A few minutes later they were sitting before a blazing fire, the Inspector puffing luxuriously at a cigar and sipping from time to time a glass of whiskey and soda which Peter had reluctantly placed at his elbow. Peter, as he himself would have put it, "did not hold with the police," and thought his master was sadly demeaning himself by fraternising with a member of that calling. "I quite understand your reluctance to talk about a case," said Cyril, reverting at once to the subject he had in mind; "but as this one so nearly concerns my family and consequently myself, I think I have a right to your confidence. I am most anxious to know what you have discovered. This mystery is weighing on me. I assure you, you can rely on my discretion." "Well, my lord, it's a bit unprofessional, but seeing it's you, I don't mind if I do. It's the newspaper men, I am afraid of." "I shall not mention what you tell me to any one except possibly to one friend," Cyril hastily assured him. "Thank you, my lord. You see I may be all wrong, so I don't want to say too much till I can prove my case." "I understand that," said Cyril; "and this clue that you are following--what is it?" he inquired with breathless impatience. "The car, my lord," answered the Inspector, settling himself deeper in his chair, while his eyes began to gleam with suppressed excitement. "You have found the car in which her ladyship made her escape?" "I don't know about that yet, but I have found the car that stood at the foot of the long lane on the night of the murder." "Remarkable!" "Oh, that's not so very wonderful," protested the Inspector with an attempt at modesty, but he was evidently bursting with pride in his achievement. "How did you do it? What had you to go on?" asked Cyril with genuine amazement. "I began my search by trying to find out what cars had been seen in the neighbourhood of Geralton on the night of the murder--by neighbourhood I mean a radius of twenty-five miles. I found, as I expected, that half-past eleven not being a favourite hour for motoring, comparatively few had been seen or heard. Most of these turned out to be the property of gentlemen who had no difficulty in proving that they had been used only for perfectly legitimate purposes. There remained, however, two cars of which I failed to get a satisfactory account. One belongs to a Mr. Benedict, a young man who owns a place about ten miles from Geralton, and who seems to have spent the evening motoring wildly over the country. He pretends he had no particular object, and as he is a bit queer, it may be true. The other car is the property of the landlord of the Red Lion Inn, a very respectable hotel in Newhaven. I then sent two of my men to examine these cars and report if either of them has a new tire, for the gardener's wife swore that the car she heard had burst one. Mr. Benedict's tires all showed signs of wear, but the Red Lion car has a brand new one!" "Bravo! That is a fine piece of work."