"The fact of the matter is you want a holiday, old chap."
Felix Skrine lay back in his easy chair and puffed at his cigar.
"I don't need a holiday at all," his friend contradicted shortly. "It would do me no good. What I want is—"
"Physician, heal thyself," Skrine quoted lazily. "My dear John, you have been off colour for months. Why can't you take expert advice—Gordon Menzies, for instance? You sent old Wildman to him last session and he put him right in no time."
"Gordon Menzies could do nothing for me," said John Bastow. "There is no cure for mental worry."
Felix Skrine made no rejoinder. There was an absent look in his blue eyes, as, tilting his head back, he watched the thin spiral of smoke curling upwards.
The two men, Sir Felix Skrine, K.C., and Dr. John Bastow, the busy doctor, had been friends from boyhood, though in later life their paths had lain far apart.
Skrine's brilliance had made its mark at school and college. A great career had been prophesied for him, and no one had been surprised at his phenomenal success at the Bar. The youngest counsel who had ever taken silk, his name was freely spoken of as certain to be in the list for the next Cabinet, and his knighthood was only looked upon as the prelude to further recognition. His work lay principally among the criminal classes; he had defended in all the big cases in his earlier days, and nowadays was dreaded by the man in the dock as no other K.C. of his time had been.
Dr. John Bastow, on the other hand, had been more distinguished at college for a certain dogged, plodding industry than for brilliance. Perhaps it was this very unlikeness that had made and kept the two men friends in spite of the different lines on which their lives had developed.
John Bastow still remained in the old-fashioned house in which he had been born, in which his father had worked and struggled, and finally prospered.
Sometimes Bastow had dreamed of Wimpole Street or Harley Street, but his dreams had never materialized. Latterly, he had taken up research work, and papers bearing his signature were becoming fairly frequent in the Medical Journals. Like his friend, Felix Skrine, he had married early. Unlike Bastow, however, Skrine was a childless widower. He had married a wife whose wealth had been of material assistance in his career. Later on she had become a confirmed invalid, but Skrine had remained the most devoted of husbands; and, since her death a couple of years ago, there had been no rumour of a second Lady Skrine.
In appearance the two friends presented a remarkable contrast. Bastow was rather beneath middle height, and broad, with square shoulders; his clean-shaven face was very dark, with thick, rugged brows and large, rough-hewn features. His deep-set eyes were usually hidden by glasses. Skrine was tall and good-looking—the Adonis of the Bar he had been called—but his handsome, ascetic-looking face was almost monk-like in its severity. Many a criminal had felt that there was not a touch of pity in the brilliantly blue eyes, the firmly-closed mouth. Nevertheless the mouth could smile in an almost boyish fashion, the blue eyes could melt into tenderness, as Dr. John Bastow and his motherless children very well knew.
The two men smoked on in silence for some time now.
John Bastow sat huddled up in his chair, his rather large head bent down upon his chest, his eyes mechanically watching the tiny flames spring up and then flicker down in the fire that was burning on the hearth.
From time to time Skrine glanced across at him, the sympathetic curiosity in his eyes deepening. At last he spoke:
"John, old chap, what's wrong? Get it off your chest, whatever it is!"
John Bastow did not raise his head or his eyes. "I wish to Heaven I could."
"Then there is something wrong," Skrine said quickly. "I have thought several times of late that there was. Is it anything in which I can help you—money?"
Bastow shook his head.
"A woman, then?" Skrine questioned sharply. "Whatever it may be, John, let me help you. What is the good of having friends if you do not make use of them?"
"Because—perhaps you can't," Bastow said moodily, stooping forward and picking up the poker.
Felix Skrine shot a penetrating glance at his bent head.
"A trouble shared is a trouble halved," he quoted. "Some people have thought my advice worth having, John."
"Yes, I know." Bastow made a savage attack on the fire with his poker. "But—well, suppose I put the case to you, Felix—what ought a man to do under these circumstances—supposing he had discovered—something—"
He broke off and thrust his poker in again.
