Scrawled on the paper were the words, “Urgent in the morning! M. L.” “This your father’s handwriting, Mr. Stewart?” he asked. The young man looked over his shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “Without a doubt—although it looks to me as though it had been written very hurriedly or in a moment of extreme agitation—it isn’t as firm as usual.” Clegg leaned over the dead man and felt in the pockets of his dressing-gown. The right-hand pocket was empty. He gave a sharp exclamation when he took from the left—a revolver. He looked at it carefully. “Loaded in five chambers,” he declared—“the sixth has been discharged.” His eyes traveled slowly round the room. Then they came back to Stewart. “Did you hear anything like a shot any time last evening or during the night?” Stewart shook his head in dissent. “Nothing at all!” “Is this your father’s revolver?” “It looks like it—though it’s a common pattern.” Clegg turned to the Doctor. “Finished your little investigation, Doctor?” “Yes,” was the reply. “Been dead about twelve hours, I should say, and received three blows I think! I’ll leave him as nearly as possible as he was when I came in. I’ll make arrangements for moving him later.” “Thank you, Doctor!” Clegg returned to young Stewart. “I suppose your father had had no recent quarrel with anybody?” “N—no. Not that I’m aware of! Of course a man with his vast financial interests didn’t go through life without making some enemies—and pretty vindictive ones at that—but I can think of nothing special—certainly not recently.” He spoke with deep feeling in his voice, and Clegg wasn’t absolutely sure that there hadn’t been just a trace of hesitation in the first part of his answer. “How old was your father, Mr. Stewart?” he continued. “Fifty-three in July—on the twenty-second of next month. We have been in England only a matter of a few months.” “From America, wasn’t it? I remember your coming here.” “New York—previously we had lived at Washington and Chicago.” “You the only member of the family living here?” “My father’s ward, Miss Lennox, lives here also. She is like a member of the family.” “Who else is in the house?” “My father’s private secretary—a Mr. Morgan Llewellyn—Butterworth, the butler, and his wife, who acts as housekeeper, and the servants.” “Any idea, Mr. Stewart, who was the last person to see your father alive?” “I don’t know that I can answer that question with certainty. I had been out during the evening—playing tennis. I returned about a quarter to ten. My father was in here with Colonel Leach-Fletcher—that’s a neighbor of ours—I simply put my head round the door and said ‘Good-night.’” “Didn’t you go in and speak to the Colonel?” “Oh no! He’s a constant visitor here, has been on very friendly terms with my father ever since we came here. I never feel on ‘company manners’ with him.” “Any idea what time the Colonel left?” “No—Butterworth could probably tell you.”