The study had that queer stillness which comes to a room at one time in constant use and then suddenly deserted save for the morning activities of a servant with duster and broom. It had an air of almost supernatural lifelessness, increased, perhaps, by the fact that now everything was in its accustomed place; the same pictures on the walls; the table; the chairs; the very curtains cutting off the alcove at the far end of the room hanging in the old slightly disordered folds. A silence fell upon both men while they found chairs and drew them up to the table, under the light. Sir Arthur spoke first. “Out with it, now, Gethryn. You’ve excited me, you know.” He rubbed his hands. “I’ve always thought you’d do something; go one better than those damn’ fools of policemen!” Anthony leant back in his chair. “This,” he said, “is a most unusual business. I said so at the beginning, and, by God, I say so now! You might say that I have solved the mystery. After I’ve told you, that is. And in another way, as you’ll see, it’s more of a puzzle than ever.” Sir Arthur leant forward. “Go on, man, go on! Do you mean to say you actually know who killed John?” “I do not.” Anthony laid his head against the back of his chair and closed his leaden, burning eyes. Sir Arthur started to his feet. A crash of thunder drowned his words. Followed a zig-zag of lightning so vivid as to seem more a stage-effect than an outburst of nature. Outside, the rain fell heavily, solidly—a veil of water. The furious blast of wind which had come hard on the heels of the great peal died away in a plaintive moan. Anthony opened his eyes. “What did you say? Before that barrage, I mean.” Sir Arthur paced the room. “What did I say?” he exploded. “I said that if you hadn’t found out who did it, I couldn’t see the use of coming here and gabbling about mystery. Damn it, man, we’re not in a two-shilling novel! We’ve got to get Deacon off, that’s what we’ve got to do! _And_ find the murderer! Not sit here and play at Holmes and Watson. It’s _silly_, what we’re doing! And I expected great things of you, Gethryn!” “That,” Anthony said placidly, “was surely foolish.” Sir Arthur made impatient sounds in his throat; but lessened the pace of his prowling. Under the graying hair his broad forehead was creased in a tremendous frown. Anthony lit a cigarette. “But I may yet interest you,” he went on. “You said, I think, that you wished to lay your hands on the murderer.” “I did. And by God I meant it!” Anthony looked up at him. “Suppose you sit down and then I’ll tell you all about it.”