Felix Skrine waited, his deep eyes watching his friend sympathetically. At last he said:
"Yes, John? Supposing a man discovered something—what sort of discovery do you mean?"
Bastow raised himself and sat up in his chair, balancing the poker in his hands.
"Suppose that in the course of a man's professional career he found that a crime had been committed, had never been discovered, never even suspected, what would you say such a man ought to do?"
He waited, his eyes fixed upon Skrine's face.
Skrine looked back at him for a minute, in silence, then he said in a quick, decided tone:
"Your hypothetical man should speak out and get the criminal punished. Heavens, man, we are not parsons either of us! You don't need me to tell you where your duty lies."
After another look at his friend's face, Bastow's eyes dropped again.
"Suppose the man—the man had kept silence—at the time, and the—criminal had made good, what then? Supposing such a case had come within your knowledge in the ordinary course of your professional career, what would you do?"
"What I have said!"
The words came out with uncompromising severity from the thin-lipped mouth; the blue eyes maintained their unrelaxing watch on John Bastow's face.
"I can't understand you, John. You must know your duty to the community."
"And what about the guilty man?" John Bastow questioned.
"He must look after himself," Skrine said tersely. "Probably he may be able to do so, and it's quite on the cards that he may be able to clear himself."
"I wish to God he could!" Bastow said with sudden emphasis.
As the last word left his lips the surgery bell rang loudly, with dramatic suddenness.
Bastow sprang to his feet.
"That is somebody I must see myself. An old patient with an appointment."
"All right, old fellow, I will make myself scarce. But one word before I go. You have said 'a man.' Have you changed the sex to prevent my guessing the criminal's identity? Because there is a member of your household about whom I have wondered sometimes. If it is so—and I can help you if you have found out—"
"Nothing of the kind. I don't know what you have got hold of," Bastow said sharply. "But, at any rate, I shall take no steps until I have seen you again. Perhaps we can discuss the matter at greater length later on."
"All right, old chap," Sir Felix said with his hand on the door knob. "Think over what I have said. I am sure it is the only thing to be done."
As he crossed the hall, the sound of voices coming from a room on the opposite side caught his ear. He went quickly across and pushed open the half-closed door.
"May I come in, Hilary?"
"Oh, of course, Sir Felix," a quick, girlish voice answered him.
The morning-room at Dr. John Bastow's was the general sitting-room of the family. Two of its windows opened on to the garden; the third, a big bay, was on the side of the street, and though a strip of turf and a low hedge ran between a good view could be obtained of the passers-by.
An invalid couch usually stood in this window, and Felix Bastow, the doctor's only son, and Skrine's godson and namesake, lay on it, supported by cushions and mechanical contrivances. Fee, as he was generally called, had been a cripple from birth, and this window, with its outlook on the street, was his favourite resting-place. People often wondered he did not prefer the windows on the garden side, but Fee always persisted that he had had enough of grass and flowers, and liked to see such life as his glimpse from the window afforded. He got to know many of the passers-by, and often, on a summer's day, some one would stop and hold quite a long conversation with the white-faced, eager-looking boy.
But Fee was not there this afternoon. It had been one of his bad days, and he had retired to his room early.
The voices that Sir Felix Skrine had heard came from a couple of young people standing on the hearthrug. Skrine caught one glimpse of them, and his brows contracted. The girl's head was bent over a bunch of roses. The man, tall and rather noticeably good-looking, was watching her with an expression that could not be misunderstood in his grey eyes.
The girl, Hilary Bastow, came forward to meet him quickly.
"Have you seen Dad, Sir Felix? He has been expecting you."
"I have just left him," Sir Felix said briefly. "I have only one minute to spare, Hilary, and I came to offer you my birthday wishes and to beg your acceptance of this."
There was something of an old-time courtesy in his manner as, very deliberately, he drew the roses from her clasp and laid them on the table beside her, placing a worn jewel-case in her hand.
The colour flashed swiftly over the girl's face.
"Oh, Sir Felix!"
After a momentary hesitation that did not escape Skrine's notice, she opened the case. Inside, on its bed of blue velvet, lay a string of magnificent pearls.
