He had four servants. Inside was John Burt, valet, butler, and general factotum, and his wife, Sarah Burt, who combined the offices of cook and general servant. Outside was an ex-service man named Coombe, who acted as chauffeur and general handy man, and an old gardener called Mee. Mee lived with his wife and daughter in the gate lodge and Coombe boarded with them. All, so far as the sergeant knew, were reliable people of good character. “I’ll go out and see the colonel after lunch,” French announced. “Could you lend me a push bicycle? I don’t want all my movements reported on by the driver of a car.” “I can borrow one for you, but it’ll not be much use on these hilly roads.” “It’ll do all I want.” A couple of hours later French set out. When near Colonel Domlio’s gate he hid the bicycle in the brushwood and approached the house on foot. It was a smallish, creeper-covered building, L-shaped, with thick walls and heavy overhanging eaves. At least a hundred years old, French thought. It stood some two hundred yards back from the road and was approached by a drive which wound between clumps of stunted trees and shrubs. In front was a small lawn of mown grass, while between the trees to the right French glimpsed the roofs of outbuildings. The place had a cared-for appearance. The woodwork of the house had been freshly painted, the flower beds were tidy, and the grass edges had recently been cut. The door was opened by an elderly man in butler’s dress, honest and kindly-looking, but rather stupid. John Burt, evidently. He asked French to step inside while he took his card to his master. The hall was of fair size, with a large, old-fashioned fireplace and lead-lighted windows. French had not much time to observe it, for Burt called him almost immediately into a room on the left of the hall door. It was long, low, and delightfully furnished as a study. Bookcases lined the walls and a couple of deep saddle-bag armchairs stood on the soft Chinese carpet in front of the fireplace. A collector’s entomological cabinet was in one corner, with close by a table bearing books and a fine microscope. The room was evidently in the corner of the house, for there were French windows in adjacent walls. In one of these was a leather-topped desk and at the desk was seated a shortish man with a strong, clean-shaven face, iron grey hair, and a not too amiable expression. He rose as French entered. “Inspector French of Scotland Yard, is it not? I have heard that you were in the town.” “That’s correct, sir,” French answered, taking the chair to which the other pointed. “You’ve probably heard enough, then, to guess my business?” Colonel Domlio squared his shoulders. “I heard you were investigating the deaths of Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke. I don’t know the object of this call.” “I’ve come, Colonel Domlio, in connection with my investigation. I want to ask for your help in it.” “What do you wish me to do?”