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‘Peter, have they gone? Peter, what did they say?'

‘Asked a lot of questions,' Peter answered, frowning and troubled, ‘and then just cleared out.'

Jennie pushed by her sister and ran to Peter's side. Brenda followed slowly and after her came Mark Lester. Plainly they had all either forgotten Bobby or assumed that he had departed with his chief. Bobby did not think it necessary to remind them of his presence, he was fully prepared to listen to anything they chose to say among themselves before him, and he thought that so he might easily gain valuable information if not about the facts, at any rate about their beliefs, their characters, and their intentions.

‘What sort of questions?' Jennie was asking. ‘Was he horrid?'

‘They've been nosing about my rooms,' Peter said. ‘Like their cheek. I suppose you can't blame them, though. Apparently some chap, wearing a suit like the one I had on all day, was seen climbing the wall next door, and of course they think that was me.'

‘How silly,' said Jennie, with intense conviction.

‘The man I saw wasn't dressed like you,' Brenda remarked. ‘He was wearing dark things and striped trousers – I'm quite sure of that, it's why I thought it was Mark at first, I suppose. Do you think there were two men?'

‘It's the will that's making them suspicious,' Peter said. ‘Jennie, if your father had had time to sign his new will, you would have had nothing. The money would all have gone to charity. That means, my wife would have had nothing. But he died before signing it, and you get everything. That means, my wife's a rich woman. I've married a rich woman because your father died to-night. I think it's plain they draw the obvious conclusion.'

‘I never thought of that,' Brenda said in her deep, slow tones. ‘There's such a lot you never think about.'

‘We won't take the money, we won't touch it,' Jennie said simply. ‘That'll make them understand. It must be just as father wanted. Of course, Brenda must have hers.'

‘No,' said Brenda, almost with violence. ‘No.'

‘I don't think that would make any difference so far as I'm concerned,' Peter said moodily. ‘People would only say you had done it trying to save me.'

Mark, who had not spoken before, said from behind, with great emphasis:

‘That's all rot. Jennie mustn't give up her money. Why should she? It's perfectly obvious the will was only a dodge to try to stop you two marrying. But you had got married already, so that doesn't count for anything. And I think Brenda ought to have the money meant for her. I suppose she is entitled to some share anyhow, isn't she?'

‘A stepdaughter is a stranger in blood,' Peter said. ‘In law, Brenda is not entitled to anything. No one will accuse you, Lester,' he added bitterly, ‘of committing murder to make your wife rich.'

‘Anyhow, she ought to have what was clearly meant for her,' Mark repeated.

‘Yes, of course,' agreed Jennie.

‘No,' said Brenda. ‘No.'

‘I think I know how you feel,' Mark declared. ‘I know exactly how you feel,' he repeated, ‘but I've got to consider your future, your happiness.'

‘Happiness?' she said with a strange accent. ‘Happiness?'

‘Well, of course,' Mark said, ‘you don't feel like that now; it's natural to feel after such an awful thing happening you'll never be the same again.'

‘Never,' Brenda said. ‘Never.'

‘You'll feel differently in time,' he told her tenderly.

‘You don't think so now, but you will – when the murder's been cleared up and the murderer punished.'

‘When,' said Brenda, ‘when...' She added: ‘Was it murder?'

‘Must have been,' declared Mark. ‘It can't have been suicide or accident because of two shots having been fired. So it must have been murder?'

‘Must it?' said Brenda.

‘Oh, I see what you mean,' he said, staring at her. ‘Yes, there's that. Anyway, I'll find out. I'm going to work on my own lines. The police are never any good in a case like this, all red tape, no intuition; intuition working on reason is what you want. And once we know what's really happened, there'll be no need for Jennie to do anything silly about the money. First thing is to find out who the revolver belonged to. I've an idea about that.'

‘Oh, don't let's talk about it any more,' Jennie cried suddenly, ‘it's all too horrible. Brenda, Peter's going to stay here to-night.'

‘But the spare room,' began Brenda, becoming the careful housewife again, and then when Jennie gave a little nervous laugh: ‘Oh,' she said, ‘I forgot you two are married. I can't realize it.'

