The first of the two motorists fell on his knees by the side of the body and peered down into the grinning face. Old Benny Wentford! “Good God!” he said again. He was a middle-aged lawyer, unused to such a horror. Nothing more terrible had disturbed the smooth flow of his life than an occasional quarrel with the secretary of his golf club. Now here was death, violent and hideous--a dead man on a snowy road… a man who had telephoned to him two hours before, begging him to leave a party and come to him, though the snow had begun to fall all over again. “You know Mr. Wentford--he has told me about you.” “Yes, I know him. I’ve often called at his house--in fact, I called there to-night but it was shut up. He made arrangements with the Chief Constable that I should call… h’m!” The policeman stood over the body, his hands on his hips. “You stay here--I’ll go and ’phone the station,” he said. He hoisted himself into the saddle. “Er… don’t you think we’d better go?” Mr. Enward, the lawyer, asked nervously. He had no desire to be left alone in the night with a battered corpse and a clerk whose trembling was almost audible. “You couldn’t turn your car,” said the policeman--which was true, for the lane was very narrow. They heard the jingle and thud of his horse’s canter and presently they heard it no more. “Is he dead, Mr. Enward?” The young man’s voice was hollow. “Yes… I think so… the policeman said so.” “Oughtn’t we to make sure? He may only be… injured?” Mr. Enward had seen the face now in the shadow of an uplifted shoulder. He did not wish to see it again. “Better leave him alone till a doctor comes… it is no use interfering in these things. Wentford… good God!” “He’s always been a little bit eccentric, hasn’t he?” The clerk was young, and, curiosity being the tonic of youth, he had recovered some of his courage. “Living alone in that tiny cottage with all his money. I was bicycling past it on Sunday--a concrete box: that is what my young lady called it. With all his money----” “He is dead, Henry,” said Mr. Enward severely, “and a dead person has no property. I don’t think it quite--um--seemly to talk of him in--um--his presence.” He felt the occasion called for an emotional display of some kind. He had never grown emotional over clients; least of all could this tetchy old man inspire such. A few words of prayer perhaps would not be out of place. But Mr. Enward was a churchwarden of a highly respectable church and for forty years had had his praying done for him. If he had been a dissenter… but he was not. He wished he had a prayer-book. “He’s a long time gone.” The policeman could not have been more than two hundred yards away, but it seemed a very long time since he had left. “Has he any heirs?” asked the clerk professionally.