Robert Fenley received them in his own room. He strove to appear at ease and business-like, but, as Furneaux had surmised, was emphatic in his refusal to give any clear statement as to his proceedings in London. He admitted the visit to Hendon Road, which, he said, was necessitated by a promise to a friend who was going abroad, but he failed to see why the police should inquire into his private affairs. Winter did not press him. There was no need. A scapegrace's record could always be laid bare when occasion served. But one question he was bound to put. "Have you any theory, however remote or far-fetched, that will account for your father's death in such a way?" he inquired. The younger Fenley was smoking a cigarette. A half consumed whisky and soda stood on a table; a bottle of whisky and a siphon promised refreshers. He was not quite sober, but could speak lucidly. "Naturally, I've been thinking a lot about that," he said, wrinkling his forehead in the effort to concentrate his mind and express himself with due solemnity. "It's funny, isn't it, that my rifle should be missing?" "Well, yes." Some sarcastic inflection in Winter's voice seemed to reach a rather torpid brain. Fenley looked up sharply. "Of course, funny isn't the right word," he said. "I mean it's odd, a bit of a mystery. Why should anybody take my gun if they wanted to shoot my poor old guv'nor? That beats me. It's a licker--eh, what?" "It is more important to know why any one should want to shoot your father." "That's it. Who benefits? Well, I suppose Hilton and I will be better off--no one else. And I didn't do it. It's silly even to say so." "But there is only your brother left in your summary." "By Jove, yes. That's been runnin' in my head. It's nonsense, anyhow, because Hilton was in the house. I wouldn't believe a word he said, but Sylvia, and Tomlinson, and Brodie, and Harris all tell the same yarn. No; Hilton couldn't have done it. He's ripe for any mischief, is Hilton, but he can't be in this hole; now, can he?" They could extract nothing of value out of Robert, and left him after a brief visit. In the interim, Hilton Fenley had kept Tomlinson talking about the crime. The dining-room door was ajar, and he knew when the detectives had gone to Robert's room. Then he glanced around the table, and affected to remember the decanter of port. "By the way," he said, "I feel as if a glass of that wine would be a good notion tonight. I don't suppose the Scotland Yard men have finished the lot. Just send for it, will you?" Harris brought the decanter, and Tomlinson was gratified by seeing that his favorite beverage had been duly appraised.