"Not done a get-away, you mean? Well now, why should he, after all? Perhaps he fell right into this deep lake after dining, and couldn't get out, poveretto. Yet he was a real fine swimmer they say." "Most improbable," said Henry, who had dismissed that hypothesis already. He leant forward and spoke discreetly. "I fancy, Miss Longfellow, there are those in Geneva who could throw some light on this affair if they chose." "You don't say! Dio mio! Now isn't that quite a notion!" Miss Longfellow was interested. "Why, Mr. Beechtree, you don't suspect foul play, do you?" Henry nodded. "I suppose I rather easily suspect foul play," he candidly admitted. "It's more interesting, and I'm a journalist. But in this case there are reasons----" "Now isn't this too terribly exciting! Reasons! Just you tell me all you know, Mr. Beechtree, if it's not indiscreet. Non son' giornalista, io!" "I don't _know_ anything. Except that there are people who might be glad to get Svensen out of the way." "But who are they? I thought every one respected him ever so!" "Respect is akin to fear," said Henry. On that dictum, the launch took a swift turn to the right, and dashed towards a jetty which bore on a board above it the words, "Château Léman. Defense." "A private jetty," said Henry. "Yes. The village jetty is beyond. This is my uncle's. That path only leads up to the Château." They disembarked, and climbed up a steep path which led through a wrought iron gate into a walled garden that ran down to the lake's edge. Henry, who was romantic, said, "How very delightful. How old is the Château?" "Chi sa? Real old, I can tell you. Ask Uncle Silvio. He's great on history. He's for ever writing historical books. History and heresy--Dio mio! That is why they turned him out of the Church, you know." "So I heard.... Are you a Catholic, Miss Longfellow?" She gave a little shrug. "I was brought up Catholic. Women believe what they are taught, as a rule, don't they?" "I hadn't observed it," Henry said, "particularly. Are women so unlike men then?" "That's quite a question, isn't it. What do you think?" "I can't think in large sections and masses of people," Henry replied. "Women are so different one from another. So are men. That's all I can see, when people talk of the sexes." "_Macchè!_ You don't say!" said Miss Longfellow, looking at him inquiringly. "Most people always think in large masses of people. They find it easier, more convenient, more picturesque." "It is indeed so," Henry admitted. "But less accurate. Accuracy--do you agree with me?--is of an importance very greatly underestimated by the majority of persons." "I guess," said Miss Longfellow, not interested, "you're quite a clever young man."