They were in the billiard-room seated on the selfsame settee, Mary reflected, on which she and Robin had sat—how long ago it seemed, though only yesterday! Mary had carried the secretary off after luncheon in order to unfold to him a plan which she had been turning over in her mind ever since her conversation with the detective. “And what are you going to do now, Mr. Jeekes?” she asked. The little man pursed up his lips. “Well,” he said, “I’ll have to get something else, I expect. I’m not expecting to find anything so good as I had with Mr. Parrish. And things are pretty crowded in the City, Miss Trevert, what with all the boys back from the war, God bless ’em, and glad we are to see ’em, I’m sure. I hope you’ll realize, Miss Trevert, that anything I can do to help to put Mr. Parrish’s affairs straight....” “I was just about to say,” Mary broke in, “that I hope you will not contemplate any change, Mr. Jeekes. You know more about Mr. Parrish’s affairs than anybody else, and I shall be very glad if you will stay on and help me. You know I have been left sole executrix....” “Miss Trevert,”—the little man stammered in his embarrassment,—“this is handsome of you. I surely thought you would have wished to make your own arrangements, appoint your own secretaries....” Mr. Jeekes broke off and looked at her, blinking hard. “Not at all,” said Mary. “Everything shall be as it was. I am sure that Mr. Bardy will approve. Besides, Mr. Jeekes, I want your assistance in something else....” “Anything in my power....” began Jeekes. “Listen,” said Mary. She was all her old self-composed self now, a charming figure in her plain blue serge suit with a white silken shirt and black tie—the best approach to mourning her wardrobe could afford. Already the short winter afternoon was drawing in. Mysterious shadows lurked in the corners of the long and narrow room. “Listen,” said Mary, leaning forward. “I want to know why Mr. Parrish killed himself. I mean to know. And I want you, Mr. Jeekes, to help me to find out.” Something stirred ever so faintly in the remote recesses of the billiard-room. A loose board or something creaked softly and was silent. “What was that?” the girl called out sharply. “Who’s there?” Mr. Jeekes got up and walked over to the door. It was ajar. He closed it. “Just a board creaking,” he said as he resumed his seat. “I want your aid in finding out the motive for this terrible deed,”—Mary Trevert was speaking again,—“I can’t understand.... I don’t see clear....”