“Yes,” he blurted out. “She doesn’t want to see you again. I don’t want to be offensive, Robin..” “Please don’t apologize,” said Greve. “I quite understand that this is your sister’s house now and, of course, I shall leave at once. I’ll ask Jay to pack my things if you could order the car ...” The boy moved towards the door. Before he reached it Robin called him back. “Horace,” he said pleasantly, “before you go I want you to answer me a question. Think before you speak, because it’s very important. When you got into the library yesterday evening through the window, you smashed the glass, didn’t you?” Horace Trevert nodded. “Yes,” he replied, looking hard at Robin. “Why?” “To get into the room, of course!” “Was the window bolted?” The boy stopped and thought. “No,” he said slowly, “now I come to think of it, I don’t believe it was. No, of course, it wasn’t. I just put my arm through the broken pane and shoved the window up. But why do you ask?” “Oh, nothing,” answered Robin nonchalantly. “I just was curious to know, that’s all!” Horace stood and looked at him for an instant. Then he went out. A quarter of an hour later, Hartley Parrish’s Rolls-Royce glided through the straggling main street of Stevenish. A chapel bell tinkled unmusically, and on the pavements, gleaming with wet, went a procession of neatly dressed townsfolk bound, prayer-book in hand, for their respective places of worship. A newsboy, sorting out the Sunday newspapers which had just come down by train from London, was the only figure visible on the little station platform. Robin bought a selection. “There’s all about Mr. Parrish,” said the boy, “’im as they found dead up at ’Arkings las’ night. And the noospapers ’asn’t ’arf been sendin’ down to-day ... reporters and photographers ... you oughter seen the crowd as come by the mornin’ train ...” “I wonder what they’ll get out of Manderton,” commented Robin rather grimly to himself as his train puffed leisurely, after the habit of Sunday trains, into the quiet little station. In the solitude of his first-class smoker he unfolded the newspapers. None had more than the brief fact that Hartley Parrish had been found dead with a pistol in his hand, but they made up for the briefness of their reports by long accounts of the dead man’s “meteoric career.” And, Robin noted with relief, hitherto Mary Trevert’s name was out of the picture. He dropped the papers on to the seat, and, as the train steamed serenely through the Sunday calm of the country towards London’s outer suburbs, he reviewed in his mind such facts as he had gleaned regarding the circumstances of his late host’s death.