“A pen!” exclaimed Cynthia. “This is quite new. You’ve been keeping it up your sleeve all this time, Uncle Fayre!” “Didn’t Edward tell you? I suppose he hadn’t time. I picked up a red stylographic pen—a ‘Red Dwarf,’ I think they used to be called—by the gate the first time we went to the farm. The day we were there with you and Leslie. As I say, it may have been there for ages or, more probably still, was dropped by one of the reporters after the murder. I know he didn’t consider it of much importance.” Sybil Kean rose to her feet. “I must leave you, my children,” she said regretfully. “If I don’t go and rest, that sinister man, Gregg, will have my blood. If Hatter comes out with any more interesting revelations, mind you report to me, Cynthia.” She moved slowly towards the house. Cynthia looked after her with a little frown of mingled pity and anxiety. “She doesn’t seem to get any better,” she said. “I hope we haven’t tired her. She looked all in, just now.” “I wonder what Gregg’s opinion really is . . .” began Fayre; then broke off with a sudden exclamation and sprang to his feet. But he was too late. Sybil Kean had wavered for a moment, recovered herself, and then, before he or Cynthia could reach her, sunk in a huddled heap by the door leading from the terrace to the drawing-room. Cynthia was by her side in an instant. “Ring for her maid, quick!” she commanded. “And then get Dr. Gregg on the telephone. It’s her heart again!” Fortunately the maid proved efficient and, while Fayre was ringing up the doctor, she and Cynthia got the unconscious woman to bed between them. Gregg was not at his house, but at the Cottage Hospital, where Fayre eventually ran him to earth and managed to get him on the end of the telephone. He promised to come at once and Fayre was waiting impatiently in the hall for his arrival when Cynthia joined him, looking worried and anxious. “She’s still unconscious,” she said. “Her maid’s splendid—she seems to know exactly what to do; but I wish Dr. Gregg would come!” “Do you think all that stuff about Gregg could have upset her?” asked Fayre, his conscience smiting him. “I could kick myself for being such a fool. After all, she’s entirely dependent on him while she’s here.” Cynthia laid a reassuring hand on his arm. “Nonsense, Uncle Fayre! Sybil’s got much too much sense for that. You’re not to blame. She gets attacks like this and they’ve been getting worse, her maid says. Probably the dinner-party last night knocked her up. It was pretty awful, according to Eve.” Gregg arrived sooner than they had dared hope. He was upstairs for a long time and Fayre hung about miserably, wishing most heartily that the Staveleys would return from church, for Eve Staveley was one of those cheerfully competent people who are invaluable in a case of illness. He waylaid Gregg on his way out.