The first and second meals were of the high quality associated with English country houses of a superior class; the third was a spread for epicures. Tomlinson saw to that. He was catering for a gourmet in Furneaux, and rose to the requisite height. The little man sighed as he tasted the soup. "What is it now?" inquired Winter, whose glance was dwelling appreciatively on a dusty bottle labeled "Clos Vosgeot, 1879." "I hate eating the food of a man whom I mean to produce as a star turn at the Old Bailey," was the despondent answer. "So do I, if it comes to that," said Winter briskly. "But this appetizing menu comes out of another larder. I shall be vastly mistaken if we're not actually the guests of a certain pretty young lady. Finance of the Fenley order is not in good odor in the City. "Have no scruples, my boy. We may be vultures at the feast; but before we see the end of the Fenley case there'll be a smash in Bishopsgate Street, and Miss Sylvia Manning will be lucky if some sharp lawyer is able to grab some part of the wreckage for her benefit." "Clear logic, at any rate." And Furneaux brightened visibly. "I'll tell you what it's based on. Our swarthy friend was examining lists of securities in the train. He didn't lift his head quickly enough--took me for a ticket puncher, I expect--so I had time to twig what he was doing. I'd like to run my eye over the papers in that leather portfolio." "You may manage it. You're the luckiest fellow breathing. Such opportunities come your way. _I_ have to make them." After an interlude played by sole Colbert, Winter shot an amused question at his companion. "What's at the back of your head with regard to the artist and Miss Sylvia?" he said. "It's high time she spoke to a real man. These Fenleys are animals, all of 'em. John Trenholme is a genius, and a good-looking one." "I met the girl in a corridor a while ago, and she was rather disconsolate, I thought." "And with good reason. You've noticed how each brother eyes her. They'll fight like jackals before this night is out. I hope Sylvia will indulge in what women call a good cry. That will be Trenholme's golden hour. Some Frenchman--of course he was clever, being French--says that a man should beware when a woman smiles but he may dare all when she weeps." "Are we marriage brokers, then?" "We must set the Fenleys at each other's throats." "Yes," mused Winter aloud, when a _ris de veau bonne maman_ had passed like a dream, "this affair is becoming decidedly interesting. But every why hath a wherefore, according to Shakespeare. Tell me"--and his voice sank to a whisper--"tell me why you believe Hilton Fenley killed his father."