"O—h!" Hilary drew a deep breath, then the bright colour in her cheeks faded.
"Oh, Sir Felix! They are Lady Skrine's pearls."
The great lawyer bent his head. "She would have liked you to have them, Hilary," he said briefly. "Wear them for her sake—and mine."
He did not wait to hear her somewhat incoherent thanks; but, with a pat on her arm and a slight bow in the direction of the young man who was standing surlily aloof, he went out of the room.
The two he had left were silent for a minute, Hilary's head still bent over the pearls, the roses lying on the table beside her. At last the man came a step nearer.
"So he gives you his wife's pearls, Hilary. And—takes my roses from you."
As he spoke he snatched up the flowers, and as if moved by some uncontrollable influence, flung them through the open window. With a sharp cry Hilary caught at his arm—too late.
"Basil! Basil! My roses!"
A disagreeable smile curved Wilton's lips.
"You have the pearls."
"I—I would rather have the roses," the girl said with a little catch in her voice. "Oh, Basil, how could you—how could you be so silly?"
"Hilary! Hilary!" he said hoarsely. "Tell me you don't care for him."
"For him—for Sir Felix Skrine!" Hilary laughed. "Well, really, Basil, you are—Why, he is my godfather! Does a girl ever care for her godfather? At least, I mean, as—" She stopped suddenly.
In spite of his anger, Wilton could not help smiling.
"As what?" he questioned.
"Oh, I don't know what I meant, I am sure. I must be in a particularly idiotic mood this morning," Hilary returned confusedly. "My birthday has gone to my head, I think. It is a good thing a person only has a birthday once a year."
She went on talking rapidly to cover her confusion.
All the wrath had died out of Wilton's face now, and his deep-set, grey eyes were very tender as he watched her.
"How is it that you care for Skrine?" he pursued. "Not as—well, let us say, not as you care for me, for example?"
The flush on Hilary's face deepened to a crimson flood that spread over forehead, temples and neck.
"I never said—"
Wilton managed to capture her hands.
"You never said—what?"
Hilary turned her heated face away.
"That—that—" she murmured indistinctly.
Wilton laughed softly.
"That you cared for me? No, you haven't said so. But you do, don't you?"
Hilary did not answer, but she did not pull her hands away. Instead he fancied that her fingers clung to his. His clasp grew firmer.
"Ah, you do, don't you, Hilary?" he pleaded. "Just a little bit. Tell me, darling."
Hilary turned her head and, as his arm stole round her, her crimson cheek rested for a moment on his shoulder.
"I think perhaps I do—just a very little, you know, Basil"—with a mischievous intonation that deepened her lover's smile.
"You darling—" he was beginning, when the sound of the opening door made them spring apart.
Dr. Bastow entered abruptly. He cast a sharp, penetrating glance at the two on the hearthrug.
In his hand he held a large bunch of roses—the same that Basil Wilton had thrown out a few minutes before.
"Do either of you know anything of this?" he asked severely. "I was walking in one of the shrubbery paths a few minutes ago when this—these"—brandishing the roses—"came hurtling over the bushes, and hit me plump in the face."
In spite of her nervousness, or perhaps on that very account, Hilary smiled.
Her father glanced at her sharply.
"Is this your doing, Hilary?"
Before the girl could answer Wilton quietly moved in front of her. His grey eyes met the doctor's frankly.
"I must own up, sir. I brought the flowers for—for Miss—for Hilary's birthday. And then, because I was annoyed, I threw them out of the window."
For a moment the doctor looked inclined to smile. Then he frowned again.
"A nice sort of confession. And may I ask why you speak of my daughter as Hilary?"
Wilton did not flinch.
"Because I love her, sir. My dearest wish is that she may promise to be my wife—some day."
"Indeed!" said the doctor grimly. "And may I ask how you expect to support a wife, Wilton? Upon your salary as my assistant?"
Wilton hesitated. "Well, sir, I was hoping—"
Hilary interrupted him. Taking her courage in both hands she raised her voice boldly.
