Sunday involved a visit to the local church—Joan Poole was sufficiently an aunt to think it behooved her to keep an eye on her nephew’s spiritual welfare, and after an early lunch, twenty-seven holes of rather high-class golf. Joan, though over forty, was a really useful performer and it took John, out of practice as he necessarily was, all his time to give her half a stroke and a beating. After tea, more Mary Webb and, as a contrast to the Victorian James, two of Max Beerbohm’s incomparable “Seven Men.” After supper—everything cold and deliciously appetizing on the table—John yielded himself up to the favourite recreation of his hostess,—a good long gossip—about relations, politics, books, neighbours, and the prospects of early promotion. The latter was approaching forbidden ground but Poole warded off his aunt’s most disingenuous leads and, much to her disappointment, said not one word about the Fratten case. As he sped to London by the 8 a. m. train on Monday morning, Poole felt that he had recreated every tissue in both body and brain and was ready to exert to the utmost the full powers of both in an attempt to bring his case to a successful conclusion. On arriving at Scotland Yard, the detective found a message from Mangane to say that he was starting early for the City and would ring him up at lunch time if he had anything to report. That meant that Poole would have a clear morning in which to tidy up a variety of small points that needed attention. In the first place he went round to the House of Commons and once more extracted Mr. Coningsby Smythe from his holy places; Mr. Smythe was inclined to mount his high horse, but Poole quickly brought him to his senses by telling him that he would shortly be required to give evidence in a trial for murder, and warning him that if he put any difficulties in the way of the Crown (more effective than the “police” with this type of witness) obtaining the evidence it required, he would find himself in severe trouble. Having thus prepared the way he asked Mr. Smythe if he had noticed anything about the appearance and behaviour of the car that had obstructed his view of Sir Garth just before the latter fell. Mr. Smythe stared at Poole in some surprise, but seeing that he was in earnest bent his brows in an effort of recollection. “I did not really notice the car, Inspector,” he said at last. “I was watching the men. I should say that it was certainly a closed car and not a large one; I think it was dark in colour.” “You did not notice whether it was driven by a man or a woman—or a chauffeur?” “I’m afraid I didn’t.” “Did anything strike you about the way it was driven—was it slower than was natural on such a road? Did it go very near the two gentlemen?” Mr. Smythe shook his head. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice anything special—it certainly wasn’t going very fast.” “Would you say it was a saloon, or a coupé, or just an open car with the hood up?”