"Not at present. But later on." Derrick nodded and walked into the house, followed by the two men. "Oh, anything you like," called out Tracey, not at all damped by the fact of death being in the house, "anything for an advertisement. I guess I'll sell that car at a big figure. Tussaud's will buy it if the murderer's skipped in it." "He hasn't," said Mulligan, still confused. "He has," insisted the American. "Why should an honest man yank off my car? Some one wanted to get out of the way in a hurry, and he took my flier. I guess he's out of London by this time. She can skim a bit. Oh, I reckon she's no slouch." "Hush," said Derrick sharply, and removed his cap. Tracey did the same, for the presence of death--the immediate presence--began to sober him. Mulligan stood rigidly at the door while Derrick examined the body. "Is it Mrs. Fane?" he asked. "No," said Tracey, staring at a girlish face, still and white and waxen. "Mrs. Fane would make two of this poor thing. She's a Junoesque sort of woman, about the size of the Venus of Milo, and the same shape, too. This is a slip of a girl." "A married woman," said Derrick, pointing to a ring on the hand. He walked slowly round the room. "Mulligan," said he, "go and see if any one else is in the house------" "I tell you Fane and family are at the seaside," said Tracey. "Never mind. There may be a caretaker. Look round, Mulligan, and see if any windows or doors are unlocked or open. Mr. Tracey, please sit still and silent. I wish to make an examination." Mulligan departed promptly, and the American sat comfortably in a deep armchair watching the inspector. That gentleman prowled round like a sleuth-hound. He examined the window, then scrambled along the floor, shook various curtains, shifted several cushions, and finally knelt beside the body after a glance at the piano. He interrupted his examination to point out the music. "According to Mulligan, she was singing 'Kathleen Mavourneen,'" said he. "There's the song. Poor soul. She was evidently struck down when singing." "Then the man met by Mulligan is innocent, since he was outside while the song was still being sung." "He might be an accessory before the fact, Mr. Tracey." "In other words, an accomplice. But he didn't nick my car. No, sir. The real murderer did that, and I guess that car's worth money at the boss waxwork show of this metropolis. They can fire it into the chamber of horrors along with Napoleon's cart and the baby's pram. What figure would you ask now, inspector?" "You go too fast, Mr. Tracey. We don't know yet that the criminal has stolen your car. Is the house you were visiting far from here?" "Oh, I guess not. Mrs. Baldwin hangs out No. 20------" "Yes," interrupted Derrick, "you told me. That's no distance. Meadow Lane--to be sure--part of Old Troy." "No," contradicted Tracey. "The village is called Cloverhead." "And round the village Troy has been built, so the lesser name is merged in the larger."