“What an extraordinary question!” said Bundle. “You intrigue me greatly. Let me see—yes—that’s Mademoiselle Brun’s room. The French governess. She endeavours to keep my young sisters in order. Dulcie and Daisy—like the song, you know. I dare say they’d have called the next one, Dorothy May. But mother got tired of having nothing but girls and died. Thought some one else could take on the job of providing an heir.” “Mademoiselle Brun,” said Anthony thoughtfully. “How long has she been with you?” “Two months. She came to us when we were in Scotland.” “Ha!” said Anthony. “I smell a rat.” “I wish I could smell some lunch,” said Bundle. “Do I ask the Scotland Yard man to have lunch with us, Mr. Cade? You’re a man of the world, you know about the etiquette of such things. We’ve never had a murder in the house before. Exciting, isn’t it? I’m sorry your character was so completely cleared this morning. I’ve always wanted to meet a murderer and see for myself if they’re as genial and charming as the Sunday papers always say they are. God! what’s that?” “What” seemed to be a taxi approaching the house. Its two occupants were a tall man with a bald head and a black beard, and a smaller and younger man with a black moustache. Anthony recognized the former, and guessed that it was he—rather than the vehicle which contained him—that had wrung the exclamation of astonishment from his companion’s lips. “Unless I much mistake,” he remarked, “that is my old friend, Baron Lollipop.” “Baron what?” “I call him Lollipop for convenience. The pronouncing of his own name tends to harden the arteries.” “It nearly wrecked the telephone this morning,” remarked Bundle. “So that’s the Baron, is it? I foresee he’ll be turned on to me this afternoon—and I’ve had Isaacstein all the morning. Let George do his own dirty work, say I, and to hell with politics. Excuse me leaving you, Mr. Cade, but I must stand by poor old Father.” Bundle retreated rapidly to the house. Anthony stood looking after her for a minute or two and thoughtfully lighted a cigarette. As he did so, his ear was caught by a stealthy sound quite near him. He was standing by the boat-house, and the sound seemed to come from just round the corner. The mental picture conveyed to him was that of a man vainly trying to stifle a sudden sneeze. “Now I wonder—I very much wonder who’s behind the boat-house,” said Anthony to himself. “We’d better see, I think.” Suiting the action to the word, he threw away the match he had just blown out, and ran lightly and noiselessly round the corner of the boat-house. He came upon a man who had evidently been kneeling on the ground and was just struggling to rise to his feet. He was tall, wore a light coloured overcoat and glasses, and for the rest, had a short pointed black beard and a slightly foppish manner. He was between thirty and forty years of age, and altogether of a most respectable appearance. “What are you doing here?” asked Anthony.