Sir Hunter’s face turned slowly a deep shade of red; the flush spread over his forehead, over his ears, and even down his neck. Marradine saw a small twisted vein stand out on one side of his forehead and pulse violently—a bubble or two appeared at the corners of his mouth. With considerable tact the Assistant-Commissioner rose from his seat and walked to a bookcase, from which he pulled a book of reference. When he returned, Sir Hunter had largely regained his composure, but his face was dark with anger. “You’re suggesting something very dirty, Marradine,” he said. “Are you sure of this?” “Pretty sure, I’m afraid, Sir Hunter, though I haven’t seen it proved yet. There’s fraud in it, I’m afraid—though of that I’ve certainly no proof yet. The suggestion is that the mine’s a dud, that Lessingham knows it, and that Wraile knows it.” “Wraile! Good God, you don’t say he’s in it? He—I—I’d have trusted him anywhere. I put him into our company—as manager; I got him allotted shares—I—I— He was my Brigade Major in France—a damn good fellow—damn fine soldier. I can’t believe it, Marradine—you must be mistaken.” Sir Hunter rose from his chair and paced agitatedly up and down the room. Marradine waited for him to calm down. “I’ve got worse than that to tell you, I’m afraid,” he said. “We suspect that Sir Garth Fratten was murdered to prevent his joining your Board. So far we have no evidence pointing to either Wraile or Lessingham; we’ve only just begun to look for it. But we have evidence that your secretary, Miss Saverel, was employed to lure young Fratten into such a position that suspicion would fall on him. What do you know of her, Sir Hunter?” Sir Hunter was past astonishment now, past indignation, even past anger. He had sunk back into the comfortable chair beside Sir Leward’s desk and was staring helplessly at his persecutor. “I—I—nothing, really, nothing,” he stammered. “Wraile engaged her, soon after he came to us as manager. Charming girl—quiet, respectful, none of your modern sauce and legs. I—I don’t . . .” His voice trailed off as he realized that he was feebly repeating himself. “You don’t remember, of course, anything about her movements, or Wraile’s, or even Lessingham’s, on the evening Sir Garth was murdered—” Sir Leward referred to a paper before him. “Thursday 24th, October, between 6 and 7.” Lorne consulted his pocket-diary. “Can’t say I do,” he replied gloomily. “I wasn’t at the office that afternoon.” “Any particular reason why you weren’t there?” “Matter of fact I was at Newbury—took Fernandez down—that Argentine millionaire, you know. He was over here floating a loan and we wanted to get in on it. We thought a little entertaining might do the trick—as a matter of fact it did—bread cast on the waters, what—bright idea really . . .” Sir Hunter suddenly checked himself, then, after a few moments’ thought, continued slowly: “It was Wraile’s idea.”