Llewellyn raised his eyebrows in interrogation. The poise of his head and the somewhat peremptory significance contained in his gesture, accentuated his suggestion of superciliousness. He held out his hand. “May I see it again? I hardly——” Clegg took the paper from beneath the dead man’s hand. “Not much to go on, I admit! But Mr. Stewart had evidently received important news of some kind that he regarded as very urgent. To sit down to write it there and then——” he stopped abruptly. “M. L.” he quoted. “They might be a person’s initials even,” he declared. Stewart felt a flood of sudden excitement run through his veins. He watched Llewellyn’s face keenly and could not avoid seeing the sudden glint flash through the striking eyes. But once again the flame was but momentary and died down as quickly as it had been born. When the secretary answered he was coolness personified. “They might. It’s very probable. They might even be mine. I am called Morgan Llewellyn.” He paused and watched the effect of his declaration upon his questioner. Then continued, even cooler than he had appeared before, “But I can suggest no good reason to make me think that they are.” Both Clegg and Charles Stewart watched him very closely. And to each of them there came the feeling—in the first case, slowly and of deliberation, and in the second case, quickly and instinctively—that his coolness was assumed and his seemingly frank indifference something of a calculated pose. Clegg harked back. “Going back a little way, Mr. Llewellyn, you stated that you last saw Mr. Stewart at dinner. What happened after dinner?” Again Llewellyn’s answer came quickly. “After dinner, Mr. Stewart intimated to me that he was going into the library with Colonel Leach-Fletcher—and that he wouldn’t require anything further from me. I think that he had something to discuss with the Colonel, who is a keen collector like Mr. Stewart—was. I was free to do as I pleased.” “What did you do?” “I spent the rest of the evening with Miss Lennox in the music-room.” “What time would that be?” “From about half-past eight till ten o’clock, I should say!” Clegg made a note of the times. “One more question, Mr. Llewellyn! Did you go straight to bed after that?” “I did. I was in bed, I should think, by half-past ten.” “Now think very carefully, Mr. Llewellyn. Did you at any time during the evening or during the night hear anything like a revolver shot?” Llewellyn started up in his chair, stung by surprise. “Certainly not!” Clegg glanced at Stewart. “Confirms your statement, Mr. Stewart. I can’t think myself that the shot was fired in here. The fact of the revolver being in your father’s pocket—not in his hand—the fact that there is a complete absence of any signs of a struggle—both those facts seem to me to point to the shot having been fired elsewhere—at some other time.” Stewart appeared to agree. “I heard nothing. I told you I didn’t.”