Anthony considered his statement very carefully. “Supposing he suddenly found that particular somebody acting dishonestly or treacherously towards him—mightn’t he fire then—what do you think?” “I don’t think he would even then,” contended Peter, “unless they attacked him, of course!” “H’m,” muttered Anthony, “I’m inclined to appreciate your point, Daventry—you’ve given me something to think over.” He paced up and down the room turning over this new aspect of the case that had just been presented to him. Suddenly he turned quickly. “We’ll look into that point a bit later on, Daventry—in the meantime, I want you to accompany me—I’m going to look for something else—come along.” He opened the French doors and stepped out—Peter immediately following him. A moment’s walk brought them to the rockery garden. The fountain, continually throwing up its sparkling cascade, to fall in widening ripples into the water of the pool that surrounded it, brought a delicious touch of coolness to the warmth of the June afternoon. The rock garden had been built all around it—the pieces of crazy paving, with the green blades of grass peeping inquisitively between them—lying around it on all sides and in all shapes and sizes. Bathurst’s eyes took it all in quickly and alertly. The larger pieces formed the floor of the rockery, the smaller pieces having doubtless been selected for building and banking up the sides. Anthony scrambled to the top and stood there for a second or two—astraddle almost—one foot poised on the top—the other on a pointed stone a trifle lower down. He called to Peter Daventry. “Come up here a minute, Daventry—will you?” Peter scrambled up behind him. Anthony pointed to the spaces between the pieces of stone and rock. “Look in there,” he said. Peter looked! “See those little brown stones? Seen anything like them before?” “Of course—from Stewart’s table—in the coal-scuttle.”