The Dower House was a big, rambling, old-fashioned place which stood within large, enclosed grounds and gardens of its own, in the south-east corner of Markenmore Park, a little way out of the village, and about two hundred yards from the Sceptre Inn. Nearly as capacious as Markenmore Court itself, it possessed a considerable range of stabling and outhouses, and was altogether a residence of wide extent and accommodation. Blick took a rapid, estimating view of it and its surroundings as he walked up the drive; everything had lately been done up and put in order there; the Dower House, he thought, was much more pretentious in appearance than the Court. The ancient residence of the Markenmore family was outwardly shabby, neglected, much in want of fresh paint; the Dower House was spick and span; its lawn and gardens trim and carefully kept. And Blick was not at all surprised when, in answer to his knock and ring, the door was opened by a very tall, supercilious footman, clad in a gorgeous livery. It appeared to be an effort to this person to bring his eyes down to the level of the caller’s face. “Mrs. Tretheroe at home?” demanded Blick. “Mrs. Tretheroe is indisposed,” answered the footman. “She is not receiving today.” Blick pulled out his card-case. “I am sorry to hear that Mrs. Tretheroe isn’t well,” he remarked. “But I saw her an hour or two ago, and I think she will give me a few minutes’ interview on very urgent business. Just give her my card, if you please.” The footman took the card gingerly, glanced at it, stared at Blick’s youthfulness a little wonderingly, and backing away from the door, seemed to invite the caller inside. Blick stepped into an outer hall. “My orders were very precise,” remarked the footman, grudgingly. “But if it’s very important business——” “It is!” interrupted Blick. “Very!” “I’ll see Mrs. Tretheroe’s maid,” said the footman. “Please to wait.” He vanished into the gloom of an inner hall, behind a _portière_ of heavy curtains, and Blick, left alone, looked round him. The place in which he waited, alone, was small; an ancient oak press stood on one side of him; on the other, a big stand, wherefrom hung a medley of coats, cloaks, and outdoor wraps. And amongst them, the most prominent object was a smart Raglan overcoat, of a brightish blue shade, which Blick recognized at once. He had seen it at the inquest that morning—worn by the big blond-moustached man who had sat at Mrs. Tretheroe’s right hand throughout the proceedings.