“I’m afraid so, from what Gunnet says. However, we shall know soon enough.” Gregg seemed aghast at the discovery. “Miss Allen’s sister!” he repeated. “It’s impossible! Why, they’re as different as chalk from cheese.” “There’s a difference in age, too. But Gunnet saw her in the village this morning.” Gregg picked up his coat. “Well, it’s a queer world,” he said reflectively. “You’ll want me, I suppose, for the inquest. Are you moving her?” The Sergeant nodded. “Gunnet’s gone down to fetch a van from the village and we’ll get her over to Whitbury to-night. I’m going on from here to see Miss Allen. It’s not a job I’m hankering after, to tell you the truth.” “Want me to come along?” asked Gregg. “I might be needed, but I doubt it. She’s a strong-minded woman, Miss Allen, and I shouldn’t say hysterics were much in her line.” “I’d be grateful if you would, all the same. It’s not a pleasant thing to have to tell a lady.” Gregg nodded. “Righto,” he said. “It’s all in the day’s work.” They went back to the kitchen and sat by the fire, talking desultorily while they waited for Gunnet and the van. Leslie produced drinks and did his best to join naturally in the conversation, but he was ill at ease. He found himself wondering what was passing in Gregg’s mind. Was he, too, curious as to what part Leslie had played in this tragic drama? Leslie tried to visualize the whole thing from the point of view of a casual observer, and failed. Already he was too deeply entangled in this gruesome business to see it in its right proportions. He was thankful when Gunnet arrived with the van and a stretcher to bear away the corpse. Brace and the doctor left five minutes later in Gregg’s little two-seater. It seemed to Leslie that there was an unusual warmth in Gregg’s voice as he bid him good night. He had never liked the doctor, but he felt grateful to him now, for his hearty handshake came hot on the heels of Brace’s last words as he climbed into the car. “I must ask you to hold yourself at the disposal of the police until further notice, Mr. Leslie.” Chapter III “How long is it since you have seen Cynthia, Mr. Fayre?” Lady Staveley’s fine eyes were alight with amusement as she turned them on her guest. He had just alluded to Lady Cynthia Bell as “a demure little thing” and was now discussing his tea-cake with the serenity of one quite unaware that he has been guilty of an incredible misstatement. Allen Fayre, better known to his friends as “Hatter,” a nickname he had somehow managed to collect in his unregenerate Oxford days, paused for reflection. “Quite twelve years, I should think. She was a leggy little thing of about eight when I last set eyes on her.” Lady Staveley gave a soft gurgle of amusement. “She’s leggy still! All these modern girls are, you know, but I’m afraid you’ll find that the demureness has evaporated. She’s decidedly what the children’s old nurse used to call ‘a cure’ now.”