"Things went along very smoothly, sir, all things considered. They have been rather better since Miss Sylvia came home from Brussels. She was worried about Mrs. Fenley at first, but gave it up as a bad job; and Mr. Fenley and the young gentlemen used to hide their differences before her. That was why Mr. Fenley and Mr. Robert blazed up in the hall on Saturday. They couldn't say a word in front of Miss Sylvia at the breakfast table." "The four always met at breakfast, then?" "Almost without fail, sir. On Monday and Tuesday mornings Mr. Hilton breakfasted early, and his father was joking about it, for if any one was late it would be him--or should I say 'he', sir?" Furneaux cackled. "I wouldn't have you alter your speech on any account," he grinned. "Why did Mr. Hilton turn over these new leaves on Monday and Tuesday?" "He said he had work to do. What it was I don't know, sir. But he managed to miss the nine forty-five, and Mr. Fenley was vexed about it. Of course, I don't know why I am telling you these small things. Mr. Hilton might be angry----" Some one knocked. Harris, the footman, entered, a scared look on his face. "Can you come a moment, Mr. Tomlinson?" he said. "The undertaker is here for the body." "What is that?" cried Winter sharply. The butler arose. "Didn't Mr. Hilton mention it, sir?" he said. "Dr. Stern must hold a post mortem before the inquest, and he suggested that it could be carried through more easily in the mortuary attached to the Cottage Hospital. Isn't that all right, sir?" "Oh, yes, I'm sorry. I didn't understand. Go, by all means. We'll wait here." When they were alone, the two detectives remained silent for a long minute. Winter arose and looked through a window at the scene outside. A closed hearse had arrived; some men were carrying in a rough coffin and three trestles. There was none of the gorgeous trappings which lend dignity to such transits in public. Polished oak and gleaming brass and rare flowers would add pageantry later; this was the livery of the dissecting-room. "Queer case!" growled Winter over his shoulder. "If only Hilton had breakfasted early _this_ morning!" said Furneaux. "If the dog hadn't stopped to scratch himself he would have caught the hare," was the irritable answer. "Aren't you pleased with Tomlinson, then?" "The more he opened up the more puzzled I became. By the way, you hardly asked him a thing, though you were keen on tackling him yourself." "James, I'm an artist. You handled him so neatly that I stood by and appreciated. It would be mean to suggest that the prospect of a bottle of Alto Douro quickened his imagination. I----"