would have another look over Roger’s papers. You interrupted me, you remember,” he said, as though in explanation of his activity. “I got quite interested in some of them. Roger had so many irons in the fire. I hadn’t realised before what an amount of energy he must have had. You’ve no idea of the amount of things he was mixed up in.” “Yes?” said Sir Clinton, trying to hasten the slow progress of the narrative.