The inquest was at three o’clock; thereafter Antony could have no claim on the hospitality of the Red House. By ten o’clock his bag was packed, and waiting to be taken to ‘The George.’ To Bill, coming upstairs after a more prolonged breakfast, this early morning bustle¹ was a little surprising.  
“What’s the hurry?” he asked.
 
“None. But we don’t want to come back here after the inquest. Get your packing over now and then we can have the morning to ourselves.”
 
“Righto.” He turned to go to his room, and then came back again. “I say, are we going to tell Cayley that we’re staying at ‘The George’?”
 
“You’re not staying at ‘The George,’ Bill. Not officially. You’re going back to London.”
 
“Oh!”
 
“Yes. Ask Cayley to have your luggage sent in to Stanton, ready for you when you catch a train there after the inquest. You can tell him that you’ve got to see the Bishop² of London at once. The fact that you are hurrying back to London to be confirmed will make it seem more natural that I should resume my interrupted solitude³ at ‘The George’ as soon as you have gone.”
 
“Then where do I sleep to-night?”
 
“Officially, I suppose, in Fulham Place; unofficially, I suspect, in my bed, unless they’ve got another spare room at ‘The George.’ I’ve put your confirmation⁴ robe—I mean your pyjamas⁵ and brushes and things—in my bag, ready for you. Is there anything else you want to know? No? Then go and pack. And meet me at ten-thirty beneath the blasted oak or in the hall or somewhere. I want to talk and talk and talk, and I must have my Watson.”
 
“Good,” said Bill, and went off to his room.
 
An hour later, having communicated their official plans to Cayley, they wandered out together into the park.
 
“Well?” said Bill, as they sat down underneath⁶ a convenient tree. “Talk away.”
 
“I had many bright thoughts in my bath this morning,” began Antony. “The brightest one of all was that we were being damn fools, and working at this thing from the wrong end altogether.”
 
“Well, that’s helpful.”
 
“Of course it’s very hampering⁷ being a detective, when you don’t know anything about detecting, and when nobody knows that you’re doing detection, and you can’t have people up to cross-examine them, and you have neither the energy nor the means to make proper inquiries⁸; and, in short, when you’re doing the whole thing in a thoroughly⁹ amateur, haphazard¹⁰ way.”
 
“For amateurs I don’t think we’re doing at all badly,” protested Bill.
 
“No; not for amateurs. But if we had been professionals, I believe we should have gone at it from the other end. The Robert end. We’ve been wondering about Mark and Cayley all the time. Now let’s wonder about Robert for a bit.”
 
“We know so little about him.”
 
“Well, let’s see what we do know. First of all, then, we know vaguely¹¹ that he was a bad lot—the sort of brother who is hushed up in front of other people.”
 
“Yes.”
 
“We know that he announced his approaching arrival to Mark in a rather unpleasant letter, which I have in my pocket.”
 
“Yes.”
 
“And then we know rather a curious thing. We know that Mark told you all that this black sheep was coming. Now, why did he tell you?”
 
Bill was thoughtful for a moment.
 
“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that he knew we were bound to see him, and thought that the best way was to be quite frank about him.”
 
“But were you bound to see him? You were all away playing golf.”
 
“We were bound to see him if he stayed in the house that night.”
 
“Very well, then. That’s one thing we’ve discovered. Mark knew that Robert was staying in the house that night. Or shall we put it this way—he knew that there was no chance of getting Robert out of the house at once.”
 
Bill looked at his friend eagerly.
 
“Go on,” he said. “This is getting interesting.”
 
“He also knew something else,” went on Antony. “He knew that Robert was bound to betray his real character to you as soon as you met him. He couldn’t pass him off on you as just a travelled brother from the Dominions¹³, with perhaps a bit of an accent; he had to tell you at once, because you were bound to find out, that Robert was a wastrel¹⁴.”
 
“Yes. That’s sound enough.”
 
“Well, now, doesn’t it strike you that Mark made up his mind about all that rather quickly?”
 
“How do you mean?”
 
“He got this letter at breakfast. He read it; and directly he had read it he began to confide¹⁵ in you all. That is to say, in about one second he thought out the whole business and came to a decision—to two decisions. He considered the possibility of getting Robert out of the way before you came back, and decided¹⁶ that it was impossible. He considered the possibility of Robert’s behaving like an ordinary decent person in public, and decided that it was very unlikely. He came to those two decisions instantaneously, as he was reading the letter. Isn’t that rather quick work?”
 
“Well, what’s the explanation?”
 
Antony waited until he had refilled and lighted his pipe before answering.
 
“What’s the explanation? Well, let’s leave it for a moment and take another look at the two brothers. In conjunction, this time, with Mrs. Norbury.”
 
“Mrs. Norbury?” said Bill, surprised.
 
“Yes. Mark hoped to marry Miss Norbury. Now, if Robert really was a blot¹⁷ upon the family honour, Mark would want to do one of two things. Either keep it from the Norburys altogether, or else, if it had to come out, tell them himself before the news came to them indirectly¹⁸. Well, he told them. But the funny thing is that he told them the day before Robert’s letter came. Robert came, and was killed, the day before yesterday—Tuesday. Mark told Mrs. Norbury about him on Monday. What do you make of that?”
 
“Coincidence,” said Bill, after careful thought. “He’d always meant to tell her; his suit was prospering¹⁹, and just before it was finally settled, he told her. That happened to be Monday. On Tuesday he got Robert’s letter, and felt jolly glad that he’d told her in time.”
 
“Well, it might be that, but it’s rather a curious coincidence. And here is something which makes it very curious indeed. It only occurred to me in the bath this morning. Inspiring plac............