Peter nodded briskly and elevated his two thumbs. “The entire household is as you left it—the people indoors and the outside staff as well—you need have no qualms.” Anthony patted him on the shoulder. “Excellent, Daventry—I felt I could rely upon you.” Charles Stewart came from the library with outstretched hand. “I’m glad you’re back, Bathurst. I suppose it’s too much to ask you if there have been any developments?” He rattled on without giving Anthony a chance to reply. “Good morning, Inspector! You look a trifle tired! Mr. Ferguson hasn’t arrived yet, but I’m expecting him any minute now. I’m pleased you’re both back with us—I feel that you should be here to hear what Ferguson has to say—come into the library!” The three men followed him in. “The inquest is this afternoon,” continued Stewart, “and we are burying my father early to-morrow morning—it will be very quiet—we have very few friends in this country—we haven’t been here long enough to make many. Colonel Leach-Fletcher will be present—it is very considerate of him.” He went across to the French doors and looked out on to the garden. It was an easy matter to see that the tragic events of the last week had left their mark upon him. He was over-young to bear alone the burden of the blow that had befallen his house. It seemed unfair that it should rest entirely upon his own shoulders. Anthony walked over to him. “Mr. Stewart,” he said very quietly, “immediately the inquest is over this afternoon I should like to have a talk with you. There are one or two little matters that I should like to settle as soon as possible. Will it be convenient?” Charles Stewart paled a little. “Only too pleased, Bathurst,” came his reply. “Let me know when you want me—will in here do?” “Excellently!” As Anthony spoke the word, the noise of a car was heard humming up the gravel approach to Assynton Lodge. The door opened to admit a stout, clean-shaven man—dressed in a fashionable lounge-suit of light-grey—double-breasted. Holding his grey Homburg to his chest he bowed to Charles Stewart, at the same time making his own introduction. “My dear Mr. Stewart,” he said in a pleasantly modulated voice, with just a touch of American accent, “I am Andrew Ferguson, of Crake and Ferguson, of New York. I am grieved beyond measure that our first meeting should be taking place under such heart-breaking circumstances. My very sincerest sympathy—Mr. Stewart.” He clasped the young man’s hand warmly in his own. “These gentlemen”—he inquired, raising his eyebrows. “Mr. Peter Daventry, representing a London firm, similar to your own—Mr. Anthony Bathurst, whom I’ve called in to watch my interests, and Detective-Inspector Goodall, of Scotland Yard.” Stewart motioned towards the three in turn. Ferguson bowed again. “Come to the library, Mr. Ferguson, will you?” said Stewart, “and no doubt, you will stay for lunch.”