Superintendent James Leander Winter, Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard, had just opened the morning's letters, and was virtuously resisting the placid charms of an open box of cigars, when the telephone bell rang. The speaker was the Assistant Commissioner. "Leave everything else, and motor to Roxton," said the calm voice of authority. "Mr. Mortimer Fenley, a private banker in the City, was shot dead about nine thirty at his own front door. His place is The Towers, which stands in a park between the villages of Roxton and Easton, in Hertfordshire. His son, who has just telephoned here, believes that a rifle was fired from a neighboring wood, but several minutes elapsed before any one realized that the banker was shot, the first impression of the servants who ran to his assistance when he staggered and fell being that he was suffering from apoplexy. By the time the cause of death was discovered the murderer could have escaped, so no immediate search was organized. Mr. Hilton Fenley, a son, who spoke with difficulty, explained that he thought it best to 'phone here after summoning a doctor. The dead man is of some importance in the City, so I want you to take personal charge of the inquiry." The voice ceased. Mr. Winter, while listening, had glanced at a clock. "Nine thirty this morning, sir?" he inquired. "Yes. The son lost no time. The affair happened a quarter of an hour ago." "I'll start in five minutes." "Good. By the way, who will go with you?" "Mr. Furneaux." "Excellent. I leave matters in your hands, Superintendent. Let me hear the facts if you return to town before six." Evidently the Roxton murder was one of the year's big events. It loomed large already in the official mind. Winter called up various departments in quick succession, gave a series of orders, sorted his letters hastily, thrusting some into a drawer and others into a basket on the table, and was lighting a cigar when the door opened and his trusted aide, Detective Inspector Furneaux, entered. "Ha!" cackled the newcomer; for Winter had confided to him, only the day before, certain reasons why the habit of smoking to excess was injurious, and his (Winter's) resolve to cut down the day's cigars to three, one after each principal meal. "Circumstances alter cases," said the Superintendent blandly, scrutinizing the Havana to make sure that the outer leaf was burning evenly. "You and I are off for a jaunt in the country, Charles, and the sternest disciplinarian unbends during holiday time." "Scotland Yard, as well as the other place, is paved with good intentions," said Furneaux. Winter stooped, and took a couple of automatic pistols from a drawer in the desk at which he was seated. "Put one of those in your pocket," he said. Again did his colleague smile derisively. "So it is only a 'bus driver's holiday?" he cried. "One never knows. Some prominent banker, name of Fenley, has been shot. There may be more shooting."