“Stay here: he may return. Arrest him immediately and put the irons on him. He’s probably armed, and he may be suicidal; we can’t afford to take any risks.” He had been so often across what he had named the “Back Field” that he could find his way blindfolded, and he ran at top speed till he came to the stile and to the road. Sir Gregory was nowhere in sight. Fifty yards along the road, the lights gleamed cheerily from an upper window in Mr. Longvale’s house, and Michael bent his footsteps in that direction. Still no sight of the man, and he turned through the gate and knocked at the door, which was almost immediately opened by the old gentleman himself. He wore a silken gown, tied with a sash about the middle, a picture of comfort, Michael thought. “Who’s that?” asked Mr. Sampson Longvale, peering out into the darkness. “Why, bless my life, it’s Mr. Brixan, the officer of the law! Come in, come in, sir.” He opened the door wide and Michael passed into the sitting-room, with its inevitable two candles, augmented now by a small silver reading-lamp that burnt some sort of petrol vapour. “No trouble at the Towers, I trust?” said Mr. Longvale anxiously. “There was a little trouble,” said Michael carefully. “Have you by any chance seen Sir Gregory Penne?” The old man shook his head. “I found the night rather too chilly for my usual garden ramble,” he said, “so I’ve seen none of the exciting events which seem inevitably to accompany the hours of darkness in these times. Has anything happened to him?” “I hope not,” said Michael quietly. “I hope, for everybody’s sake, that—nothing has happened to him.” He walked across and leant his elbows on the mantelpiece, looking up at the painting above his head. “Do you admire my relative?” beamed Mr. Longvale. “I don’t know that I admire him. He was certainly a wonderfully handsome old gentleman.” Mr. Longvale inclined his head. “You have read his memoirs?” Michael nodded, and the old man did not seem in any way surprised. “Yes, I have read what purport to be his memoirs,” said Michael quietly, “but latter-day opinion is that they are not authentic.” Mr. Longvale shrugged his shoulders. “Personally, I believe every word of them,” he said. “My uncle was a man of considerable education.” It would have amazed Jack Knebworth to know that the man who had rushed hotfoot from the tower in search of a possible murderer, was at that moment calmly discussing biography; yet such was the incongruous, unbelievable fact. “I sometimes feel that you think too much about your uncle, Mr. Longvale,” said Michael gently. The old gentleman frowned. “You mean——?” “I mean that such a subject may become an obsession and a very unhealthy obsession, and such hero-worship may lead a man to do things which no sane man would do.” Longvale looked at him in genuine astonishment. “Can one do better than imitate the deeds of the great?” he asked.