might just have lost his head; on the other hand, he
might--well, he might have wanted to give his cousin a chance of getting
away. The same about the police, and--oh, lots of things. Why, for
instance, did we run all the way round the house in order to get to the
windows? Surely there's a back way out through the hall. I must have a
look later on."

Antony, it will be observed, had by no means lost his head.

There was a step in the passage outside, and he turned round, to see
Cayley in the doorway. He remained looking at him for a moment, asking
himself a question. It was rather a curious question. He was asking
himself why the door was open.

Well, not exactly why the door was open; that could be explained easily
enough. But why had he expected the door to be shut? He did not remember
shutting it, but somehow he was surprised to see it open now, to see
Cayley through the doorway, just coming into the room. Something working
sub-consciously in his brain had told him that it was surprising. Why?

He tucked the matter away in a corner of his mind for the moment; the
answer would come to him later on. He had a wonderfully retentive
mind. Everything which he saw or heard seemed to make its corresponding
impression somewhere in his brain; often without his being conscious of
it; and these photographic impressions were always there ready for him
when he wished to develop them.

Cayley joined him at the window.

"I've telephoned," he said. "They're sending an inspector or some one
from Middleston, and the local police and doctor from Stanton." He
shrugged his shoulders. "We're in for it now."

"How far away is Middleston?" It was the town for which Antony had taken
a ticket that morning--only six hours ago. How absurd it seemed.

"About twenty miles. These people will be coming back soon."

"Beverley, and the others?"

"Yes. I expect they'll want to go away at once."

"Much better that they should."

"Yes." Cayley was silent for a little. Then he said, "You're staying
near here?"

"I'm at 'The George,' at Waldheim."

"If you're by yourself, I wish you'd put up here. You see," he went on
awkwardly, "you'll have to be here--for the--the inquest and--and so
on. If I may offer you my cousin's hospitality in his--I mean if he
doesn't--if he really has--"

Antony broke in hastily with his thanks and acceptance.

"That's good. Perhaps Beverley will stay on, if he's a friend of yours.
He's a good fellow."

Anto