“I don’t suppose this is going to be a very pleasant job for the ladies, Sir Charles, and you can rest assured that as far as lies in my power, I’ll make it as smooth and easy as possible. So I propose, with your approval, to talk to you gentlemen first. I should prefer to see my clients separately, and, as was your suggestion, I think the library will serve the purpose very nicely.”

He turned to Roper.

“You come with me, Roper. I may want you.”

Sir Charles Considine coughed—then, very quietly but nevertheless very determinedly—interposed. “That seems to me a trifle one-sided as a proposition, Inspector. You have support, physical, moral, and also no doubt intellectual,” he smiled somewhat whimsically at Roper—“and we, all of us, are, to an extent, shaken by the terrible event that has befallen my house, and, therefore, as a consequence are neither so self-controlled nor so mentally alert as normally. We appear before you to be questioned and cross-examined. I don’t think I should be asking an unwarranted favor if I suggested that you allow, say, two members of my circle to be present while you conduct your examination. H’m? What do you say, Inspector?”
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Baddeley met his gaze for a moment, as though making an attempt to fathom his real intentions. Then with a laugh and a shrug of his eminently business-like shoulders, gestured his consent.

“Choose your men. On the condition that I see the three of you first.”

“Thank you, Inspector. Believe me, I appreciate your courtesy. I should like Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Bathurst to—er—um—assist you in your intended investigations.”

“As you wish, sir, and thank you. Now, with your permission, you three gentlemen will do me the goodness to accompany me to the library, and we will do our united best to see if we can’t, by hook or by crook, throw some light on this unfortunate affair. And you, Roper! I’ve been lucky enough to unravel some pretty ticklish problems in my time, some by good luck, some, if I may say so, gentlemen, with pardonable pride, by intelligent application to the matter in hand. And I hope,” he turned on us all decisively, “to hunt the truth out, here.”

We entered the library. Our host motioned us to our seats. Baddeley took the armchair at the head of the table investing himself as far as he could with an atmosphere of the inquisitorial. Roper took the chair on his left. Sir Charles placed himself in front of the fireplace, while Anthony and I took chairs at the side of the table.

The Inspector was soon in his stride.

“Now, Sir Charles, this Mr. Prescott, whose death we all deplore, was a guest of yours?”
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“Yes. For my cricket week.”

“Known him long?”

“No. It would help you materially, if I informed you of the circumstances of the acquaintanceship. Prescott was at Oxford with my son and Mr. Cunningham here, and we met him at Lords’ during the last ’Varsity Match—just a month ago. We invited him here for our annual week.”

The Inspector was impressed. “Is he G. O. L. Prescott then—that played for Oxford against Cambridge?”

“He is, Inspector! And there’s one more fact that I had omitted to mention, he had met my daughter, Mary, some months previously.”

“Where?” Baddeley’s face betrayed keen interest.

“At Twickenham, in December.”

“You have no reason to suspect, Sir Charles, that any developments had transpired from these meetings?”

“None whatever. As far as my knowledge goes, Mr. Prescott and my daughter entertained no feelings for each other, beyond those of mere friendship.”

“I see.” Baddeley fingered his chin. “You’ve seen nothing during his stay here, that you consider might have any bearing upon his death? Nothing—however seemingly unimportant? Think, Sir Charles!”
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The old man shook his head. “No, Inspector. I’ve noticed nothing at all unusual, nothing that could possibly touch his death. The scene this morning came as a terrible shock to me. And as terrible by reason of its utter unexpectedness as by reason of its horror.”

“How much money did Prescott lose last night, Sir Charles?”

“Really, I’ve no idea! But nothing worth worrying about—you can set your mind easy on that point. I shouldn’t allow it—in Considine Manor.”

The Inspector raised his eyebrows.

“Then, in light of your answer, you may be surprised to know that there was some pretty high playing at Considine Manor last night.”

The eyes of our host flashed with his reply. “Very surprised and exceedingly annoyed. Had I known, had I had the slightest inkling—you are certain of what you are stating—pardon me?”

“I make that statement, Sir Charles, on unimpeachable authority.”

“Dear, dear! This news disturbs me profoundly.”

The old man’s appearance confirmed the truth of this last statement. This unexpected revelation, following upon the shock of the murder, had made its mark upon his countenance. He huddled himself into a chair. Then braced himself to ask another question.

“Was Prescott playing high?”

“He was, Sir Charles.” Baddeley’s features relaxed for a fleeting moment into a smile—“and incidentally, he won a considerable sum of money.”

“Whom from?”
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“That you shall hear, sir, during the course of this morning’s inquiry.”

Sir Charles subsided again, by no means so sure of himself as he had been. I could not help whispering to Anthony as he lounged in his chair with his long legs extended—“First blood to the Inspector.”

He grinned, and as he did so Baddeley’s next question came.

“Now you, Mr. Bathurst. A guest here, also?”

“Yes.”

“Like Mr. Prescott?”

