“They were not good, I’m afraid,” he said in a low voice. “I was a pretty rotten son. I got into debt and displeased my father in other ways. He had very little use for me.” “You had a serious quarrel a week or so before your father’s death?” At this point Mr. Menticle, who had been showing increasing signs of indignation, scribbled on a piece of paper and had it passed to the Coroner. The latter read it and nodded to him, but, possibly because the Chief Inspector had shifted on to fresh and less dangerous ground, took no immediate action. Barrod questioned Fratten as to his knowledge of the nature of his father’s disease, as Poole had done, but this time eliciting a quite straightforward reply. He did not touch on the question of the new will. Finally: “There is just one formal question I must put to you, Mr. Fratten. Where were you personally at the time of your father’s death?” Ryland Fratten’s hesitation was barely noticeable before he answered. “As a matter of fact I was in St. James’s Park,” he said. A glint shone in the Chief Inspector’s eyes. “What were you doing?” Mr. Menticle sprang to his feet. “Mr. Coroner!” he exclaimed. The Coroner held up his hand. “You need not answer that question unless you like, Mr. Fratten,” he said. “I do not know where this examination is trending, but I think it probable that you would be wise to consult your solicitor, and to be represented by him.” Fratten gave him a smile of gratitude. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “It isn’t really a case of a solicitor. I am not afraid of incriminating myself, but I do rather dislike exposing myself to ridicule. I was waiting in St. James’s Park, at the Buckingham Palace end of the Birdcage Walk, to be picked up by a girl.” “Picked up by a girl! Do you mean . . . ?” “I mean,” interrupted Fratten, blushing hotly, “that a girl—a lady—had arranged to pick me up there in her car.” Barrod held him for nearly a minute under his stare. “And who, sir, was this—er—lady?” “I can’t tell you.” “Do you mean you can’t or you won’t?” “I can’t tell you,” Fratten repeated. Barrod opened his mouth as if to renew his interrogation, but, apparently changing his mind, resumed his seat, with a sardonic expression. “That’s all, sir,” he said, rising and bowing to the Coroner. Mr. Menticle had boldly walked across to Ryland’s side and engaged him in a whispered conversation. The Coroner indulged him by writing up his notes. Having finished his colloquy, Mr. Menticle turned to the Coroner. “Mr. Fratten has asked me to represent him, sir,” he said. “I trust I have your permission.” The Coroner looked at him, a curious expression on his face. “It occurs to me, Mr. Menticle,” he said, “that such a course may give rise to some difficulty. I understand that you are yourself to give evidence before this inquiry. Under the circumstances would it not, perhaps, be better . . .” he left the sentence unfinished. Mr. Menticle turned slowly red and then deathly white.