"Are there other members of the family?" "An invalid wife, never away from The Towers; and a young lady, Miss Sylvia Manning--a ward, and worth a pile. By the way, she's twenty. Mortimer Fenley, had he lived, was appointed her guardian and trustee till she reached twenty-one." "Twenty!" mused Winter. "Yes, twice ten," snapped Furneaux. "And Fenley has cut a figure in the City for twenty years." "I was sure your gray matter would be stimulated by its favorite poison." "Charles, this should be an easy thing." "I'm not so sure. Dead men tell no tales, and Fenley himself could probably supply many chapters of an exciting story. They will be missing. Look at the repeated failures of eminent authors to complete 'Edwin Drood.' How would they have fared if asked to produce the beginning?" "Still, I'm glad you attended to those bonds. Who had charge of the Paris end?" "Jacques Faure." "Ah, a good man." "Pretty fair, for a Frenchman." Winter laughed. "You born frog!" he cried.... "Hello, there's a Roxton sign post. Now let's compose our features. We are near The Towers." The estate figured on the county map, so the chauffeur pulled up at the right gate. A woman came from the lodge to inquire their business, and admitted the car when told that its occupants had been summoned by Mr. Hilton Fenley. "By the way," said Furneaux carelessly, "is Mr. Robert at home?" "No, sir." "When did he leave?" "I'm sure I don't know, sir." Mrs. Bates knew quite well, and Furneaux knew that she knew. "The country domestic is the detective's aversion," he said as the car whirred into the avenue. "The lady of the lodge will be a sufficiently tough proposition if we try to drag information out of her, but the real tug of war will come when we tackle the family butler." "Her husband is also the head keeper," said Winter. "Name of Bates," added Furneaux. "Oh, you've been here before, then?" "No. While you were taking stock of the kennels generally, I was deciphering a printed label on a box of dog biscuit." "I hardly feel that I've begun this inquiry yet," said Winter airily. "You'd better pull yourself together. The dead man's limousine is still waiting at the door, and the local doctor is in attendance." "Walter J. Stern, M.D." "Probably. That brass plate on the Georgian house in the center of the village positively glistened." They were received by Hilton Fenley himself, all the available men servants having been transferred to the cohort organized and directed by Police Constable Farrow. "Good morning, Mr. Furneaux," said Fenley. "I little thought, when last we met, that I should be compelled to seek your help so soon again, and under such dreadful circumstances." Furneaux, whose face could display at will a Japanese liveliness of expression or become a mask of Indian gravity, surveyed the speaker with inscrutable eyes. "This is Superintendent Winter, Chief of my Department," he said.