“Oh! Remember, I’m only a poor author.” “Well, you asked for my favourite, so I told you. But that isn’t the one I generally use.” “Ah, now we’re getting warmer. Something about elevenpence a bottle is more like my mark.” “I’m afraid you’ll have to pay just a little more than that. _Parfum Jasmine_; nine and sixpence. And it will serve you right.” “I shan’t bet with _you_ again, Mrs. Plant,” Roger retorted with mock severity. “I hate people who win bets against me. It isn’t fair.” For the rest of dinner Roger seemed to be a little preoccupied. As soon as the ladies had left the room, he strolled over to the open French windows which, like those of the library on the other side, led out on to the lawn. “I think a smoke in the open air is indicated,” he observed carelessly. “Coming, Alec? What about you, Jefferson?” “No rest for me, I’m afraid,” Jefferson replied with a smile. “I’m up to the eyes in it.” “Straightening things up?” “Trying to; they’re in a dreadful muddle.” “Finances, you mean?” “Yes, that and everything. He always managed his own affairs and this is the first time I’ve seen his passbooks and the rest. As he appeared to have accounts at no less than five different banks, you can understand something of what I’ve got to wade through.” Jefferson’s manner was perfectly friendly and open, almost frank. “That’s funny. I wonder why he did that. And have you found any reason for his killing himself?” “None,” said Jefferson candidly. “In fact, the whole thing absolutely beats me. It’s the last thing you’d have expected of old Stanworth, if you’d known him as well as I did.” “You knew him pretty well, of course?” Roger asked, applying a match to his cigarette. “I should say so. I was with him longer than I like to remember,” Jefferson replied with a little laugh that sounded somewhat bitter to Roger’s suspicious ears. “What sort of a man was he really? I thought him quite a good sort; but then I’d probably only seen one side of him.” “Oh, everyone has their different sides, don’t they?” Jefferson parried. “I don’t suppose Stanworth was very unlike anyone else.” “Why did he employ an ex-prize-fighter as a butler?” Roger asked suddenly, looking the other straight in the face. But Jefferson was not to be caught off his guard. “Oh, a whim I should think,” he said easily. “He had plenty of whims like that.” “It seems funny to meet with a butler called Graves in real life,” Roger said with a little smile. “They’re always called Graves on the stage, aren’t they?” “Oh, that isn’t his real name. He’s really called Bill Higgins, I believe. Mr. Stanworth couldn’t face the name of Higgins, so he called him Graves instead.” “It’s a pity. Higgins is an admirably original name for a butler. Besides, it harmonises much more with the gentleman’s general air of ruggedness, doesn’t it? Well, what about this breath of air we promised ourselves, Alec? See you later no doubt, Jefferson.”