"I love Basil, dad. And I hope we shall be married some day."
"Oh, you do, do you?" remarked her father, raising his pince-nez and surveying her sarcastically. "I suppose it isn't the thing nowadays to ask your father's consent—went out when cropped heads and skirts to the knees came in, didn't it?"
"What is this I hear from your father?"
Miss Lavinia Priestley was the speaker. She was the elder sister of Hilary's mother, to whom she bore no resemblance whatever. A spinster of eccentric habits, of an age which for long uncertain was now unfortunately becoming obvious, she was almost the only living relative that the young Bastows possessed. Of her, as a matter of fact, they knew but little, since most of her time was spent abroad, wandering about from one continental resort to another. Naturally, however, during her rare visits to England she saw as much as possible of her sister's family, by whom in spite of her eccentricity she was much beloved. Of Hilary she was particularly fond, though at times her mode of expressing her affection was somewhat arbitrary.
In appearance she was a tall, gaunt-looking woman with large features, dark eyes, which in her youth had been fine, and a quantity of rather coarse hair, which in the natural course of years should have been grey, but which Miss Lavinia, with a fine disregard of the becoming, had dyed a sandy red. Her costume, as a rule, combined what she thought sensible and becoming in the fashions of the past with those of the present day. The result was bizarre.
Today she wore a coat and skirt of grey tweed with the waist line and the leg-of-mutton sleeves of the Victorian era, while the length and the extreme skimpiness of the skirt were essentially modern, as were her low-necked blouse, which allowed a liberal expanse of chest to be seen, and the grey silk stockings with the grey suede shoes. Her hair was shingled, of course, and had been permanently waved, but the permanent waves had belied their name, and the dyed, stubbly hair betrayed a tendency to stand on end.
She repeated her question.
"What is this I hear from your father?"
"I really don't know, Aunt Lavinia."
"You know what I mean well enough, Hilary. You want to engage yourself to young Wilton."
"I am engaged to Basil Wilton," Hilary returned with a sudden access of courage.
Miss Lavinia raised her eyebrows.
"Well, you were twenty yesterday, Hilary, out of your teens. It is time you were thinking of matrimony. Why, bless my life, before I was your age I had made two or three attempts at it."
"You! Aunt Lavinia!" Hilary stared at her.
"Dear me, yes!" rejoined Miss Lavinia testily. "Do you imagine because I have not married that I was entirely neglected? I don't suppose that any girl in Meadshire had more chances of entering the state of holy matrimony, as they call it, than I had. But you see I went through the wood and came out without even the proverbial crooked stick."
"I remember Dad telling me you had been engaged to a clergyman," Hilary remarked, repressing a smile.
"My dear, I was engaged to three," Miss Lavinia corrected. "Not all at once, of course. Successively."
"Then why did you not marry some—I mean one of them?" Hilary inquired curiously.
Miss Lavinia shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know. Thought somebody better would turn up, I suppose. And I had to do something. Life in the country is really too appallingly uninteresting for words, if one is not engaged to the curate."
"What did the curates think on the matter?"
"I am sure I don't know," Miss Lavinia returned carelessly. "One of them died—the one I liked the best. Doubtless he was spared much. Another is an archdeacon. The third—I really don't know what became of him—a mousy-looking little man in spectacles. His father had seventeen children. Enough to choke anyone off the son, I should think. Not at all in my line!"
Hilary coughed down a laugh. The vision conjured up of her maiden aunt with a numerous progeny of mousy-looking, embryo curates was somewhat overpowering.
"To change the subject," Miss Lavinia went on briskly, "who is this parlourmaid of yours, Hilary?"
"Parlourmaid!" Hilary echoed blankly. "Why, she is just the parlourmaid, Aunt Lavinia."
"Don't be a fool, Hilary," rebuked her aunt tartly. "I know she is the parlourmaid. But how did she come to be your parlourmaid? That's what I want to know. Did you have good references with her? That sort of thing. What's her name?"
"Her name?" debated Hilary. "Why, Taylor, of course. We always call her Taylor. Oh, you mean her Christian name. Well, Mary Ann, I think. And we had excellent references with her. She is quite a good maid. I have no fault to find with her."
