“How about a nice compartment, then, with a couple of corner seats? This train isn’t a ‘corridor,’ worse luck.” “Well—as a matter of fact”—temporized Peter—“I’m waiting for somebody!” Goodall instantly became all interest. “Really? I had no idea—you wish to be alone?” Peter denied the idea strenuously—feeling all the time that he was heading straight for the Valley of Suspicion again. “Not at all. Only too pleased to travel with you, Inspector. I’m sure my friend will be——” “Delighted,” said Anthony Bathurst. “Introduce me, Daventry, will you?” Peter accepted the invitation gladly. He was downright pleased that Bathurst had turned up when he did. This fellow Goodall seemed to know a jolly sight more about a chap than was thoroughly comfortable. He was curious to see how Anthony Bathurst would be affected by Detective-Inspector Goodall. He made the introduction. “I am honored,” remarked Bathurst. “Scotland Yard must consider the Assynton Lodge murder as extremely ‘difficult’ for it to engage the attention of Inspector Goodall.” He bowed to the Inspector, who, however, seemed impervious to the compliment. “You flatter me, Mr. Bathurst,” was his rejoinder. He turned to Daventry. “We’d better get in—if we don’t want to be left behind.” “On the contrary,” smiled Bathurst—entering the compartment last of the three—“I paid you a compliment. Flattery is merely a counterfeit business. A flatterer usually seeks to gain favor—a compliment is a tribute made to ability by reason of recognition.” Goodall melted a trifle. “Thank you,” he yielded. The train glided out of the station and they settled down more comfortably. The flamboyant beauty of the June day was dying hard in a glorious evening. As they approached the first fringes of the countryside and caught the wonderful streaks of the westering sun flung over copse, wood and water—flooding the tranquillity of green and white with red-gold radiance—the tragic nature of their journey seemed to grow more remote in the minds of the three of them. Anthony waved his hand at the country decorated so beautifully. “Look at it, gentlemen,” he exclaimed. “We shall be too busy during the next two or three days to think of beauty—murder’s a soul-destroying business—let us enjoy it while we may!” Goodall looked across the carriage with raised eyebrows. “We?”—he questioned. Peter dashed in courageously. “Mr. Bathurst is also coming down at young Stewart’s request,” he volunteered. “He’s in a bit of a fix, I think, new to England and all that, you know—he feels he wants a sort of steadying hand.” He beamed at Goodall—guilelessly. But it was unnecessary. “The usual term, I believe, Mr. Daventry, is to watch a person’s interests.” Goodall appeared to be on the frigid side. “I would have preferred to have had a look at the case from the Galleries murder end, Inspector, but Fate has decreed otherwise—however, it may be all for the best.”