“Perfectly true,” agreed Anthony, “and I’m much obliged to you for the information—this road into the village leads straight to the station, doesn’t it—it was getting dark when I drove up last night?” “That’s right, sir,” replied O’Connor—“straight up through Assynton.” Bathurst pushed a Treasury note into his hand, which, after some demur, he accepted. “I’ll be getting back now, O’Connor, and I’ll have a quiet chat with Patrick at the first opportunity. I’ll tell him you’ve seen me—that will establish my credentials.” He swung back in the direction of the Lodge—musing over the encounter, and over the incident of the footsteps during the night. When Stewart introduced Morgan Llewellyn and he was able to identify the gentleman as the wanderer who had disturbed his sleep, he concluded that he had quite enough to think over for his first morning. Peter greeted him at the breakfast-table. “Been out, Bathurst? So early?” “Just a short stroll, Daventry. I was anxious to have a look round and I hadn’t the heart to rout you out, old man! I went across the downs a bit and worked down towards the village.” He turned to Stewart. “The birds were simply wonderful. I even enjoyed those melancholy ‘pee-wits’!” “We’ll get breakfast over as soon as we possibly can, gentlemen,” exclaimed Stewart. “I expect the Scotland Yard representative will be up here pretty early. I should like you to be present, Mr. Bathurst, when he enters the library—Sergeant Clegg closed the room up, you know, when he left yesterday.” Llewellyn sniffed contemptuously. “A brilliant piece of work—that! One of us might have wanted to use the room—for a legitimate purpose, I mean.” He wiped the glasses of his pince-nez with his silk handkerchief. As he did so, Bathurst observed the peculiar quality of his eyes and at the same time formed the opinion that Mr. Morgan Llewellyn might very well prove to be a dangerous customer if things didn’t please him over-well. “Mr. Stewart,” said Anthony, addressing his host, “what sort of a lad is Patrick O’Connor—the boot-boy?” Stewart stared at him with a certain strain of amazement on his face. “Really,” he said, “I didn’t know that you were sufficiently acquainted with our staff here to be able to ask that question! I suppose it’s a case of the early bird, eh?” Anthony’s grey eyes twinkled delightfully! “We all have our little secrets, Mr. Stewart,” he responded. “You mustn’t probe me too thoroughly—tell me rather of Master O’Connor.” He looked round at Peter Daventry—“He’s got a fine name, you know, Daventry—‘Patrick O’Connor’—hark to the music of the ‘r’ and the ‘n’!” “Quite a reliable lad,” came Stewart’s answer. “As far as I know. Certainly I know nothing unfavorable.” “What time does he get here in the morning?” asked Anthony. “About half-past six, I believe,” replied Stewart. “You should know—you’ve seen him, I take it, this morning?” “On the contrary—I’ve never set eyes on him.” Bathurst smiled gravely.