“Didn’t know him sufficiently to express an opinion.”

Baddeley evinced his annoyance. “I didn’t mean did you like him, Mr. Bathurst, what I meant to say was, were you a guest of Sir Charles under similar circumstances?”

“Sorry! I misunderstood you. No—not exactly. My invitation is only a day or two old.”

“Did you know the murdered man?”

“No, I did not. That is to say at all well. I’ve run against him at Oxford.”

“Did you see anything while you were here, or did you hear anything during the night that you think worthy of mentioning to me?”

“Nothing at all, Inspector.”

“You were not playing cards, last evening?”
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“No, after dinner when the cards started I strolled into the garden with Mr. Jack Considine. We were there about twenty minutes. Then we went to bed—and like everybody else were awakened by the maid’s discovery in the billiard room. Which she celebrated in the usual manner.”

“H’m—any theory in regard to the crime, Mr. Bathurst?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Based on?”

“What I’ve seen this morning.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“You shall. All in good time. After all—it’s merely a theory.”

Baddeley was obviously disconcerted by the reply. I don’t think he knew quite what to make of Anthony.

So he turned his battery on to me.

“Mr. Cunningham? Sir Charles tells me you’re an old friend of the family.”

I bowed. “Of many years’ standing. And a regular guest for the Considine Cricket Week as you may guess.”

“Know Prescott?”

“Moderately. Played cricket with him at Oxford—not much beyond that.”

“Know anything about his private affairs?”

“Nothing.”

“And last night, Mr. Cunningham. What can you tell us about that?”

“I was in the drawing-room after dinner with the others, and as I have previously told you, I was a watcher of the card-playing party. I went up to bed about a quarter to twelve.”

“Where was Prescott then?”
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“I left him in conversation with Lieutenant Barker.”

“And of course you heard nothing during the night?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Bill,” interjected Anthony. “Tell me this. When Jack and I went into the garden for a smoke, was everybody in the drawing-room? Think carefully.”

I considered for a moment—then replied with decision—“Yes—everybody.”

“You didn’t see anybody leave it?” he reiterated.

“To the best of my belief,” I asserted, “everybody save you and Jack was in the drawing-room.”

“Right.”

Baddeley pushed across a letter.

“Have a good look at that, Mr. Cunningham.”

“Yes?” I queried.

“That’s a letter addressed to Mr. Prescott. I think you may know the handwriting?”

I took the letter. It seemed an ordinary enough letter, touching upon the fact that Prescott was shortly visiting Considine Manor, but the portion where the signature would have normally appeared, had been torn off.

“Sorry, Inspector,” I replied, “I don’t. I can’t help you.”

I handed it back to him. His glance searched my features for a brief space then——

“Try Mr. Bathurst; does he find the writing familiar?”
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Anthony smiled and held out his hand. He read the writing with interest and turned the letter over with apparent curiosity.

“Where did you find this, Inspector?”

“Sorry, Mr. Bathurst, but you mustn’t expect me to give away all my secrets. Tricks in every trade, you know.” He laughed lightly. “As you were good enough to remark just now—all in good time. Let’s come to the point, the handwriting—recognize it?”

“I’ve never seen it before, so I can’t. But I think, before the case is over, that I shall probably see it again.”

Baddeley flung him a challenging glance. But Anthony’s eyes met his and never for an instant wavered. Then they both smiled.

“Try Sir Charles Considine,” countered Anthony. “He might know it, though I don’t fancy so.”

Sir Charles straightened himself in his chair. He extended his hand. “Let me look, Baddeley, though why Mr. Bathurst is so confident that—no, no,” shaking his head in dissent, “to the best of my knowledge and belief, this writing is new and therefore strange to me. What’s the date—my eyes aren’t as good as they were?”

“July 22nd,” responded Anthony, with the utmost readiness, from the other side of the table.
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I fancied that the Inspector threw him an approving glance, but I remembered his uncanny memory for dates, and their associations. He had seen the letter and had mastered its detail—that was all. Baddeley gave the letter to Roper. “Keep that handy,” he muttered, “we haven’t exhausted all the possibilities.” Then to Sir Charles: “I should like to see Mr. Considine junior next, Mr. Jack Considine, is it?”

Our host bowed—“As you wish.”

“Just tell him, Roper, will you?” from Baddeley quietly.

“And as most of us have had very hasty breakfasts, gentlemen, I’ll get Fitch to bring us a little light refreshment,” chimed in Sir Charles. “We seem destined to be here some little time.” He rang the bell, as Roper entered with Jack Considine. Fitch followed them.

Sir Charles delivered his instructions, which were promptly carried out.

“Mr. Considine,” said the Inspector, “sorry to trouble you—but—can you throw any light on this business?”

He proceeded to question him on similar lines to those he had just employed with us.

Jack told him all he knew, and I was just beginning to think that it was all a business of ploughing the sands when I was startled out of my convictions.

