"My poor, poor little girl," he said. "This is terrible. Fairfield ought to have seen me first. I must telephone for your aunt to come and stay here until we can get away." She shook her head a trifle impatiently. "I don't want her, father. She cannot help me. I would rather be here alone with you. It would drive me mad to have sympathy showered on me. I want to see no one. I want to be left to myself." "But--my dear, I know it is a shock, but you cannot be allowed to brood----" She rose abruptly from the table and put him from her. "I shall not brood," she said. "I shall work. I am going to Scotland Yard to learn what they know." "Yes, yes, if you wish it," he said soothingly. "We will go at once. I will order the car now." "I would rather go alone, if you don't mind," she said decisively, and the door closed behind her. "She always was headstrong," remarked the Duke of Burghley to the devilled kidneys, and stared moodily into the fire. Since his wife had died he had always been governed by his impetuous, strong-willed daughter, and accepted the situation philosophically so long as he had his books and his club. He led a complacent life from which he was rarely stirred. But he was hit harder than he cared to admit by the way in which she accepted the tragedy. He wondered vaguely what he ought to do, and decided to consult Brown--Brown being the senior member of his firm of family solicitors. In his room at Scotland Yard Superintendent Heldon Foyle, a cigar between his teeth, was studying the book which his staff was compiling. Already it formed a bulky volume of many hundred typewritten pages. Here were reports, signed statements, photographs, personal descriptions, facsimiles of finger-prints, telegrams, letters, surveyors' plans, notes--everything, important and unimportant, that might have a possible bearing on the case. The superintendent turned over the pages with a moistened forefinger, and made a note now and again on a writing-pad by his side. "Puzzling cases are like a jig-saw puzzle," he had once said. "You juggle about with the facts until you find two or three that fit together. They give you the key, and you build the rest up round 'em. But it's no good trying to do it unless you've got your box of pieces complete." His box of pieces was not complete, and he knew it. Nevertheless, he could not resist trying to fit them together. But the announcement made by his clerk of the arrival of Lady Eileen Meredith came while he was still puzzling. She stood in the doorway, a dainty figure in furs, a heavy veil drawn over her face. "Mr. Foyle?" she asked hesitatingly. He bowed and wheeled a big arm-chair near his desk. "Yes. Won't you sit down, Lady Eileen? You have just missed one of our men. I sent him round to break the news to you. I need not tell you that we recognise how you must feel in these terrible circumstances. We shall trouble you as little as possible after you have answered a few questions."