Winnie Cotterill Pays a Visit to Frattenbury “Hurry up, Winnie, breakfast is all ready.” “All right,” came a voice from somewhere, “I’ll be with you in a minute. You begin—don’t wait for me.” Maude Wingrave seated herself at the breakfast table and poured out a cup of tea. It was a tiny room, high up in a block of flats, looking over Battersea Park. The girl who sat at the table was short and dark-haired, with a merry expression on her somewhat plain face. “You are the limit, Winnie,” she exclaimed as a newcomer entered the room, a girl of about five and twenty, with a fresh, clear-cut face and grey eyes. “You’re a downright lazy pig.” “I can’t help it. I simply _hate_ getting up. What’s for breakfast? I’m hungry.” “Go on—help yourself. Do something towards running this establishment, if it’s only _that_. I’ve not too much time. Can’t look after you.” And she glanced at her wrist-watch. “You ought to be thankful, Winnie Cotterill, that you don’t have to keep office hours.” “I am,” replied Winnie. “Providence never intended me to be punctual, so Providence has provided me with work that doesn’t need a 9 a.m. beginning each day. Pass the toast.” “What are you doing to-day?” “Finishing the cover of the Christmas number of _Peter’s Magazine_, my dear, and I’m thankful to get it off my hands. Then I’m going seriously to tackle that short story the editor of _The Holborn_ sent me to illustrate. A ‘horrible murder,’ Maude. With a detective in it. I’m going to make him a little ugly, snubbed-nose creature, wearing big police boots. True to life, my dear—none of your impossible Sherlock Holmes.” The other girl laughed. “I’ve got an interview with our new ‘serial’ this morning,” she said—“a great big man of fifty, with a solemn beard and spectacles. He’s selling us the most romantic piffle you ever read. There’ll be a boom in our issue when the servant girls get hold of it. Hand over the paper if you’re not using it. I want to glance at the news before I go.” Winnie Cotterill passed the newspaper to her friend. Maude Wingrave opened it. “Hallo!” she exclaimed, “talk about your story with a ‘horrible murder’ in it—here’s a real one!” “What is it?” Maude read out the head-lines: “_Mysterious Crime._” “_Yachtsman Murdered on Board His Yacht._” “_Inquest To-day._” “Who is it?” asked Winnie, as she reached over for the teapot. Maude began to read: “Early yesterday morning a shocking discovery was made on board a small yacht, anchored in the little harbour of Marsh Quay, on an estuary of the Channel, about two miles from the cathedral city of Frattenbury. Mr. Reginald Templeton, a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, only lately returned from South Africa——” Winnie Cotterill dropped her knife and fork on her plate. “Who?” she exclaimed. “Mr. Reginald Templeton. Why?” “Oh, my dear!” “What is it?” “Pass me the paper. It must be—yes—it _is_—murdered! Oh, Maude!” “Do you know him?”