He nodded and smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. Then, as she went into the drawing-room, he opened his letters. His face looked grave as he read one of them, a note from the police superintendent. Dear Sir, We have detained, on suspicion, the young artist, named Grayson, who was staying at the “Mariner’s Arms” at Marsh Quay. I shall be grateful if you can kindly make it convenient to call here any time between five and six this afternoon. We want you to corroborate a small matter. I called this morning, but you were out, and I was told you would not be disengaged till after the funeral. Will you kindly bring with you one of your cigars similar to that which you say contained the band found by you at Marsh Quay? Yours faithfully, Thomas Norton. He thought for a moment, and then went into his study and rang the bell. “Tell your mistress I want to see her for a minute,” he told the maid. “My dear,” he said to his wife when she came in, “the police have written to tell me they have that young man, Grayson, detained at the police station. I had only just promised Miss Cotterill to go round after tea and make inquiries, before she leaves. I shall have to go in any case. They’ve asked me.” “Poor child,” said Mrs. Fittleworth, “she seems very much concerned about Mr. Grayson. I think she’s fond of him, Charles. I _hope_ he isn’t the murderer.” The Canon shrugged his shoulders. “That’s not for us to judge,” he said, “nor must we jump at hasty conclusions. If there’s nothing against him, however, I should like to be able to tell Miss Cotterill before she goes.” He looked at his watch. “Her train leaves in less than an hour—and they may keep me at the police station longer than I thought.” Mrs. Fittleworth, out of the kindness of her heart, rose to the occasion. “She shall stay another night. I’ll persuade her. I like the girl very much, Charles. You see, if there’s nothing really against the young man we ought to know in the morning. And if there _is_, well, perhaps I can comfort her a little.” The Canon beamed his satisfaction. “I quite agree,” he said. “Don’t tell her just now that the police have detained him.” “Don’t _you_ let it out, dear!” she replied. “Give me five minutes to persuade her to stay, and then come in to tea.” Left to himself, Canon Fittleworth opened his cigar cupboard and took out a box. He was about to place one of the three or four remaining cigars in his case, when he stopped. “Yes,” he murmured, “I’ll take the box itself round. I ought to have thought of that before. It may be useful!” After tea he went round to the police station and was shown into the superintendent’s private office, where he found, with that functionary, Major Renshaw and Colson.