“Bude,” said Robin, “can you tell me if the fire in the library has been smoking of late?” “Well, sir,” replied the butler, “we’ve always had trouble with that chimdy when the wind’s in the southwest.” “Has it been smoking lately?” The young man reiterated his question impatiently. The man looked up in surprise. “Well, sir, now you come to mention it, it has. As a matter o’fact, sir, the sweep was ordered for to-day ...” “Why?” “Well, sir, Mr. Parrish had mentioned it to me ...” “When?” The question came out like a pistol shot. “Yesterday, sir,” answered the butler blandly. “Just before luncheon, it was, sir. Mr. Parrish told me to have that chimdy seen to at once. And I telephoned for the sweep immediately after luncheon, sir ...” “Did Mr. Parrish say anything else, Bude?” Robin eagerly scanned the butler’s fat, unimpressive countenance. Bude, his tray held out stiffly in front of him, contracted his bushy eyebrows in thought. “I don’t know as he did, sir ...” “Think, man, think!” Robin urged. “Well, sir,” said Bude, unmoved, “I believe, now I come to think of it, that Mr. Parrish did say something about the wind blowing his papers about ...” “That is to say, he had been working with the window open?” Robin Greve’s question rang out sharply. It was an affirmation more than a question. “Yes, sir, leastways I suppose so, sir ...” “Which window?” “Why, the one Mr. Parrish always liked to have open in the warm weather, sir, ... the one opposite the desk. The other window was never opened, sir, because of the dictaphone as stands in front of it. The damp affects the mechanism ...” “Thank you, Bude,” said the young man. With his accustomed majesty the butler wheeled to go. In the turn of his head as he moved there was a faint suggestion of a shake ... a shake of uncomprehending pity. CHAPTER XI. “... SPEED THE PARTING GUEST!” Dr. Romain was just finishing his breakfast as Robin Greve entered the dining-room, a cosy oak-panelled room with a bow window fitted with cushioned window-seats. Horace Trevert stood with his back to the fire. There was no sign of either Lady Margaret or of Mary. Silence seemed to fall on both the doctor and his companion as Robin came in. They wore that rather abashed look which people unconsciously assume when they break off a conversation on an unexpected entry. “Morning, Horace! Morning, Doctor!” said Robin, crossing to the sideboard. “Any sign of Lady Margaret or Mary yet?” The doctor had risen hastily to his feet. “I rather think Dr. Redstone is expecting me,” he said rapidly; “I half promised to go over to Stevenish ... think I’ll just run over. The walk’ll do me good ...” He looked rather wildly about him, then fairly bolted from the room. Robin, the cover of the porridge dish in his hand, turned and stared at him. “Why, whatever’s the matter with Romain?” he began. But Horace, who had not spoken a word, was himself halfway to the door. “Horace!” called out Robin sharply.