Now the Canon was entirely ignorant of police methods—they had never come within his sphere. Also, by virtue of his office and dignity, he was accustomed to act on his own initiative. Besides, that particular cigar band had led his thoughts far away from that scene of death—it was something personal that was arresting his attention. Also, he had been, all his life, one of those men who are reticent up to a point, that point being the exact moment when they are ready to lay all their cards on the table. He wanted to compare this particular bit of red and gold with something else before he could be quite certain of the matter that was agitating his mind. These several reasons combined to prevent him doing what many a man would have done under similar circumstances—calling in the superintendent. It never entered his head at that moment that he ought to do any such thing. Instead, he took out a his pocket-case and carefully deposited the cigar band within it. Then he rose from his knees and looked round the cabin, gazed again at the cold, white face on the table, spread the handkerchief over it, and slowly left the saloon—a great weight on his mind as the thought of his murdered cousin pressed itself uppermost. In silence he rejoined the two policemen on the deck, took his seat in the boat, and came ashore with them. For the time being the incident of the cigar band had passed out of his mind. Mr. Proctor greeted them. “Canon Fittleworth, I presume?” he asked politely. “My name is Proctor. May I be allowed to express my sympathy, sir? I understand the unfortunate gentleman is a relative of yours.” “Thank you very much.” “And may I venture to ask you both to come in and have a glass of sherry and a biscuit? I’m sure you both need something after such a strain. It will give me much pleasure if you will.” “It’s very good of you,” said the Canon. “And I won’t refuse.” The little man took them into a cosy dining-room which overlooked the estuary. On the table was a plate of sandwiches, biscuits, a decanter of wine and glasses. He helped them to refreshments and then said: “If you’ll excuse me—pray make yourselves at home.” “Thank you,” said the superintendent as Mr. Proctor left the room. He did not press him to stay, as he wanted a few minutes’ conversation with Canon Fittleworth. “We shall have to ask you to give formal evidence of identification at the inquest to-morrow, Canon. And, of course, you will tell the jury what you know of Mr. Templeton—and his movements last evening.” “Certainly. Though, as a matter of fact, I know very little of him. As I told you, he has been abroad for some years. He’s a bachelor—and was always a rolling stone. He told us something of his travels last night—not very much.” The superintendent nodded. “There are one or two questions I want to ask, please.” “By all means.” “Tell me—do you think Mr. Templeton had any object in coming to Marsh Quay other than paying you a visit?”