Linnell gave him the extravagant telegram—then waited for the smile to ripple over Goodall’s face. “Seems to be a man who knew his own mind. Doesn’t seem possible the man’s dead.” His eyes narrowed as he stood thinking. “Tell Inspector Goodall what you’ve just told me, Peter! About young Stewart ’phoning here.” Goodall became all attention. “That interesting! Fire away, Mr. Daventry!” Peter repeated the information he had previously given Linnell, taking care, however, to suppress any reference to the Berkshire police or the desire for a private detective. Goodall listened carefully. “It doesn’t help me much,” he commented when Peter had finished. Then looked him straight between the eyes. “Oh! Mr. Daventry!” Goodall spoke as though an afterthought had struck him. “After you visited the Galleries yesterday—where did you go?” Peter’s cheeks went a dull red—it seemed to him he was being humiliated. “Came back here! Mr. Linnell can confirm that—if you doubt my word.” “Thank you! And after that?” He fingered his note-book. “I dined at my club—then went to a show.” “Thank—you—your club is—and the show was——?” “The Isthmian—Piccadilly—and ‘On Approval’! Anything more, Mr. Inspector?” “That will do for the present.” Goodall closed his note-book with a snap. Peter’s eyes blazed at him angrily. “And if you’re interested in any more of my comings and goings—I may as well tell you that I’m just off down to Leyton to put in an hour or two at the Middlesex and Essex match.” But Goodall remained imperturbable under the shaft of sarcasm. “Wish I could come with you! I like watching cricket—particularly Lancashire and Glamorganshire—they always seem to me to lack supporters so—it means such a terrible lot of traveling, you see, for their relations to go to watch them.” The Inspector grinned. Peter’s ill-temper vanished instantaneously at Goodall’s sally. He held out his hand and shook the Inspector’s. Goodall took it—crossed to Linnell—and departed. “I’ll bring Bathurst along, then, as arranged—if I’m lucky enough to find him.” Linnell made a gesture of assent. “If he’ll come! Then we’ll get on to Assynton and tell them.” Daventry soon motored down to the ground and quickly found his brother. Together they made their way onto the pavilion, Gerald being a member of the M.C.C. and of the three Metropolitan counties. But all attempts to unearth the man for whom they were searching proved unavailing. Then Gerald met a kindred spirit. “Bathurst?” he said. “Yes—I can help you—he won’t be here to-day at all—he told me—now, why the devil was it?—I’ve a cursed rotten memory”—he assumed an air of painful mental effort—then suddenly his face cleared. “Oh, I know—he’s playing ‘Squash’ at ‘Princes’ this afternoon—you’ll see him if you pop along up there. Is it anything important?” “It is rather,” replied Gerald. “And I’m awfully obliged to you.” “Pleasure, old son. Shall we drift along and have one off the ice?”