“What a genius you are!” sighed Furneaux. “If _I_ were trembling with expectation I could no more put a banal question like that than swallow the razor after I was done with it. You might at least have the common decency to thank me for leaving you to gorge on rare meats and vintage wines while I dallied with the deadly railway sandwich.” Winter scraped the other cheek, his chin, and upper lip. “Shall I go to the bathroom first, or listen?” he inquired. “Ah, well, I’m tired, and hiking these frail bones to bed till twelve, so I’ll give you a condensed version,” snapped Furneaux. “Elkin’s illness, begun by whiskey and over-excitement, developed into steady poisoning by Siddle. The chemist used a rare agent, too—pure nicotine—easy, in a sense, to detect, but capable of a dozen reasonable explanations when revealed by the post-mortem. But Elkin wasn’t to be killed outright, I gather. The idea was to upset stomach and brain till he was half crazy. As you can read print when it’s before your eyes, I needn’t go into the matter of motive; Elkin’s behavior supplies all details.” “How about the knots? Hurry! I hate the feeling of soap drying on my skin.” “One running noose and twice two half hitches on each package.” “Good! Charles, we’re going to pull off a real twister.” “_We!_ Well, that tikes it, as the girl said when her hat blew off with the fluffy transformation pinned to it.” Winter rushed to the bathroom, and Furneaux crept languidly to bed. Before going to Knoleworth, Mr. Franklin consulted with Tomlin as to a suitable dinner, to which the other guests staying in the inn, namely, Mr. Peters and the Scotland Yard gentleman—the little man with the French name—might be invited. This important point settled, Mr. Franklin caught an early train, and was absent all day, being, in fact, closeted with Superintendent Fowler and a Treasury solicitor. Furneaux was sound asleep long after twelve o’clock, and swore at Tomlin in French when the landlord ventured to arouse him. Tomlin went downstairs scratching his head. “Least said soonest mended,” he communed, “but we may all be murdered in our beds if them’s the sort of ’tecs we ’ave to look arter us.” However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and some pressmen, arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and the kitchen was redolent of good fare. All parties gathered in the dining-room, of course, and Ingerman had an eye for Mr. Franklin’s party. The scraps of talk he overheard were nothing more exciting than the prospects of a certain horse for the Stewards’ Cup. Peters had the tip straight from the stables. A racing certainty, with a stone in hand. After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, and tapped him professionally on the shoulder. “A word with you outside,” he said. Ingerman was irritated—perhaps slightly alarmed. “Can’t we talk here?” he said, in that singularly melodious voice of his.