But this was different. Everything was being made so easy for him. First, here was dear, stolid old Boyd in charge of the case. Next, there was Sir Arthur. As yet they were the merest acquaintances, but the knight had, he knew, for some time been aware of and impressed by the war record of A. R. Gethryn, and had welcomed him to the stricken household. Through Sir Arthur, Miss Hoode—whom Anthony had not seen yet—had been persuaded to accept Anthony, despite his present aura of journalism. Oh, most undoubtedly, everything was going very well! Now, thought Anthony, for the murderer. This, in spite of its painful side, was all vastly entertaining. Who killed Cock Robin Hoode? Anthony felt more content than for the last year. It appeared that, after all, there might be interest in life. In the hall he found Boyd; with him Poole, the butler—a lean, shaking old man—and a burly fellow whom Anthony knew for another of Scotland Yard’s Big Four. Boyd came to meet him. The burly one picked up his hat and sought the front door. The butler vanished. “I wish you’d tell me, colonel,” Boyd asked, “exactly where you come in on this business?” Anthony smiled. “It’s no use, Boyd. I’m not the murderer, But lend me your ears and I’ll explain my presence.” As the explanation ended, Boyd’s heavy face broke into a smile. He showed none of the chagrin commonly attributed to police detectives when faced with the amateur who is to prove them fools at every turn. “There’s no one I’d rather have with me, colonel,” he said. “Of course, it’s all very unofficial——” “That’s all right, Boyd. Before I left town I rang up Mr. Lucas. He gave me his blessing, and told me to carry on—provided I was accepted by the family.” Boyd looked relieved. “That makes everything quite easy, then. I don’t mind telling you that this is a regular puzzler, Colonel Gethryn.” “So I have gathered,” Anthony said. “By the way, Boyd, do drop that ‘Colonel,’ there’s a good Inspector. If you love me, call me mister, call me mister, Boydie dear.” Boyd laughed. He found Anthony refreshingly unofficial. “Very well, sir. Now, if we may, let’s get down to business. I suppose you’ve heard roughly what happened?” “Yes.” “Much detail?” “A wealth. None germane.” Boyd was pleased. He knew this laconic mood of Anthony’s; it meant business. He was pleased because at present he felt himself out of his depth in the case. He produced from his breast-pocket a notebook. “Here are some notes I’ve made, sir,” he said. “You won’t be able to read ’em, so let me give you an edited version.” “Do. But let’s sit down first.” They did so, on a small couch before the great fireplace.