The three men followed the old butler across the hall to the room in which Harborough had talked to Harry and Valencia the previous evening. And there, escorted by Chilford, the brother and sister presently joined them. One glance at their faces made the Chief Constable turn to Mr. Fransemmery with a sigh of relief. “Good!” he whispered. “Cool as cucumbers! Know how to control their feelings!—sure sign of old blood and good breeding that! That’s your sort, Fransemmery—true stuff!” Then, next minute, he found himself quietly explaining matters to Harry and Valencia, who listened attentively, taking in each of the preliminary details that he could give them. “At present,” he concluded, looking from one to the other, “the first thing is to find out where your brother was between half-past ten, when, I’m told by your butler, he left here, and early in the morning. You’ve no idea?” “None,” said Harry. “He told us nothing.” But Valencia shook her head. “Scarcely that,” she said. “He told us something. Don’t you remember, Harry—just before he went?” “Nothing definite,” replied Harry. “I gained no definite idea, anyway.” “What did he tell you, Miss Markenmore?” inquired the Chief Constable. “I remember perfectly,” answered Valencia. “He said he must go, because he had a business appointment in the neighbourhood. He said that where he was going, supper would be ready for him. But—that was all.” “Not a hint as to where he was going—nor as to whom it was to see?” “None!” The group presently broke up into sections. Harborough and Mr. Fransemmery drew off into one corner of the room; Chilford and Harry into another; the Chief Constable and Valencia remained on the hearth, talking in low tones. Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Braxfield, still lachrymose, announced, in a half-whisper: “Mrs. Tretheroe!” Everybody looked round as Mrs. Tretheroe—who had not forgotten the conventions and presented herself in a tailor-made gown of dead black habit-cloth—came rapidly into the room and made for Valencia. But one man shared his observation between her and his immediate company: Mr. Fransemmery, while giving Mrs. Tretheroe and her beauty a quick, admiring glance was sharp enough to see that at sight of her John Harborough not only started, but turned pale, and then red, and then pale again, compressing his firm lips. Another in the room saw all that, too—Valencia. But Mrs. Tretheroe saw nothing—or seemed to see nothing. She was obviously excited; her cheek had more than its usual glow; her lips were slightly parted; she looked, thought at least three of the men there, as if she had come to receive congratulations rather than to offer condolence. But as she approached Valencia she moulded her mobile face into an expression of decorous sympathy.