I had vaguely heard the question repeated for the fourth time—“did you hear anything during the night?” and was just as vaguely prepared for the denial when Jack Considine gave an answer that made us all sit up and take notice.
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“Well, Inspector,” he said, a little diffidently perhaps, “now I come to think over things very carefully, I have rather a hazy recollection that I heard something that I may describe as unusual.”

“What was it?”

“I am pretty certain that I was half awakened during the night by the sound of a door shutting. It might have been something different, but I don’t think so. No,” he continued reflectively, “the more I try to reproduce in my ears the sound that I heard, the more convinced I am that it was a door shutting.”

“Ah!” rejoined Baddeley. “Near you? Or distant?”

“That’s awkward to answer. As I stated, my awakening was only partial, it is difficult to measure sound when one is half asleep ... but I should say pretty near.”

“Any idea of the time?”

“None! I didn’t trouble. I wondered at it in a sleepy sort of way ... and went to sleep again.”

Baddeley pondered for a moment.

“I understand, Mr. Bathurst, that you have been sharing Mr. Considine’s bedroom. Did you hear anything of this?”

“No,” came the reply. “I heard nothing—I was tired and slept very soundly, as is usual with me.”

The Inspector nodded.
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“We may take it then,” he proceeded, emphasizing his points by a succession of curious little fingertaps on the table, “that Mr. Considine heard this door shutting more because of his half-awake condition than through any particular—er—nearness or proximity to the place where it occurred—eh? You grasp my point?”—turning to Sir Charles.

“You mean,” interposed Anthony, “that had this door shut very near to our bedroom, the chances are that I should have heard it, too?”

“Exactly,” answered Baddeley. “Don’t you agree with me?”

Anthony meditated for a moment. “Perhaps. It’s certainly possible—but on the other hand—perhaps not. I might and I mightn’t.”

Our interrogator then came back to Considine.

“Did you hear anything after you heard this door shut, Mr. Considine?”

“No! I simply turned over and went to sleep again.”

“Think very carefully, sir. Pardon my insistence, but very often things come to us out of our sleeping moments if we only concentrate sufficiently.” His eyes fixed Jack, and held him and once again I caught a glance of the man’s efficiency. There was no brilliance there, no subtlety beyond ordinary astuteness, no flashing intuition bringing in its wake an inspired moment, but merely a species of machine-like efficiency. I have repeated the word, I am aware, but I can think of no other, at the moment, that so adequately expresses the quality that I perceived. I contrasted him with Anthony Bathurst. One of the product of “the Force,” hard-bitten in the school of personal industry, bringing a well-ordered brain to bear on the problem that confronted us, the other, public school and ’Varsity all over, with a brilliant intellect nursed by the terminology of these institutions, treating the affair as an adventure after his own heart. What would Baddeley have done, I found myself wondering, with the other’s opportunities? Where would Anthony have cleared a passage, had he been born Baddeley? My musings were short-lived.
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“Let me have that letter again, Roper?” demanded the Inspector. And once again was the letter produced and inspected. And once again was the writing unrecognized; it conveyed no more to Considine than it had done to us.

Then Anthony surprised me. “Do you mind if I take another glance at it?” he asked. “Something has just come to my mind.”

Baddeley looked at him shrewdly and curiously for a moment.

“Certainly,” he agreed, and passed the letter over.

But one look proved satisfactory.

“I’m sorry—I’m wrong,” muttered Anthony, “I can’t help you.”

The Inspector smiled at his apparent discomfiture. He seemed agreeably relieved to discover that A. L. Bathurst was human after all; and followed on to the next stage of his investigation.
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“I think that will do for the time being then, Mr. Considine,” he said. “And ask if I can see—in order, if you please”—he referred to some notes that he took from the pocket of his lounge jacket, “first Mr. Robertson, then Mr. Daventry, and then Mr. Tennant?”

Robertson entered. He hadn’t bargained for this when he accepted the invitation to Considine Manor.

He could tell the Inspector nothing, except what he knew concerning the cards. He could not identify the writing of the letter.

He had known Prescott at Oxford—just casually—that was all. He had slept soundly, only to be awakened by Marshall’s scream, as we had all been.

Daventry and Tennant, in turn followed him, only to be similarly ignorant and similarly dismissed.

Baddeley sipped a glass of port and munched a biscuit. Sir Charles followed suit approvingly.

“Well, what now, Inspector?” he remarked. “We appear to have reached an impasse. What is your opinion now?”

“Plenty of time yet, sir,” came the reply. “I’ve by no means exhausted my possibilities of information yet.” He referred again to his list, then looked up—“There are three gentlemen to be seen yet, Major Hornby, Captain Arkwright and Lieutenant Barker, then there are three ladies, and finally some of the servants. I’m sorry, Sir Charles,”—he swung round in his chair and confronted him—“but somebody in this house knows something about last night’s job—and I’m stopping on till I lay my hands on him—or her. So ask Lieutenant Barker to step this way.”