“We are at times,” was the dry reply. “Yes, so I would think,” commented Ranville. “You see that's why this case interested me; I felt there were no clews and such things. And I see that your local police are not familiar with these technical crimes. So I have been mulling it over. First, I thought about the Chinaman, but the way the body had been marked put him out, in my mind.” He shot a look at Bartley, who nodded his agreement; then went on: “Of course, it would be silly to think the secretary killed him. Then it dawned upon me that after all the thing I perhaps could not understand was the psychology of you Americans. Studying the whole affair, I could not find a motive—” He paused, then smiled, “At least a motive which would suit an Englishman.” Bartley shot him an admiring look, then laughed as he replied: “And in what you last said is, perhaps, the whole solution of the crime. On the face of it there is no apparent motive in sight. Warren had no enemies one can think of. There seems no apparent reason for killing him. And the whole thing is a matter of—well, perhaps what you call the psychology of us Americans.” I gave him a puzzled look, wondering what under heavens he meant by his remark. But Ranville seemed to find nothing out of the way in it, for he nodded in a very wise manner. I was just on the verge of asking Bartley what he meant when we heard Carter's car drive into the yard. And when he came up the steps, the first thing he asked was if lunch was ready. It seemed to have turned warmer after lunch, and we spent the early hours of the afternoon in just lying around. Bartley buried himself in a book, while Carter, after telling us very frankly that he was lazy, went to sleep in the hammock. Ranville, who had some letters he wished to write, vanished to his room, and for several hours the piazza was silent. When at length Bartley flung aside his book, it was to give a glance in my direction and to ask if I cared to take a stroll. We went rather leisurely out of the yard, turning up the tree-lined sidewalk, and passed the little stone church. I pointed it out to Bartley saying that it was the church of the minister who had visited us. He gave it a curious glance and remarked that the tower divided the church from the rectory. Then he chuckled as he assured me that the minister was, to say the least, a fanatic. We walked about a mile—until the pavement gave place to a country road, and the summer estates to farmhouses. Then we retraced our steps to the house. For some reason, as we walked back, Bartley was very silent. He seemed to be pondering over something, but what it was I did not know as he gave no indication. As once again we passed the green expanse of lawn which led to the stone church, he stopped. I saw him study the granite building with the ivy climbing over the stones. Then to my surprise he said: “What do you say if we pay the minister a visit?”