They entered the gate and walked round to the back of the house, Peter growing moodier and more despondent. His championship of Miss Lennox, together with his denunciation of the butler, had proved profitless—his words had fallen on barren soil. Whereat he was distinctly crestfallen! He refused to harbor the idea for a mere moment that Miss Lennox could be implicated in the crime that he was helping to investigate. It was ridiculous! When he considered that only a couple of days ago he was craving for something exciting to turn up and now that “something exciting” _had_ turned up—he found the whole thing extremely difficult to believe. “When do you expect Goodall back?” he questioned as they entered the house. “Can’t say definitely,” said Anthony, “it depends on how he gets on up in Clifford Street. London’s a big place—he may have a ticklish job to trace ‘Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Charles Stewart.’ You can’t tell.” Peter assented. “That’s just what I’m thinking,” he declared, “rather neat that, don’t you think, to register in those names?” Anthony turned to him—a serious look on his face. “You feel certain then—that they are assumed names, Daventry, and not their own?” “Well,” replied Peter, with a certain amount of hesitation, “I’m afraid I took that for granted—I hadn’t been considering them as possible members of Stewart’s family—do you really think they are?” “I don’t know quite what to think about it—I’ve nothing sound to work upon—I reserve my opinion till I know more—it’s a habit of mine.” Charles Stewart came forward to greet them. “So Goodall’s gone to town—eh? What about some lunch—you must be ready for some by now?” “Yes, to both questions,” laughed Anthony. “The Inspector thinks he can do better up in town for the time being than down here.” Stewart seemed disinclined for conversation at lunch, and with Llewellyn relapsing into taciturnity, Anthony was left to contemplate the _entente cordiale_ that had so speedily arisen between Peter Daventry and Marjorie Lennox. It possessed several features of attraction for him. At the same time he realized that it might conceivably place Daventry in an awkward position as Charles Stewart’s solicitor and indirectly affect himself. When they rose from the table he slipped his arm into Peter’s. “I want you for a moment, Daventry—I want to get into the library while the coast is reasonably clear, and I want you to help me.” Peter was pleased to hear this—action stimulated him just as much as passivity galled him. He cast one more adoring glance in the direction of the exquisite Marjorie and fell in at Anthony’s side. “It’s just possible that I’m too late,” remarked the latter, “that the bird has flown—or rather ‘has been flown with’—still, we’ll see.” Peter nodded in agreement, although of course he didn’t see.