y resettled themselves in their
chairs. Mallett, a spick-and-span sort of man, very precise as to the
cut of his clothes and particular as to the quality of his linen and the
trimming of his old-fashioned side-whiskers, he set down at once as the
personification of sly watchfulness: he was the type of person who would
hear all and say no more than was necessary or obligatory. Coppinger, a
younger man, had that same watchful look; a moment later, Brent saw it
in Crood's big face too. They were all watchful, all sly, these men, he
decided: the sort who would sit by and listen, and admit nothing and
tell nothing; already, before even he asked the questions which he had
come to put, he knew that he would get no answer other than
noncommittal, evasive ones. He saw that all three men, instead of being
anxious to give him information, were actuated by the same desire--to
find out what he knew, to hear what he had to say.

Crood, as Brent seated himself, waved a hand towards the decanters on
the table.

"You'll try a little drop o' something, Mr. Brent?" he said, with
insinuating hospitality. "A taste of whisky, now? Do you no harm after
what you've just been through." He turned to the girl, who had followed
Brent into the room and, picking up her needlework, had seated herself
near the master of the house. "Queenie, my love," he continued, "give
the gentleman a whisky and soda--say the word, sir. My niece, sir--Miss
Queenie Crood--all my establishment, Mr. Brent; quiet, old-fashioned
folk we are, but glad to see you, sir; though I wish the occasion had
been a merrier one--dear, dear!"

Brent made the girl a polite bow and, not wishing to show himself
stand-offish, took the glass which she mixed and handed to him. He
turned to Crood.

"It's not a pleasant occasion for me, sir," he said. "I am my cousin's
nearest blood-relative, and it lies with me to do what I can to find out
who's responsible for his death. I understand that you are Deputy-Mayor,
so naturally you're conversant with his public affairs. Now, I've learnt
within the last hour that he had become unpopular in the town--made
enemies. Is that so, Mr. Crood?"

Crood, who was smoking a long churchwarden pipe, took its stem from his
lips, and waved it in the air with an expressive motion.

"Well, well!" he said soothingly. "There might ha' been a little of
something of that sort, you know, Mr. Brent, but in a purely political
sense, sir, an entirely political sens