“An old friend of your father’s, I presume—I understand from Mr. Daventry here that it was on Colonel Leach-Fletcher’s recommendation that your father got into touch with his firm?” “I believe that is so, Mr. Bathurst—but I should hesitate before I described the Colonel as an old friend of my father’s—his friendship only dates back to the time when we first came here.” Anthony pulled at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. Had Daventry known him better he would have understood from this gesture that certain features of the problem were worrying him. Then suddenly his face betrayed eagerness. “Three more questions, Mr. Stewart, if you’ll pardon me. This sheet of note-paper found under your father’s hand—the writing on it—if my memory serves me correctly—was ‘Urgent in the morning—M. L.’—I am right, am I not?” He looked at Stewart. The latter nodded. Anthony went straight on. “This ‘M. L.’—the initials probably of somebody or something—I’ve been wondering about them. You mentioned just now, Mr. Stewart, two other members of your father’s household—a Miss Lennox, his ward, and a Mr. Llewellyn, his secretary. I feel bound to ask you if the Christian name of either of these two people begins with ‘M’—yes.” He fingered the stem of his champagne glass with undisguised approval—then carefully watched the face of his young host while he awaited his answer. “Very curiously, Mr. Bathurst, both Mr. Llewellyn and Miss Lennox have those initials—Miss Lennox is ‘Marjorie’ and Llewellyn is ‘Morgan.’” He spoke with apparent composure, but Peter Daventry—most interested of spectators—was not quite sure that some, at least, of the unconcern was not deliberately assumed. He began to wonder why. Who was who in this house upon which such a tragic shadow had been cast? What dark passions had been loosed but a few hours since that had meant death, sudden and terrible, for an unsuspecting victim? What was Bathurst’s opinion? What was he thinking? Had he noticed Stewart’s counterfeit composure? Bathurst, however, appeared to be tremendously interested. He lifted his eyebrows at the piquancy of the situation as revealed to him. “Really?” he said. “We are confronted with two ‘M. L.’s’ then. Now that’s distinctly fascinating.” He paused. “Was it a message, Mr. Stewart, do you think, to either of them—or even——” he stopped and pondered—eyes narrowed. “A message or an instruction, Mr. Bathurst, would almost certainly affect Llewellyn, Mr. Bathurst—I think we may safely discard any idea of Miss Lennox being implicated.” He spoke quite quietly, but yet Peter Daventry fell to introspection once again. He felt certain that he was able to detect a tinge of anxiety in the voice—almost, in fact, that in what Stewart had said the wish had been father to the thought. But Bathurst, to all appearances, accepted the situation as Stewart had presented it. He went to another question.