"She doesn't look like a Mary Ann Taylor," sniffed Miss Lavinia. "One of your Dorothys or Mabels or Veras, I should have said. She is after your father—casting the glad eye you call it nowadays."
"After Dad!" Indignation was rendering Hilary almost speechless.
"Dear me, yes, your father," Miss Lavinia repeated with some asperity. "He won't be the first man to be made a fool of by a pretty face, even if it does belong to one of his maids. And this particular girl is making herself very amiable to him. I have watched her. By the way, where is your father tonight? He is generally out of the consulting-room by this time, and I want a word with him before bed-time. That is why I came after dinner."
"He is rather late," Hilary said; "but he had ever so many people to see before dinner, and I dare say he has had more writing to do since in consequence."
"That secretary of his gone home, I suppose?"
"Miss Houlton? Oh, yes. She goes home at seven. But really, Aunt Lavinia, she is a nice, quiet girl. Dad likes her."
Miss Lavinia snorted.
"Dare say he does. As he likes your delightful parlourmaid, I suppose. In my young days men didn't have girls to wait on them. They had men secretaries and what not. But nowadays they have as many women as they can afford. Believe it would be more respectable to call it a harem at once!"
Hilary laughed.
"Oh, Aunt Lavinia! The girls and men of the present day aren't like that. They don't think of such things."
"Nonsense!" Miss Lavinia snapped her fingers. "Short skirts and backless frocks haven't altered human nature!"
"Haven't they?" Hilary questioned with a smile. "But we will send for Dad, Aunt Lavinia. He always enjoys a chat with you."
"Not always, I fancy," Miss Lavinia said grimly. "However, he gets a few whether he enjoys them or not."
As she finished the parlourmaid opened the door. She was looking nervous and worried.
"Oh, Miss Hilary—" she began. "The doctor—"
"Well?" interrupted Miss Lavinia "What of the doctor?"
"He is in the consulting-room, ma'am, but he doesn't take any notice when we knock at the door. Mr. Wilton and I have both been trying."
"What are you making such a fuss about?" said Miss Lavinia contemptuously. "The doctor doesn't want to be disturbed. That is all."
The maid stood her ground, and again addressed Hilary:
"I have never known the doctor lock the door on the inside before, miss."
"Well, of course, if it was locked on the outside, he would not be there," Miss Lavinia rejoined sensibly. "I'll go and knock. He'll answer me, I'll warrant."
Hilary was looking rather white.
"I will come too, Aunt Lavinia. Dad often sits up late over his research work. But he promised me he wouldn't to-night. It was my birthday yesterday and he had to go out, so he said he would come in for a chat quite early this evening."
Miss Lavinia was already in the hall.
"I expect the chat would have been a lively one from the few words I had with him when I came in. Well, what are you doing?"
This question was addressed to Basil Wilton, who was standing at the end of the passage leading to the consulting-room.
Like the parlourmaid, he was looking pale and worried. Miss Lavinia's quick eyes noted that his tie was twisted to one side and that his hair, short as it was, was rumpled up as if he had been thrusting his hands through it.
"There is an urgent summons for the doctor on the phone, and we can't make him hear," he said uneasily.
"I dare say he has gone out by the door on the garden side," Miss Lavinia said briskly. "Yes, of course that is how it would be. Locked the door on this side and gone off the other way to see some patient."
"That door is locked too," Wilton said doubtfully. "And the doctor has never done such a thing before."
"Bless my life! There must be a first time for everything," Miss Lavinia rejoined testily. "Don't look so scared, Mr. Wilton. I'll go to the door. If he is in, he will answer me, and if he isn't—well, we shall just have to wait."
She pushed past Wilton. Shrugging his shoulders, he followed her down the passage.
There were no half measures with Miss Lavinia. Her knock at the door was loud enough to rouse the house, but there came no response from within the room.
Meanwhile quite a little crowd was collecting behind her—Wilton, Hilary and a couple of the servants.
