that canvas, and you cut a sorry figure in the witness
box. Moreover, suppose you treat the law with disdain, how do you
propose explaining your actions to Miss Sylvia Manning?"

"In all probability, I shall never meet the lady."

"Oh, won't you, indeed! I have the honor to request you to meet her
tomorrow morning by the shore of that sylvan lake at nine fifteen,
sharp. And kindly bring both sketches with you. Only, for goodness'
sake, keep this one covered with a water-proof wrap if the weather
breaks, which it doesn't look like doing at this moment. Now, Mr.
Trenholme, take the advice of a dried-up chip of experience like me,
and be sensible. One word as to actualities. I'm told you didn't see
anything in the park which led you to believe that a crime had been
committed?"

"Not a thing. I heard the gunshot, and noted where it came from, but
so far as I could ascertain, the only creatures it disturbed were some
rabbits, rooks and pheasants."

"Ah! Where did the pheasants show up?"

"Out of the wood, close to the spot where the rifle was fired."

"How many?"

"How many what?"

"Pheasants."

"A brace. They flew right across the south front of the house to a
covert on the west side. Is that an important detail?"

"When you hear the evidence you may find it so," commented Furneaux.
"Why do you say 'rifle'? Why not plain 'gun'?"

"Because any one who has handled both a rifle and a shotgun can
recognize the difference in sound. The explosive force of the one is
many times greater than that of the other."

"Are you, too, an expert marksman?"

"I can shoot a bit. Hardly an expert, perhaps, seeing that I haven't
used a gun during the past five years. If you know France, Mr.
Furneaux, you'll agree that British ideas of sport----"

"I do know France," broke in the detective. "There isn't a cock robin
or a jenny wren left in the country.... As a mere formality, what
magazine are you working for?"

Trenholme told him, and Furneaux hurried away, halting for an instant
in the doorway to raise a warning finger.

"Tomorrow, at the cedars, nine fifteen," he said. "And, mind you, no
holocausts, or you're up a gum tree. You were either painting a pretty
girl or gloating over her. Prove the one and people won't think the
other, which they will be only too ready to do, this being a cynical
and suspicious world."

He left a bewildered artist glaring after him. Trenholme's
acquaintance with the police, either of Englan