Sergeant Clegg grunted a somewhat reluctant affirmative. “I am conducting a preliminary investigation, Mr. Llewellyn, into the death of your employer, Mr. Laurence Stewart. If it lies in your power at all to help me, I want you to do so.” “I am perfectly willing to tell you all I know—which I’m afraid isn’t very much.” “Thank you. When were you first informed of the tragedy?” “This morning—about eight o’clock—just about an hour and a half ago. I was in my bedroom dressing when Mr. Charles Stewart came to my door and told me he feared something was amiss with his father. I finished my toilet hastily and joined him and the butler, Butterworth. The maid, it appeared, had been unable to get into the library—the door was locked. The three of us burst down the door and were horrified to find Mr. Stewart as he is.” He inclined his head in the direction of the motionless body. “What did you do then?” “Well, we rushed up to him—but it didn’t take us very long to realize that he was dead.” “And then——?” “Mr. Charles Stewart gave me certain orders to convey to the servants while he telephoned for you and for the doctor.” “I am told, Mr. Llewellyn, that after you three gentlemen burst the door open—you found the key in the lock on the inside.” “That is true. Mr. Charles Stewart called my attention to it specially.” “And the French doors were also fastened—all the bolts firm in the slots?” “Yes.” “When did you last see your employer alive?” “At dinner, last night.” “Was it your custom to dine with him?” “Usually I did. Our dinner party generally consisted of Mr. Stewart, his son, Miss Lennox, and me.” “Was that the case last evening?” Charles Stewart intervened. “I did not dine here last evening. I was out. I think I told you. I was playing tennis.” Clegg nodded his head. “That’s all right, sir! I understand!” Llewellyn proceeded. “Colonel Leach-Fletcher completed our party last evening—but really, I don’t see——” “Had this Colonel any particular reason for dining here last evening?” Stewart allowed a faint smile to illumine his features. “What on earth do you mean, Sergeant? Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined here at my poor father’s invitation—he didn’t suddenly announce that he intended to stop for dinner.” Llewellyn’s brooding eyes seemed to smoulder for a brief instant—then they flickered back to their habitual watchfulness. He allowed himself the vestige of a smile. His smile broadened as the Sergeant made a clumsy attempt at extrication. “Naturally, naturally, gentlemen. Exactly what I meant.” He followed the secretary’s eyes and observed them rest on the desk-table in front of the dead man. “It seems that Mr. Stewart was writing a message of some kind when he was struck down?” “Yes,” came Llewellyn’s quick response, almost automatically. “Mr. Charles Stewart and I noticed that when we first found the body.” “What do you think its meaning is?”