“How long ago was this?” “Only a few minutes, Sergeant. You only just missed her.” “Now what does she want in here,” thought Clegg as he entered. Her handkerchief? Something else? Or both? His musings were cut abruptly short by the entrance of Stewart with the butler. Butterworth was a man with a presence. Tall and well set-up, he carried his sixty odd years with impressive dignity. When he had left the service of Sir Julian Kennedy for that of the man whom they were now mourning, it had not been without a certain amount of misgiving. After all, as he was fond of relating to a carefully chosen circle, the British aristocracy was a thing apart. Sir Julian had been a diplomat of the old school, and in the words of Butterworth, “we were ‘looked up to’ by the ‘élite’ of Washington.” He had accepted Stewart’s offer of employment with a certain suggestion of condescension—and after he had turned down two less remunerative offers, it was a tribute to his strength of character that this apparent condescension still remained obvious in the manner of his acceptance. Certainly it was sufficiently manifest to impress Laurence Stewart. But the Butterworth of this morning was not the Butterworth that had lamented Sir Julian Kennedy. Fifteen years had made a considerable difference in him, and a man who has turned sixty, fears the “menace of the years” more than the man turned forty. He had hoped to finish his days with this rich American. Last night’s tragedy had definitely closured that idea. Butterworth loved England—the English countryside; he loved “breathing English air” and “suns of home,” and it was extremely improbable that Charles Stewart would continue the establishment on his father’s lines. The boy had spent most of his life in America and in all probability he would return there. Therefore Butterworth was not free from anxiety this morning. He was face to face with upheaval—and he disliked change exceedingly. “Good morning, Sergeant,” he said, on his entrance. “I understand you wish to speak to me.” Clegg was visibly impressed. He realized that he was in close touch with a “personage.” Butterworth had intended that he should. “Yes—Mr.—Butterworth. It would help me considerably in my investigations”—Clegg was at pains to do at least some share of the “impressing” business—“if you could tell me for certain when you last saw Mr. Stewart alive.”