‘Three weeks,' Jennie said, and took Peter's hand.

They went away up the stairs together, he still looking very gloomy and troubled and she trying to cheer him. From the hall the other two watched them go and Mark slipped an arm round Brenda and said to her softly:

‘It won't be long before we are married, too, and then I shall never have to leave you.'

‘Oh, Mark, don't,' she cried with a sudden burst of emotion, releasing herself from his clasp almost with violence, ‘not now, not while he's lying there... it's awful.'

For a moment her strong self-control seemed on the point of breaking down, but Mark caught her hands and held them in his.

‘Dearest, my own,' he said, ‘it's a dreadful thing to have happened but you can't help it... Brenda, it's not upsetting you so much because you think it was Peter did it?'

‘Oh, no,' she answered, ‘I know he didn't, I never thought that, I never thought any one could.'

‘I don't either,' Mark told her. ‘I'm afraid some people will, but that'll be all right when we get at the truth. I must make that my business – to get at the truth.'

‘Must you?' she said, looking at him intently. ‘Must you, Mark? Why?'

‘We've got to know it,' he declared. ‘Oh, there'll be all sorts of talk always going on. There'll be hints about you–'

‘About – me? About me?' she stammered.

‘Yes, and about Jennie, too. About Peter, of course. About me, too, very likely.'

‘Oh, Mark, no, no one could – Mark,' she exclaimed.

‘My dear,' he said, ‘you don't know what people are capable of saying or how quickly gossip can spread.'

‘There was a burglar in the house,' she reminded him. ‘Why don't people think...?'

‘Looks,' Mark said, ‘as if the burglary took place some time before the murder. And you can hardly imagine a burglar emptying a safe and then going right to the other end of the house to commit a murder – if it was murder, as you said.'

‘It's all so dreadful,' Brenda said again.

‘I think,' he said, softly, ‘you feel it more than Jennie does, though he was her own father and only your stepfather.'

‘I think I do,' she agreed. ‘Poor Jennie's so taken up with Peter she can hardly realize it all. He was always rather harsh to her, too, they were never like some fathers and daughters are. Well, that's all the better now. Peter's very fond of her, I suppose.'

‘Not in the way I am of you,' Mark said as softly as before.

He tried to take her hands again as he spoke but she drew back. She held him at arm's length and did not answer. A little troubled, he said:

‘Why do you look at me like that?'

‘Do you care for me?' she asked intensely. ‘I never thought you did – I mean not like that. Why do you care for me?'

‘I always have,' he told her. ‘The first time I saw you it was like that. Didn't you know?'

‘No,' she answered, shaking her head slowly, ‘and it is very strange. If I had known before – perhaps it would have been different.'

‘What?' he asked. ‘What would have been different?'

She had a vague gesture he did not understand.

‘I knew there was life,' she said, ‘I knew there was death – but I never knew love was – like this... real.'

‘It's more real than life or death,' he said. ‘Life doesn't last so long and death's soon over, but I think that love goes on.'

‘It's strange talking like this,' she mused, ‘when... when he's lying there... he's dead and we are talking like this,' she repeated.

‘We're both a bit worked up,' he said, ‘that's all... you can't have things happening and not feel it.'

‘I suppose that's it,' she agreed.

‘I want you to feel I love you more than anything else in the world,' he told her.

‘It's hard to understand,' she answered, watching him gravely. ‘I always thought people liked each other... I thought a girl liked to have a nice man to do things for her... that's nature... I thought a man liked to have a pretty girl to show off... that's nature... but you make me feel to-night it's all so different from that.'

‘Of course it is,' he declared, ‘just as different as it can be.'

‘Do you love me?' she asked, but when he made a step towards her, once more she drew back.

‘No, no, not now, not here,' she said, almost wildly.

‘Dearest, dearest,' he protested, ‘you're getting morbid.'

‘Perhaps I am,' she agreed.

‘You want a rest,' he told her, ‘you want quiet. Brenda, you don't feel you love me yet, do you?'

