On one point Fayre’s informants were unanimous: that never, at any time, could he have been a lady’s man, and the general opinion was that he had once suffered at the hands of a woman. Certainly, his opinion of the sex was unflatteringly small and he made no secret of his views. Fayre began to modify the conclusions he had drawn from Gregg’s antagonistic attitude towards Mrs. Draycott; in the light of what he had just heard, it seemed a fairly natural one. Cynthia returned just as the party was dispersing and slipped up to her room, so that he had no opportunity of speaking to her that evening. He sent a message by Lady Staveley to the effect that Grey had seen Leslie that morning and that he had found him well and cheerful, and then went to bed himself, feeling more tired than he had been for many a long day. The fine weather held and the next morning he basely turned a deaf ear to the bells of the little church at Keys and, having seen the Staveleys off to the pursuance of their Sunday duties, went in search of his fellow-truants, Lady Kean and Cynthia. He found them, wrapped in furs, in a sunny corner of the terrace. Cynthia greeted him eagerly. “I very nearly came to your room and heaved you out of bed, Uncle Fayre, last night,” she exclaimed. “I did so want to know what you’d been up to. Only Eve said you were too tired. She declared you’d been bicycling!” Fayre laughed outright at the horror of her tone. “Why not?” he retorted. “When I left England all the best people bicycled and it seemed to me as good a way to get exercise as any. It never occurred to me that it would make such a sensation. Even the villagers look at me as if I’d suddenly gone mad!” “You probably have,” said Cynthia severely. “If you’ve really started careering about the country on a push-bike.” “Anyhow, I careered to some purpose. For one thing, Grey and I have pretty well established the fact that Mrs. Draycott was taken to the farm by some one in a car and that person was actually seen leaving, alone, after the murder.” He had made his point as effectively as a good actor, and his audience responded to the full. Even Sybil Kean’s habitual languor deserted her and she leaned forward in her chair, her fine eyes alight with interest. “Am I on in this scene?” she asked almost eagerly. “Or must I do the correct and tactful thing and drift away down the terrace as if I hadn’t heard a word of what you’ve just said? I expect you do want to talk to Cynthia alone.” Cynthia turned on her indignantly. “We want you, don’t we, Uncle Fayre?” “Of course. I was counting on your advice. For one thing, you must have a closer acquaintance with the person I want to discuss, than any one else in this house.” For a moment she looked puzzled. Then: “Dr. Gregg?” she said quietly. “How did you know? There are times when you’re uncanny, Sybil.” “There’s nothing uncanny about this. I’ll tell you later, but get on with your story first. It’s brutal to keep us in suspense.”