Canon Fittleworth had only just returned to his house in the Close from the early Sunday service in the Cathedral, and had sat down to his breakfast with his wife and daughter. He was a cheerful-looking ecclesiastic, apparently midway between forty and fifty, wearing pince-nez over a pair of keen brown eyes. He had just answered a question put by his daughter, and was beginning to attack his egg, when a servant came in. “If you please, sir, Superintendent Norton wishes to speak to you. He says it’s very particular. I’ve shown him into the study, sir.” “The police!” exclaimed Doris Fittleworth. “What have you been doing, father?” “I’ve quite a clear conscience, dear. Tell him to wait ten minutes,” he added to the servant. “Please, sir, he said he must see you at once,” she replied. “Oh, very well,” said the Canon, not pleased to be interrupted at his meal. “Keep my toast warm,” he added to his wife as he went out of the room. “Good morning, Superintendent. You wanted to see me!” “Good morning, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s urgent.” “Anything wrong?” “I’m afraid so. Will you tell me, please—do you know a Mr. Reginald Templeton, and have you seen him lately?” “Why, of course I do. He’s my cousin. He was only dining with me last evening. I hadn’t seen him for a long time. What is it?” “I’m very sorry to tell you, Canon, that Mr. Templeton was discovered on his yacht at Marsh Quay this morning, dead.” “Dead? Why, he was in the best of health last night!” “Murdered,” went on the inspector gravely. The Canon started, and seized both arms of the chair in which he was seated. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed. “This is terrible, Superintendent. Reginald _murdered_, you say?” Briefly the superintendent gave him the details, explaining how he had ascertained that the Canon knew the murdered man. “Exactly. He wrote to me from Weymouth, and again from Ryde. I was expecting him last night. I hadn’t seen him for six or seven years—he’d been abroad. I wanted him to stay the night, but he wouldn’t. He was always keen on boating, and was enjoying the life, he told me. Would to heaven he _had_ stayed!” “What time did he leave you?” “He got here between five and six. We dined early—at seven. He left about half-past eight.” “Going straight back to Marsh Quay, I suppose?” The superintendent had taken out his notebook. “No, he said he had a call to pay first in Frattenbury.” “On whom?” asked the other, keenly interested. “He didn’t say. He was a very reticent man—always. I wondered at the time, because I didn’t remember that he knew anyone here besides ourselves.” “I thought perhaps, Canon, you would like to see him—in fact, I should wish you to, if you can. I have to see the coroner, then—in about a quarter of an hour—I can come back and run you down in my car.” “By all means,” replied the Canon. “I’ll come if you think I can be of any use.” “Thank you, Canon, I’m sure it will help us.”