‘I don't think so. I don't think I understand what love is,' she answered. ‘I think I could hate more easily. I think I know what hate is.'

‘I'll teach you love instead,' he said smilingly.

‘I think you are already,' she murmured, half to herself, and at that he kissed her with sudden passion.

But again she held him away, though this time very gently.

‘Not to-night,' she said. ‘You must go, it's very late.'

In a little while he did go, and Brenda went upstairs to her own room, having evidently entirely forgotten all about Bobby and her promise to supply him with blankets.

‘They're all a bit hysterical, no wonder either, but hysterical, that's what they are,' Bobby told himself; and presently went to find Lewis and to wake him up, though that was no easy task. But finally from him he was able to extract some cold meat and bread and a couple of rugs.

Then Lewis retired sleepily to his bed, and Bobby settled down to snatch an hour or two's rest.

‘Funny thing,' he thought as he dozed off, ‘seems as though it had needed the murder to make those two find out they were in love – wonder what being in love's like,' he mused and slept profoundly.

Deeply though Bobby slept, his slumber was as light as it was profound, and the first sound of movement in the house next morning brought him to his feet.

Lewis was not up yet, but in the eyes alike of the cook, of the parlourmaid, of the housemaid, of the ‘tweenie', Bobby found favour. He was shown to a bathroom, Lewis was wakened in order to provide a razor, he was presently installed before an excellent and copious breakfast, and the least he could do he felt in return for so much goodwill was not only to be willing to talk himself but also to listen to the opinions and the comments of the cook, the parlourmaid, the housemaid, and the ‘tweenie', to say nothing of those dignified observations which Lewis, when presently he made a yawning appearance, felt disposed to contribute to the discussion.

But presently bells upstairs began to ring, there were cups of tea to be prepared, breakfast to be got ready, rooms to be dusted; and, with the domestic staff getting busy over the day's routine, Bobby decided to take a stroll through the gardens and see what he could find there, and as he did so he felt he knew nearly as much about the household as if he had lived there for years.

‘More,' he told himself, ‘for then I should only have my own ideas and they would be all wrong, but now I've the ideas of four women and one man, all wrong, too, of course, but adding five all wrongs together should get one somewhere near the truth – and that's the difference,' he mused, ‘between life and mathematics, in which five all wrongs only add up to a still bigger all wrong.'

Early as it was, there was already a constable posted at the gate where Bobby had waited in vain for Sergeant Doran the previous evening, for experience had taught the authorities that, as the news of what had happened spread abroad, crowds would assemble to stare and gossip, and would need to be kept continually on the move.

So far the newspaper men had been comparatively calm, for Mitchell had been careful to let them imagine that the murder was a result of the robbery of the safe, and ‘Millionaire Murdered by Burglars' was the legend appearing in various forms on every newspaper placard. The most acute ‘crime specialist' in all Fleet Street had not as yet guessed that anything else lay behind what appeared a plain straightforward tale of bandits murdering to effect their escape when interrupted in committing a robbery. Even the efforts of two of the more popular and enterprising of the Sunday press to obtain from Jennie an article, to be written with tears in her eyes, on ‘How you feel when your Daddy's shot' (exclusive), and from Brenda on ‘Home life of murdered millionaire' (exclusive), had met with no success, and had indeed been pressed with less than usual energy, and but few promises of exceeding rich reward.

So far, therefore, the reporters had been quite well behaved, and except for an article in a leading journal, advocating passionately the use of the ‘cat' in all such cases, the papers were not giving the affair any very great attention.

It was too early yet also for crowds to have assembled, so, after a short chat with the man on duty, Bobby strolled on round the garden, making a very careful examination of the ground and drawing a sketch map in his pocket-book on the chance that it might be useful. With very special attention he examined also a solitary footprint that had been found in the soft mould of a flower bed at the angle where two gravel paths joined. It had already been measured, photographed, treated in fact in all ways as issued instructions demand that footprints found in such circumstances should be treated, and now it was protected by a careful arrangement of twine, upright sticks, and a waterproof cover. One felt that if attention to a footprint could catch a criminal, this man was as good as under arrest already.