"You--you think they are important?" "As bearing on Sir Reginald's state of mind only." Simon rang his bell and ordered the letter book to be brought in. While Carrington was examining it, his eyes never left his visitor's face, but they would have had to be singularly penetrating to discover a trace of any emotion there. Throughout his inspection, Carrington's air remained as imperturbable as though he were reading the morning paper. "According to these letters," he observed, "there seems to have been a trifling but rather curious misunderstanding. In accordance with written instructions of a fortnight previously, you had arranged to let a certain farm to a certain man, and Sir Reginald then complained that you had overlooked a conversation between those dates in which he had cancelled these instructions. He writes with a warmth that clearly indicates his own impression that this conversation had been perfectly explicit and that your forgetfulness or neglect of it was unaccountable, and he proposes to go into this and one or two other matters in the course of a conversation with you which should have taken place that afternoon. You then reply that you are too busy to come out so soon, but will call on the following morning. In the meantime Sir Reginald is murdered, and so the conversation never takes place and no explanation passes between you. Those are the facts, aren't they?" He looked up from the letter book as he spoke and there was no doubt he noticed something now. Indeed, the haggard look on Simon's face and a bead of perspiration on his forehead were so striking, and so singular in the case of such a tough customer, that the least observant--or the most circumspect--must have stared. Carrington's stare lasted only for the fraction of a second, and then he was polishing his eyeglass with his handkerchief in the most indifferent way. A second or two passed before Simon answered, and then he said abruptly: "Sir Reginald was mistaken. No such conversation." "Do you mean to tell me literally that _no_ such conversation took place? Was it a mere delusion?" "Er--practically. Yes, a delusion." "Suicide!" declared Carrington with an air of profound conviction. "Yes, Mr. Rattar, that is evidently the solution. The unfortunate man had clearly not been himself, probably for some little time previously. Well, I'll make a few more enquiries, but I fancy my work is nearly at an end. Good-morning." He rose and was half way across the room, when he stopped and asked, as if the idea had suddenly occurred to him: "By the way, I hear that Miss Farmond was in seeing you a couple of days ago." Again Simon seemed to start a little, and again he hesitated for an instant and then replied with a grunt. "Had she any news?" asked the other. Simon grunted again and shook his head, and Carrington threw him a friendly nod and went out.