He examined the place carefully and ransacked the hut within, but he could note no more than the trodden appearance of the uncut grass where the body had lain. Crouching low, with keen eyes and feeling fingers, he searched the ground minutely over a wide area; but the search was fruitless. It was interrupted by the sound—the first he had heard from the house—of the closing of the front door. Trent unbent his long legs and stepped to the edge of the drive. A man was walking quickly away from the house in the direction of the great gate. At the noise of a footstep on the gravel, the man wheeled with nervous swiftness and looked earnestly at Trent. The sudden sight of his face was almost terrible, so white and worn it was. Yet it was a young man’s face. There was not a wrinkle about the haggard blue eyes, for all their tale of strain and desperate fatigue. As the two approached each other, Trent noted with admiration the man’s breadth of shoulder and lithe, strong figure. In his carriage, inelastic as weariness had made it; in his handsome, regular features; in his short, smooth, yellow hair; and in his voice as he addressed Trent, the influence of a special sort of training was confessed. “Oxford was your playground, I think, my young friend,” said Trent to himself. “If you are Mr. Trent,” said the young man pleasantly, “you are expected. Mr. Cupples telephoned from the hotel. My name is Marlowe.” “You were secretary to Mr. Manderson, I believe,” said Trent. He was much inclined to like young Mr. Marlowe. Though he seemed so near a physical breakdown, he gave out none the less that air of clean living and inward health that is the peculiar glory of his social type at his years. But there was something in the tired eyes that was a challenge to Trent’s penetration; an habitual expression, as he took it to be, of meditating and weighing things not present to their sight. It was a look too intelligent, too steady and purposeful, to be called dreamy. Trent thought he had seen such a look before somewhere. He went on to say: “It is a terrible business for all of you. I fear it has upset you completely, Mr. Marlowe.” “A little limp, that’s all,” replied the young man wearily. “I was driving the car all Sunday night and most of yesterday, and I didn’t sleep last night after hearing the news—who would? But I have an appointment now, Mr. Trent, down at the doctor’s—arranging about the inquest. I expect it’ll be tomorrow. If you will go up to the house and ask for Mr. Bunner, you’ll find him expecting you; he will tell you all about things and show you round. He’s the other secretary; an American, and the best of fellows; he’ll look after you. There’s a detective here, by the way—Inspector Murch, from Scotland Yard. He came yesterday.” “Murch!” Trent exclaimed. “But he and I are old friends. How under the sun did he get here so soon?”