“What do you mean, Sergeant?” “I mean this.” Clegg breathed heavily in his desire to do justice to the dignity and importance of the Law. “Did Mr. Stewart have any enemies?” “If he had, I didn’t know them. He never confided such an idea to me.” “How was Mr. Stewart when you last saw him? Bright and cheery like?” “Just as usual. Nothing different from the ordinary.” “Didn’t appear to have anything on his mind?” asked Clegg. “Not to worry him. I think he was a bit eager about the sale that was taking place.” “Sale?” Clegg seemed momentarily at a loss. “I told you, Sergeant,” Charles interposed. “My father intended to purchase some——” “Quite right, sir,” apologized the Sergeant. “It was the use of the word ‘sale’ that sent me astray for the moment. He seemed ‘eager’—you say?” “That is the word. It describes my master’s feelings exactly—that is, if I am any judge. Anything fresh towards a gratification of his hobby always made him like a schoolboy on a half-holiday.” The Sergeant understood perfectly. But Charles Stewart, as though in doubt about this, stepped forward with an offer of assistance. “You can have access to all the correspondence relative to the intended purchases, Sergeant—with the greatest pleasure. Mr. Llewellyn will let you see it—I will instruct him to do so.” “Thank you, Mr. Charles! I should certainly like to glance over it.” “You shall. Do you want Butterworth any more?” Clegg considered the matter. It was evidently a weighty one, for it occasioned much frowning and facial contortion. At last a reply was forthcoming. “The servants, Butterworth; the other servants here—anything suspicious about any of them?” he said slowly. “Nothing, Sergeant Clegg! There’s my wife, who acts as housekeeper—I can speak for her—I’ve been married thirty-seven years and I’m perfectly satisfied. There are four maids, Barton, Regan, Evans and Winter—the cook, Mrs. Briggs—and Maidment the gardener. Then there’s O’Connor—he assists the gardener—does odd jobs. We call him the boot-boy. Of course the last two—O’Connor and Maidment—don’t sleep here—they live in the village.” Clegg noted the personnel and the additional information thereto with becoming solemnity. Then he deliberately closed his note-book. The gesture seemed to convey to his two companions that the preliminary investigation was finished. A nod from the Sergeant confirmed this conviction and Butterworth withdrew—gravely and silently—the perfect butler to the last. “I’m going to get another ’phone message through to London, Sergeant,” exclaimed Charles Stewart. Clegg detected a note of anxiety in his tone. He scanned the young man’s face interrogatively. Stewart flushed, but quickly came to the point. “Look here, Sergeant Clegg—frankly I think we’re up against it. There seems to me to be some dark mystery here that will need the best brains of your profession to solve. I’m not slighting you—in any way, when I say that, either.”