features; in his short, smooth, yellow hair; and
in his voice as he addressed Trent, the influence of a special sort of
training was confessed. 'Oxford was your playground, I think, my young
friend,' said Trent to himself.

'If you are Mr. Trent,' said the young man pleasantly, 'you are
expected. Mr. Cupples telephoned from the hotel. My name is Marlowe.'

'You were secretary to Mr. Manderson, I believe,' said Trent. He was
much inclined to like young Mr. Marlowe. Though he seemed so near a
physical breakdown, he gave out none the less that air of clean living
and inward health that is the peculiar glory of his social type at his
years. But there was something in the tired eyes that was a challenge
to Trent's penetration; an habitual expression, as he took it tobe, of
meditating and weighing things not present to their sight. It was a look
too intelligent, too steady and purposeful, to be called dreamy. Trent
thought he had seen such a look before somewhere. He went on to say:
'It is a terrible business for all of you. I fear it has upset you
completely, Mr. Marlowe.'

'A little limp, that's all,' replied the young man wearily. 'I was
driving the car all Sunday night and most of yesterday, and I didn't
sleep last night after hearing the news--who would? But I have an
appointment now, Mr. Trent, down at the doctor's--arranging about the
inquest. I expect it'll be tomorrow. If you will go up to the house and
ask for Mr. Bunner, you'll find him expecting you; he will tell you all
about things and show you round. He's the other secretary; an American,
and the best of fellows; he'll look after you. There's a detective here,
by the way--Inspector Murch, from Scotland Yard. He came yesterday.'

'Murch!' Trent exclaimed. 'But he and I are old friends. How under the
sun did he get here so soon?'

'I have no idea,' Mr. Marlowe answered. 'But he was here last evening,
before I got back from Southampton, interviewing everybody, and
he's been about here since eight this morning. He's in the library
now--that's where the open French window is that you see at the end
of the house there. Perhaps you would like to step down there and talk
about things.'

'I think I will,' said Trent. Marlowe nodded and went on his way. The
thick turf of the lawn round which the drive took its circular sweep
made Trent's footsteps as noiseless as a cat's. In a few moments he was
looking in through the open leaves of the window at the southward end