"Though to be sure, sir, that isn't hard to see," said Kensit, who was of a more chatty disposition than his position warranted. "There's a knock on the head as 'ud kill a navvy, much less a delicate gentleman as we know Mr. Leigh always was. He was struck down by a loaded cane or a bludgeon, unexpected like, if my experience goes for anything." "But who on earth could have murdered him, Kensit?" asked Rupert, greatly puzzled. "Mr. Leigh was such a harmless man and had no enemies." "P'raps a burglar, sir," suggested the constable wisely. "But who would commit a burglary here?" said Rupert, looking round the entrance hall where they were standing. "There is nothing to carry off except books, and no man would risk a rope round his neck for such antique rubbish." "True enough, Mr. Hendle. And, knowing that he had nothing worth stealing, Mr. Leigh never bothered himself to lock up the house at night. There's no catches to speak of on the windows, and the bolts of the doors ain't up to much. Anyone could walk in and walk out at any time without trouble, as he did." "Oh. Then you think that the assassin was a man?" "Well, sir, I don't suppose a female would come along assaulting people with blows on the back of the head. To be sure, there's Miss Sophy Tollart, who is a suffragist," mused the constable; "but Mr. Leigh never argued with her over them votes for women as I've ever heard." In spite of the seriousness of the case, Hendle could not help smiling. "I think we can acquit Miss Tollart, Kensit," he observed. "The militant suffragist destroys property and not human beings. Ah, here is the doctor. Well?" Tollart emerged into the hall as the Squire spoke, but did not seem to be over-eager to reply. He was a tall, bulky man, with a large red perspiring face, eyes like poached eggs, and a loose mouth suggestive of the hard drinker. As Mrs. Jabber had hinted, he had already had his morning dram, and his wits seemed to be muddled. Not at all the man, as Rupert thought with some disgust, to examine a murdered fellow-mortal's remains. "Whew, isn't it hot, Hendle?" he remarked, mopping his streaming face with a dingy handkerchief. "That in there"--he jerked his head toward the study--"will have to be buried pretty smart; it won't keep long. The sooner he's under ground the better." "He won't be put under ground," said Kensit, smartly. "The Leighs have their family vault, you know, doctor." "Well! Well, vault or grave, the weather's too hot to keep the thing sweet," was Tollart's unpleasant reply. "Nice business, isn't it, Hendle? I always thought that the old man would be knocked on the head." "Why?" asked the Squire, and Kensit looked the same question.