"Can't they be stopped?" broke in Furneaux, speaking for the first time. "Yes, of course," and Hilton Fenley became a trifle more animated. "I wanted Farrow to wait till you came, but he insisted--said the murderer might be hiding there." "When did Farrow arrive?" "Oh, more than half an hour after my father was shot. I forgot to mention that my mother knows nothing of the tragedy yet. That is why we did not carry my poor father's body upstairs. She might overhear the shuffling of feet, and ask the cause." "One thing more, Mr. Fenley," said Winter, seeing that the other had made an end. "Have you the remotest reason to believe that any person harbored a grievance against your father such as might lead to the commission of a crime of this nature?" "I've been torturing my mind with that problem since I realized that my father was dead, and I can say candidly that he had no enemies. Of course, in business, one interferes occasionally with other men's projects, but people in the City do not shoot successful opponents." "No private feud? No dismissed servant, sent off because of theft or drunkenness?" "Absolutely none, to my knowledge. The youngest man on the estate has been employed here five or six years." "It is a very extraordinary crime, Mr. Fenley." For answer, the other sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. "How can we get those clodhoppers out of the wood?" said Furneaux. His thin, high-pitched voice dispelled the tension, and Fenley dropped his hands. "Bates is certain to make for a rock which commands a view of the house," he said. "Perhaps, if we go to the door, we may see them." He arose with obvious effort, but walked steadily enough. Winter followed with the doctor, and inquired in an undertone-- "Are you sure about the soft-nosed bullet, doctor?" "Quite," was the answer. "I was in the Tirah campaign, and saw hundreds of such wounds." Furneaux, too, had something to say to Miss Manning. "How were you seated during breakfast?" he asked. She showed him. It was a large room. Two windows looked down the avenue, and three into the garden, with its background of timber and park. Mr. Mortimer Fenley could have commanded both views; his son sat with his back to the park; the girl had faced it. "I need hardly put it to you, but you saw no one in or near the trees?" said Furneaux. "Not a soul. I bathe in a little lake below those cedars every morning, and it is an estate order that the men do not go in that direction between eight and nine o'clock. Of course, a keeper might have passed at nine thirty, but it is most unlikely." "Did you bathe this morning?" "Yes, soon after eight." "Did you see the artist of whom Mr. Fenley spoke?" "No. This is the first I have heard of any artist. Bates must have mentioned him while I was with Dr. Stern."