"Nobody there, anyhow," she observed. "That knock would have fetched the doctor if he had been in. Come, Hilary, it is no use standing here gaping."
She turned to stride back to the morning-room, when the parlourmaid interposed:
"I beg your pardon, ma'am. I think—I'm afraid the doctor is there."
Miss Lavinia stared at her.
"What do you mean? If the doctor were there he would have answered me."
The maid hesitated a moment, her face very white. As she looked at her even Miss Lavinia's weather-beaten countenance seemed to catch the reflection of her pallor. It turned a curious greenish grey.
"What do you mean?" she repeated.
"I have been into the garden, ma'am. I remembered that the blind in the consulting-room did not fit very well, and I went and looked through. The light was on and I could see—I think—I am sure that I could see the doctor sitting on the revolving chair before his table. His head is bent down on his arms."
"Then he must have fainted—or—or something," Miss Lavinia said, her strident tones strangely subdued. "Don't look so scared, Hilary; I don't suppose it is anything serious."
Wilton touched Hilary, who was leaning against the wall.
"We shall have to break the door in, dear. And you must not stay here; we shall want all the room we can get."
"Break the door in!" Miss Lavinia ejaculated in scornful accents. "Why, Mr. Wilton, you will be suggesting sliding down through the chimney next! Go to this window in the garden that you have just heard of. If it is closed—and I expect it is, for doctors are a great deal fonder of advising other people to keep their windows open than of doing it themselves—smash a pane, put your hand in and unlatch it, and pull the sash up. It will be easy enough then."
"Perhaps that will be best," Wilton assented doubtfully.
"Of course it will be best," Miss Lavinia said briskly. "You stay here, Hilary. We will open the door to you in a minute Come along, Mr. Wilton."
She almost pushed the young man before her down the passage and out at the surgery door. That opened on to the street, and a few steps farther on was a green door in the high wall which surrounded the doctor's garden. That was unfastened. As Miss Lavinia pushed it open she raised her eyebrows.
"Anybody could come in here, burgle the house and leave you very little the wiser," she remarked with a glance at Wilton.
"Yes; but it isn't generally left open like this," he said as he closed it behind them. "It is always kept locked by Dr. Bastow's orders unless anything is wanted for the garden—coal for the greenhouse, or manure."
But Miss Lavinia was not attending to him. She broke into a run as they emerged from the little shrubbery and began to cross the narrow strip of grass that lay between it and the house. On the farther side of this, immediately under the windows, there was a broad gravel path.
Miss Lavinia hurried across it, and placing her hands on the window-sill moved her head up and down.
"Well, how that young woman saw into this room puzzles me! The blind is drawn as close as wax!"
"On that side perhaps." Wilton had come up behind her, and now drew her across.
Here the blind seemed to have been pushed or caught aside, and any tall person standing outside could see right into the room; since much to Miss Lavinia's amazement the curtain inside was also caught up.
"Why, it's a regular spy-hole!" she said as, putting her hands on the window-sill and raising herself on tiptoe, she applied her eyes to the glass.
A moment later she dropped down with a groan.
"She is right enough. John is there, and I don't like the way he sits huddled up in his chair. Mr. Wilton, you had better get in as soon as you can."
Wilton needed no second bidding. One blow shattered the pane nearest him, and putting his arm through he raised the catch, then the sash, and then vaulted into the room. Miss Lavinia waited, one arm round Hilary, who had joined her.
It seemed a long time before Wilton came back, but it was not in reality more than a minute or two before he parted the curtains again; and stood carefully holding them so that Hilary could not see into the room.
"I fear the doctor is very ill," he said gravely. "I have the key. We will go round."
Hilary threw off her aunt's arm.
"Go back to Dad, Basil. What do you mean by leaving him? I can get in this way too."
She put her hands on the window-sill, and would have scrambled in, but Wilton held her back at arm's length.
"You don't understand, Hilary. You can do no good here. Your father is—"
"Dead—no, no—not dead!" Hilary said wildly.
Wilton's eyes sought Miss Lavinia's as he bent his head in grave assent.
