Peter swung his legs as he sat . . . somewhat petulantly. “The message came through about half-past ten—the first message, I mean—Stewart’s secretary put it through—I think he said his name was Morgan or Llewellyn—I’m not sure. He asked if you were in—I told him ‘no’—then he asked for me. I said it was all right and he told me that young Mr. Stewart wanted me. The poor chap seemed very agitated—his father had been found dead in the library that morning. Murdered—his head beaten in! Would we cancel our instructions about the sale to-morrow? As far as he was able he was getting into touch with all his father’s immediate business activities . . . in the case of a millionaire, he explained, it was of the utmost importance . . . affected the money market so. That was about all, I fancy. Then I ’phoned the news on to you—I knew I should find you there. By the way, did you run down to Assynton last night?” “Didn’t have time. When was the second telephone message?” “About twenty minutes before you returned,” said Peter. “What did he want?” “He asked for you, again. It seems he isn’t too satisfied with the quality of the local Police Force—he’s asking for Scotland Yard to send a man down—says he’s prepared to pay anything to get at the truth and arrest the murderer. Also he wanted your advice. Could you recommend an efficient, discreet, and trustworthy private detective? They were the three adjectives he used.” “Why does he appeal to me, I wonder?” “I asked him that. He says he hasn’t been in England more than a few months and it occurred to him that we might help him. He also wants one of us to go down—his father’s solicitors, I understand, are in New York.” “H’m,” muttered Linnell. “I can appreciate his position. But I’m afraid I’m no use to him in the matter of the private detective. I don’t know anybody I should care to send down there—it isn’t as though it were a case of keeping a person under observation.” He shook his head doubtfully. “Nor I, either,” supplemented Peter. “What about his idea of one of us going down there—shall I go? What do you think yourself?” “I think you might go,” replied Linnell. “It should be more in your line than mine—you’re younger to begin with. Can’t you do a bit of ‘sleuthing’ on your own account? Sherlock Holmes has had many imitators!” “I might. It will make quite an interesting and ‘piquant’ situation—a ‘suspect’ one moment—a ‘sleuth’ the next. I remember my brother Gerald—by Jove, Linnell, I’ve got it—Anthony Bathurst! Why on earth didn’t I think of him before?” “Who’s that? What do you mean?” “Why, if you want a man to act for young Stewart, you couldn’t possibly find a better!” “What is he—a private inquiry agent?” “Not on your life—he’s a sort of free lance—tinkers about at a good many things. He was up at Oxford about the same time as Gerald. That is to say, about three years after me. Can you remember the Considine Manor affair?” “Considine Manor? Wasn’t it a murder down in Sussex somewhere?”