Fayre was busy studying the photograph. The figures in the group were small, but very clearly defined, and Baxter’s head stood out distinctly against the white overall of the man behind him. Fayre could place his type at a glance. Very dark, with a high, narrow forehead and deep-set eyes and the too sensitive mouth of a man whose nerves are perilously near the surface. The kind to fare badly at the hands of a woman like Mrs. Draycott. No wonder the marriage had ended in tragedy, he thought, and was not surprised that Gregg had done his best to spare his friend. He returned the photograph to Mrs. Benson with a sigh. He could understand and sympathize now with many of the things Gregg had said during their drive to the station. He felt a sudden, rather disconcerting, sympathy for the man and was not sorry when Mrs. Benson took herself off and gave him an opportunity to get away himself. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. By tea-time he was back at Staveley. During the drive he had had ample time for reflection, but it had not helped him much. He was still very much at sea as to his next move and realized that it would need considerable diplomacy to discover Gregg’s whereabouts at the time of the murder without rousing his suspicions. And, keen as he was to clear Leslie, he now found himself almost dreading the answer to his thoughts. Bill Staveley met him with the news that Leslie had appeared before the Magistrate and been committed for trial at the Carlisle Assizes. Chapter XI Fayre was only half-way through his first cup of tea when Cynthia cornered him. “You look hipped, Uncle Fayre,” she said, her sharp eyes on his face. “Didn’t you like your old friend when you did find him? Or are you just fed up?” He shook himself out of his abstraction. “My old friend was excellent company, thank you, and very much his old self, plus a jolly little wife. But I do feel a bit weary. Too much bicycling, no doubt!” But Cynthia resolutely ignored the red herring so adroitly drawn across her path. “It isn’t anything new about John, is it?” she asked with a note of real terror in her voice. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you?” “My dear, of course not! Honestly, it’s only the after-effects of the Hendersons’ overpowering hospitality. They gave me the most enormous lunch and made me eat it, too. How have things been going here?” “You’re sure it’s nothing else?” she urged doubtfully. “You wouldn’t keep anything from me from a mistaken idea of kindness, would you, Uncle Fayre?” Fayre’s eyes met hers with the blandest innocence. He could not take her into his confidence yet. Time enough when his suspicions were verified. “The moment I discover anything definite, either for or against Leslie, I shall bring it to you, my dear,” he said with complete sincerity. “You’ve got a right to know before any one else.”