“Let’s take the case as a whole then, without stopping to attempt to think of what you know and what you don’t know. Stewart is murdered, I’m confident I’m right here, about eleven p. m. Colonel Leach-Fletcher left at ten o’clock, Butterworth can give unimpeachable confirmation of _that_. The Colonel tells us that Stewart intended interviewing his son about some matter that was causing friction between them. We’ll call it friction—although it may have been of more serious consequence. It is a significant fact that Charles Stewart, although calling you and me into the case, has maintained an eloquent silence concerning it, whatever it was. Now we arrive at a further complication. Butterworth tells Sergeant Clegg that he heard Stewart—_Laurence_ Stewart—in conversation with somebody else in the library at _ten minutes past ten_!” He paused and watched Peter intently. “You don’t say so,” exclaimed the latter. “Can he tell who it was?” “Oh yes,” murmured Anthony negligently, “he recognized the person’s voice.” “Then who was it?” demanded Peter eagerly. “Marjorie Lennox!” Anthony dropped the name daintily and delicately—he must have been thinking of the little lady herself. “It’s a lie,” cried Peter. “The butler’s lying—I refuse to believe it—it’s not feasible—it’s——” “My dear Peter,” cooed Anthony, “I am sorely afraid that I diagnosed your complaint a few hours ago—when Miss Lennox made her dramatic entrance into the Museum Room. I feel doubly sure now that I was right.” Peter looked somewhat sheepish. “Unfortunately the excellent Butterworth’s story has strong support.” “From whom?” asked Peter sullenly. “Support of a peculiar and convincing nature,” continued Mr. Bathurst nonchalantly. “When the Sergeant first examined the library—_the actual scene of the crime_, Daventry—he found a lady’s handkerchief caught in the curtains that hang at the French doors.” He took another cigarette with evident enjoyment. “Doesn’t necessarily belong to Miss Lennox,” countered Peter. “N—no,” replied Anthony, calculatingly, “no, I admit that. But it has initials on it, in the corner, I believe—and those initials are ‘M. L.’—perhaps it belongs to Mr. Morgan Llewellyn!” Peter gasped. “Is that a fact, Bathurst?” “Absolutely, my boy—everything exactly as I’ve told you!” “Well, all I can say,” replied Peter, exercising his full powers of recovery, “I don’t believe Miss Lennox has _anything_ to do with the dreadful business and that she can give a perfectly reasonable account of how her handkerchief got there.” He seemed very dogged as he made this last remark. But Anthony had not finished with him yet awhile. “But she _won’t_,” he proceeded airily. “She was approached about having been in the library. And she _lied_ about it, Daventry. It’s no use disguising the fact, she _lied_ about it—_and then made an attempt to get into the library_—presumably to look for her handkerchief.”