"

"It was one of Lord Dredlinton's hobbles," Wingate declared. "Spirits are
very seldom served in this house."

The Inspector nodded. He had crossed to the sideboard and was looking
into the contents of a great bowl of flowers.

"I never heard," he reflected, "that roses did well in champagne. Let me
see," he proceeded, counting the empty bottles, "four bottles between
four of you, the contents of at least two bottles here, and--dear me, the
carnations, too!" he went on, peering into a further bowl. "Really, Mr.
Wingate, your orgy scarcely seems to have been one of drink."

"Perhaps it was not," was the resigned reply.

The inspector sighed.

"I have seldom," he pronounced, looking fixedly at his companion, "seen a
more amateurish piece of work than the arrangement of this so-called
debauch. It seems pitiable, Mr. Wingate, that a man with brains like
yours should have sought to deceive in so puerile a fashion."

"What is this leading up to?" Wingate demanded.

The inspector drew a little pamphlet from his pocket and passed it
across. Wingate took it into his hands, opened it and stared at it
in surprise.

"A list of Cunard sailings!" he exclaimed.

"One of the safest of lines," said Shields, with a nod. "The
_Agricola_ sails to-morrow morning. The boat train, I believe, leaves
Euston at four."

Wingate glanced from the sailing list to his companion. The inspector was
making movements as though about to depart. Wingate himself was
speechless.

"The physician is able to certify," Shields went on, "that Lord
Dredlinton's death is due to natural causes. There will therefore be no
inquest. That being the case, it is not my business to make
enquiries--unless I choose."

A newsboy went shouting across the square. The two men heard distinctly
his hoarse cry:

"Great fall of wheat in every market! Cheap bread next week!"

The eyes of the two men met. There was almost a smile upon Shields' thin
lips as he turned towards the door.

"And I do not choose," he concluded.

CHAPTER XXIV

Peter Phipps and his nephew dined together on the last night of the year
at a well-chosen table at Giro's restaurant in Monte Carlo. There were
long-necked and gold-foiled bottles upon the table and a menu which had
commanded the respect of the _maitre d'hotel_ whose province it was to
supply their wants. Nevertheless, neither of the two men had the
appearance of being entirely satisfied with life.

"Those figures fro