Alan, silenced but not convinced, walked sulkily across the sunparlor and threw himself into a wicker chair. "The Washington papers are still featuring the murder," he said, pointing to a newspaper lying on the floor with a headline running half across the front page. "I'm tired of heading off the reporters." "Send them to me," suggested Trenholm. "You!" disgust spoke in Alan's voice. "They call you the fresh water clam of Prince Georges County. You've got their goat by your uncommunicative ways and rotten bad manners." Trenholm looked across at Roberts. "I don't appear to be popular," he remarked, a faint twinkle in his eye, and changed the subject. "Will you throw me that false beard, Doctor?" Roberts handed it to him. "Any clue in that, Trenholm?" he asked, watching the sheriff stow it carefully away in his coat pocket. "Maybe. I've only had it in my possession for the past hour." The wicker chair in which Trenholm was seated creaked under his weight as he straightened up from his lounging position, preparatory to rising. "When can I interview Mrs. Nash, Doctor?" "This afternoon, I imagine," answered Roberts. "I saw her before breakfast and she seems none the worse for her fright last night. Her husband insisted that I remain through the morning, however, in case I was needed." Trenholm looked around at Alan. "What has become of Nash?" "I haven't the faintest idea," roughly. "I keep out of his way." "Why?" The question shot from Trenholm and Roberts glanced at him, his interest instantly aroused. "He's the type I can't stand--oily, unctuous, bah!" Alan's temper had gained the upper hand. "A pious fraud!" What reply his companions would have made, he never learned, for at that moment the portières were pulled aside to admit the lawyer from Washington. "Monsieur Cocoron" was the best Pierre could do in pronouncing the name of Corcoran. The chauffeur had taken it upon himself to usher the lawyer into the house in the absence of Martha Corbin, the newcomer having rung the front door bell at the moment Pierre was alone in the kitchen. Daniel Corcoran had known Alan Mason since his boyhood, Doctor Roberts was his family physician, and Guy Trenholm he had met numerous times when visiting Paul Abbott, Senior. The lawyer's usual cheery smile was absent as he shook hands with them. "This is a shocking affair!" he said. "Shocking! Paul was a fine young man, with a brilliant career ahead of him. I cannot conceive of any one harboring enmity against him; he was such a likable chap. And to find him murdered here in his home!" Corcoran shook a bewildered head. "Have you any clue to his murderer, Trenholm? Any later news than that published in the morning paper?" Not only the lawyer waited expectantly for the sheriff's answer; Alan's eyes were glued to him, and Roberts also was giving him undivided attention; but Trenholm's expression told them nothing.