absence. Who would bother about a glass in a house
where murder had been done? She simply replaced it by another of the
same pattern.

"May I inquire, sir," said Tomlinson, when Furneaux had washed face
and hands and was seated at a table laid for two, "may I inquire if
you have any preference as to a luncheon wine?"

"I think," said Furneaux with due solemnity, "that a still wine----"

"I agree with you, sir. At this time of the day a Sauterne or a
Johannisberger----"

"To my taste, a Chateau Yquem, with that delicate flavor which leaves
the palate fresh--Frenchmen call it the _seve_----"

"Sir, I perceive that you have a taste. Singularly enough, I have a
bottle of Chateau Yquem in my sideboard."

So the meal was a success.

An under gardener lent Furneaux a bicycle. After a chat with Farrow,
to whom he conveyed some sandwiches and a bottle of beer, the
detective rode to Easton. He sent a rather long telegram to his own
quarters, called at a chemist's, and reached the White Horse at Roxton
about two o'clock.

* * * * *

Now the imp of mischance had contrived that John Trenholme should hear
no word of the murder until he came downstairs for luncheon after a
morning's steady work.

The stout Eliza, fearful lest Mary should forestall her with the news,
bounced out from the kitchen when his step sounded on the stairs.

"There was fine goin's on in the park this morning, Mr. Trenholme,"
she began breathlessly.

He reddened at once, and avoided her fiery eye. Of course, it had been
discovered that he had watched that girl bathing. Dash it all, his
action was unintentional! What a bore!

"Mr. Fenley was shot dead on his own doorstep," continued Eliza.
She gave proper emphasis to the concluding words. That a man should
be murdered "on his own doorstep" was a feature of the crime that
enhanced the tragedy in the public mind. The shooting was bad enough
in itself, for rural England is happily free from such horrors; but
swift and brutal death dealt out on one's own doorstep was a thing at
once monstrous and awe-compelling. Eliza, perhaps, wondered why Mr.
Trenholme flushed, but she fully understood the sudden blanching of
his face at her tidings, for all Roxton was shaken to its foundations
when the facts slowly percolated in that direction.

"Good Lord!" cried he. "Could that be the shot I heard?"

"He was killed at half past nine, sir."

"Then it was! A keeper heard it, too-