"Murdered? God bless my soul! I never heard such nonsense in my life!" Miss Lavinia Priestley was the speaker.
Basil Wilton was facing her and beside him was a short, rather stout man. Dr. James Greig was an old friend of Dr. Bastow's and a telephone summons had brought him on the scene. A third person at whom Miss Lavinia had scarcely glanced as yet stood behind the other two.
As a matter of fact, very few people did glance a second time at William Stoddart, which fact formed a by no means inconsiderable asset in Stoddart's career in the C.I.D. For William Stoddart was a detective, and one of the best known in the service too, in spite of his undistinguished exterior.
Neither particularly short nor particularly tall, neither particularly stout nor particularly thin, he seemed to be made up of negatives. His small, thin, colourless face was the counterpart of many others that might have been seen in London streets, though in reality Stoddart hailed from the pleasant Midland country. His eyes were grey, not large. He had a trick of making them appear smaller by keeping them half closed; yet a look from those same grey eyes had been known to be dreaded by certain criminal classes more than anything on earth. For it was an acknowledged fact that Detective-Inspector Stoddart had brought more of his cases to a successful conclusion than any other officer in the force.
That he should have come this morning on the matter of Dr. John Bastow's death showed that in the opinion of the Scotland Yard authorities there were some mysterious circumstances connected with that death.
So far, since with the two doctors he had entered the morning-room to confront Miss Lavinia and her niece, he had not spoken, nor did he break the silence now. Dr. James Greig took upon himself the office of spokesman.
He answered Miss Lavinia, to whom he was slightly known.
"I am very sorry, Miss Priestley, that there can be no doubt on the point. Dr. Bastow was shot through the head—the shot entered at the back. It is quite certain that the pistol was fired at close quarters and was probably held just behind the ear."
"My God!" The exclamation came from Miss Lavinia.
Hilary shivered from head to foot. The twentieth-century girl does not faint—she merely turned a few degrees whiter as she glanced from Dr. Greig's face to Basil's, from his again to that of the great detective.
"But what do you mean? He couldn't have been murdered. Nobody would have murdered him," Miss Lavinia cried, too much staggered to be quite coherent now. "Everybody liked John!"
"I'm afraid it is evident that some one did not," Dr Greig said firmly. "The murderer must have been some one the doctor knew too. You see he had allowed him to come quite close."
"Allowed him or her?" a dry voice interposed at this juncture.
Sir Felix Skrine had entered the morning-room by the door immediately behind Miss Lavinia and Hilary. He grasped Miss Lavinia's hand with a word of sympathy and touched Hilary's arm with a mute, fatherly gesture, as he went on addressing himself to Dr. Greig.
"There is nothing to show the sex of a person who fires an automatic revolver, you know, doctor." Then he looked across at the detective and nodded. "Glad to see you here, Stoddart. I would sooner have you in charge of a case of this kind than any man I know."
The detective looked gratified.
"You are very kind, Sir Felix. But we all have our failures."
"Very few in your case," Skrine assured him. "But I want a little talk with you as soon as I can have it, Stoddart. Miss Lavinia, I am going to take you and Hilary up to the drawingroom for the present. Later every one in the house will have to give their account of last night's happenings, to the inspector. For the present I take it you and Hilary have nothing to say."
"Nothing," Miss Lavinia assured him. "We were waiting for my brother-in-law to come in for a few last words, as he always did, you know, Sir Felix."
"I know," Skrine assented.
"Well, we waited and waited, for he had promised me his advice in rather a difficult matter," Miss Lavinia went on. "And he didn't come. At last the parlourmaid told us they couldn't make him hear. I said he must have been called out, but she said he hadn't. We went down and—found out what had happened. I mean—found that John was dead. Of course I thought he had had a fit, or something. I could not guess—"
In spite of her iron self-control her voice gave way. Now Inspector Stoddart for the first time took command of the situation.
"I think if you would allow us just to see the scene of the tragedy and to make a few inquiries while the matter is fresh, it will be better, madam," he said politely. "You shall hear everything later."