“I meant to,” answered Furneaux quietly. “No half measures for me. I’ve looked up the asylum record of Mrs. Siddle, senior, and it’s not nice reading.” “There was a Mrs. Siddle, junior, then?” “A Mrs. Theodore Siddle, if one adopts the conventional usage. Yes. She died last month.” “Last month!” gasped Doris, feeling vaguely that she was moving in a maze of deceit and subterfuge. “On May 25th, to be precise. She lived apart from her husband. I have reason to believe she feared him.” “Yet—” She hesitated, hardly able to put her jumbled thoughts into words. “Yes. That’s so,” said the detective instantly. “Never mind. It’s a fairly decent world, taken _en bloc_. I ought to speak with authority. I see enough of the seamy side of it, goodness knows. Now, forewarned is forearmed. Don’t be nervous. Don’t take risks. Everything will come right in time. Remember, I’m not far away in an emergency. Should I chance to be absent if you need advice, send for Mr. Franklin. You can easily devise some official excuse, a mislaid letter, or an error in a telegram.” “I think I shall feel confident if both of you are near,” and the ghost of a smile lit Doris’s wan features. “We’re a marvelous combination,” grinned Furneaux, reverting at once to his normal impishness. “I am all brain; he is all muscle. Such an alliance prevails against the ungodly.” “Is Mr. Grant in any danger?” inquired Doris suddenly. “No.” The two looked into each other’s eyes. Doris was eager to ask a question, which Furneaux dared her to put. The detective won. She sighed. “Very well,” she said. “I’m to behave. Am I to regard myself as a decoy duck?” “A duck, anyhow.” She laughed lightly. Furneaux would vouchsafe no further information, it would appear. For a girl of nineteen, Doris was uncommonly gifted with clear, analytical reasoning powers. The detective returned to the Hare and Hounds, and went upstairs. He met Peters on the landing. “The devil!” he cried. “My _dear_ pal!” retorted the journalist. “Are you living here?” “Why not?” “Why not, indeed? Where the eagles are there is the carcase.” “Your misquotation is offensive.” “It was so intended.” “Come and have a drink.” “No.” “I say ‘yes.’ You’ll thank me on your bended knees afterwards. The South American gent is having the time of his life. I’ve just been to my room for _Whitaker’s Almanack_, wherewith a certain Don Walter Hart purposes flooring him.” Wally Hart had, indeed, succeeded in running to earth the Argentine magnate, and was giving Winter a most uncomfortable quarter of an hour. “Ha!” shouted Hart, when Furneaux came in with Peters. “Here’s the pocket marvel who’ll answer any question straight off. What is the staple export of the Argentine!” “How often have you been there?” demanded the detective dryly. “Six times.” “And you’ve lived there?” This to Winter. “Yes,” glowered the big man, fearing the worst. “Then the answer is ‘fools,’” cackled Furneaux.