Half an hour’s brisk walking brought him to Dovaston Court and he quickly covered the length of the sweeping drive that took him to the front entrance. “Sir Matthew Fullgarney is expecting you, sir,” said the dignified personage whose duty it was to admit him, “if you will be good enough to step this way?” Anthony followed his imposing guide down a hall with a beautifully-polished floor into a sumptuously-furnished room. A magnificent tiger-skin rug lay in a prominent position as he entered, while the walls were somewhat lavishly decorated perhaps, with many and varied trophies of the chase. “I will tell Sir Matthew that you have arrived, sir. Please sit down.” The personage departed. Anthony accepted the suggestion whimsically. He wondered if he looked as though he had been sufficiently impressed. Smiling to himself, semi-cynically, he surveyed his immediate surroundings approvingly. Then he settled himself to await patiently the distinguished gentleman to whom he had written and whom he had come with express purpose to see. He was not kept waiting very long. The Lord Lieutenant of the County entered—caressing his white moustache in the grand manner. Anthony rose and bowed to him, and at the same time was conscious that two fierce blue eyes were regarding him unwaveringly. “I have your letter, Mr.—er——” “Bathurst,” interjected Anthony hopefully. “Ah—yes—that’s it. Bathurst! I am Sir Matthew Fullgarney himself. I understand from the contents of the letter that you wish to see me—to see me personally. You go even further than that, I observe—you assert that it is important. Damn it, sir—for the life of me, I can’t imagine _why_ you want to see me. Have I ever met you before?” “Never, Sir Matthew. And the loss has been mine—I fully realise that.” Anthony smiled his reply. Sir Matthew grunted. “Sit down then and say what you have to say. Please don’t beat about the bush. I hate to have to listen to a farrago of words—two-thirds of which are usually entirely—er—redundant—er—tautological—er—er unnecessary.” He blew his nose fiercely—intending it no doubt as an imposing battery of support. “You will not find me wearisome, I hope,” returned Anthony. “I will state my case in as few words as I possibly can. I have called to see you in reference to the ‘Seabourne Mystery’—the murder of Sheila Delaney—a young lady with whom I believe you were not unacquainted?” “A terrible affair, Mr. Bathurst,” interposed Sir Matthew. “A truly shocking affair. It has disturbed me profoundly. It has upset me more than I can say. But you asked me a question, which I have not yet answered. I knew Sheila Delaney very well. Also, I was very much attached to her.” “Am I right in assuming that you also knew her father—the late Colonel Delaney?” Anthony’s question came curt and crisp.