“No. He seemed mighty annoyed, he did. Said to me things were coming to a pretty pass when a man wouldn’t see his own brother. Then he took himself out of the house in a rage, and I shut the door after him.” “Did you see anything more of him?” “No, that’s the last I saw. He didn’t come back; for I was on duty here till the place was bolted up for the night.” “Did Mr. Walter Brooklyn often come to the house?” “Well, he’d been a number of times lately to see Mr. Prinsep.” “Had he been to see Sir Vernon?” “No. You see, Sir Vernon’s been away in the country for some time.” “But when he was in London, did Mr. Walter Brooklyn come to see him?” “He used to. Then I believe there was a bit of a quarrel. Last time he was in London Sir Vernon told me he would not see Mr. Walter, and I was to tell him to see Mr. Prinsep if he came. I sent up on Tuesday because I didn’t know if the instructions still held.” “Then there had been a quarrel?” “Hardly what you would call a quarrel. What we understood was that Mr. Walter wanted money, and Sir Vernon wouldn’t give it him.” “Did any one else see Mr. Walter Brooklyn on Tuesday?” “Yes, the maid—Janet—must have seen him.” The inspector sent for Janet, who confirmed what Winter had said. It seemed plain enough that Walter Brooklyn had called at about ten minutes past ten, had been refused an interview with Sir Vernon, and had left a few minutes later. Thereafter, no one about the house had seen any more of him. Before he left the inspector obtained from Winter Mr. Walter Brooklyn’s address. He lived at his club, the Byron—named after the playwright, not the poet—only a few steps down Piccadilly. The inspector made that his next place of call. The club porter, with the aid of the night porter, gave him the information he needed. Walter Brooklyn had dined in the club on Tuesday, had gone out at about ten o’clock and had returned just about midnight. The night porter had noticed nothing unusual about him when he came back. It was about his usual hour. He had gone straight upstairs, the man believed—probably to his room, but the porter could not say. So far there was nothing very much to go upon. Walter Brooklyn might have committed the murders—he had certainly been out until midnight. But this was nothing unusual, and there was no evidence that he had been in the house. What evidence there was seemed to show that he had not.