Well, not exactly why the door was open; that could be explained easily enough. But why had he expected the door to be shut? He did not remember shutting it, but somehow he was surprised to see it open now, to see Cayley through the doorway, just coming into the room. Something working sub-consciously in his brain had told him that it was surprising. Why? He tucked the matter away in a corner of his mind for the moment; the answer would come to him later on. He had a wonderfully retentive mind. Everything which he saw or heard seemed to make its corresponding impression somewhere in his brain; often without his being conscious of it; and these photographic impressions were always there ready for him when he wished to develop them. Cayley joined him at the window. “I’ve telephoned,” he said. “They’re sending an inspector or some one from Middleston, and the local police and doctor from Stanton.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’re in for it now.” “How far away is Middleston?” It was the town for which Antony had taken a ticket that morning—only six hours ago. How absurd it seemed. “About twenty miles. These people will be coming back soon.” “Beverley, and the others?” “Yes. I expect they’ll want to go away at once.” “Much better that they should.” “Yes.” Cayley was silent for a little. Then he said, “You’re staying near here?” “I’m at ‘The George,’ at Woodham.” “If you’re by yourself, I wish you’d put up here. You see,” he went on awkwardly, “you’ll have to _be_ here—for the—the inquest and—and so on. If I may offer you my cousin’s hospitality in his—I mean if he doesn’t—if he really has—” Antony broke in hastily with his thanks and acceptance. “That’s good. Perhaps Beverley will stay on, if he’s a friend of yours. He’s a good fellow.” Antony felt quite sure, from what Cayley had said and had hesitated to say, that Mark had been the last to see his brother alive. It didn’t follow that Mark Ablett was a murderer. Revolvers go off accidentally; and when they have gone off, people lose their heads and run away, fearing that their story will not be believed. Nevertheless, when people run away, whether innocently or guiltily, one can’t help wondering which way they went. “I suppose this way,” said Antony aloud, looking out of the window. “Who?” said Cayley stubbornly. “Well, whoever it was,” said Antony, smiling to himself. “The murderer. Or, let us say, the man who locked the door after Robert Ablett was killed.” “I wonder.” “Well, how else could he have got away? He didn’t go by the windows in the next room, because they were shut.” “Isn’t that rather odd?”