“Charming, isn’t it? Gleason built it, you know.” He paused, and Anthony feared his bait unswallowed. They had arrived at the gate to the garden. Over the hedge showed lawns, flowers, and the house. Anthony had not been merely diplomatic when he had praised its beauty. It was a building in the best modern manner and in its way as good to look upon as Abbotshall. Anthony made as if to leave. But Sir Arthur had swallowed the bait. “Look here, Gethryn,” he said; “why not come in with me? The inside’s more worth seeing than the out. And I’d like you to meet Lucia and her sister. They’d be glad to see you too. They were expecting another to lunch besides me—young Deacon, John’s secretary. He wouldn’t come. He’s very busy, and being young, I suppose he feels it’d be a sin to enjoy himself in any way to-day. Silly, but I like him for it. He don’t know the necessity yet for doing anything to keep sane.” He laid a hand on Anthony’s arm. “Do come along.” Anthony allowed himself to be persuaded. They walked through the garden and then round the house to the front door. They were shown by a cool, delightful maid to a cool, delightful drawing-room. Through the French-window, which opened on to the garden they had approached by, there burst a girl. Anthony noted slim ankles, a slight figure, and a pretty enough face. But he was disappointed. The hair was of a deep reddish-gold. Sir Arthur presented Mr. Anthony Gethryn—he knew of Anthony’s dislike of the “Colonel”—to Miss Dora Masterson. The girl turned to the man she knew. “But—but where’s Archie? Isn’t he coming, too?” Sir Arthur’s face lost its conventional smile. “No, my dear. I’m afraid he’s not. He—he’s very busy.” He hesitated. “You will have heard—about Mr. Hoode?” The girl caught her breath. “Yes. But only just now. You must think it awful of me not to have asked you at once; but—but I hardly believed it. It wasn’t in any of the papers we had this morning. And I’ve only just got up; I was so tired yesterday. Travers, the parlour-maid, told me. Loo doesn’t know yet. I think she’s got up—or only just; she stayed in bed this morning too.” The girl grew agitated. “Why are you looking like that? Has—is Archie in—in trouble?” Sir Arthur laughed, and then grew grave again. “Lord, no, child! It’s only that he’s busy. You see, there are detectives and—and things to see to. I’m rather a deserter, I suppose, but I thought I’d better come along and bring Mr. Gethryn with me. He arrived this morning, very fortunately. He’s helping the police, being—well, a most useful person to have about.” He paused. Anthony, to conceal his annoyance at this innocent betrayal, became engrossed in examination of a water-colour of some merit. Sir Arthur continued: “It is a terrible tragedy, my dear——” “What! What is it?” came a cry from the doorway behind them. The voice would have been soft, golden, save for that harsh note of terror or hysteria.