“I’ve only been inside the place once--two years ago, wasn’t it, Henry?” “A year and nine months,” said Henry exactly. His feet were cold, his spine chilled. He felt sick. “You cannot see it from the lane,” Mr. Enward continued. “Rather a small, one-storey cottage. He had it specially built for him apparently. It is not exactly… a palace.” “Dear me!” said Mr. Reeder, as though this were the most striking news he had heard that evening. “In a house he built himself! I suppose he has, or had, a telephone?” “He telephoned to _me_,” said Mr. Enward; “therefore he must have a telephone.” Mr. Reeder frowned as though he were trying to pick holes in the logic of this statement. “I will go along and see if it is possible to get through to the police,” he suggested. “The police have already been notified,” said the lawyer hastily. “I think we all ought to stay here together till somebody arrives.” The man in the square hat, now absurdly covered with snow, shook his head. He pointed. “Woburn Green is there. Why not go and arouse the--um--local constabulary?” That idea had not occurred to the lawyer. His instinct urged him to return the way he had come and regain touch with realities in his own prosaic parlour. “But do you think…” he blinked down at the body. “I mean, it’s hardly an act of humanity to leave him----” “He feels nothing. He is probably in heaven,” said Mr. Reeder, and added: “Probably. Anyway, the police will know exactly where they can find him.” There was a sudden screech from Henry. He was holding out his hand in the light of the lamp. “Look--blood!” he screamed. There was blood on his hand certainly. “Blood--I didn’t touch him! You know that, Mr. Enward--I ain’t been anear him!” Alas for our excellent system of secondary education! Henry was reverting to the illiterate stock whence he sprang. “Not near him I ain’t been--blood!” “Don’t squeak, please.” Mr. Reeder was firm. “What _have_ you touched?” “Nothing--I only touched myself.” “Then you have touched nothing,” said Mr. Reeder with unusual acidity. “Let me look.” The rays of his lamp travelled over the shivering clerk. “It is on your sleeve--h’m!” Mr. Enward stared. There was a red, moist patch of something on Henry’s sleeve. “You had better go on to the police station,” said Mr. Reeder. “I will come and see you in the morning.” CHAPTER III Mr. Enward climbed into the driver’s seat gratefully, keeping some distance between himself and his shivering clerk. The car was on a declivity and would start without trouble. He turned the wheels straight and took off the brake. The machine skidded and slithered forward, and presently Mr. Reeder, following in its wake, heard the sound of the running engine.