For once, Winter was perforce silent. In his heart of hearts he blamed Detective Inspector Furneaux.
CHAPTER X
Furneaux States Some Facts and Certain
Fancies
This record of a day remarkable beyond any other in the history of secluded Roxton might strike a more cheerful note if it followed the two young people across the park. It is doubtful whether or not Sylvia Manning's unpremeditated action in accompanying Trenholme was inspired by a sudden interest in art or by revolt against the tribulations which had befallen her. Of course there is some probability that a full and true account of the conversation between man and maid as they walked the half mile to Jackson's farm might throw a flood of light on this minor problem. Be that as it may, stern necessity demands that the chronicle should revert for a time to the sayings and doings of the Fenleys and the detectives.
Despite a roundabout route, Furneaux had merely led Robert Fenley through the gardens to the Quarry Wood. Somewhat to the detective's surprise, the rock was unguarded. The two were standing there, discussing the crime, when Police Constable Farrow returned to his post. Furneaux said nothing—for some reason he did not emphasize the fact to his companion that a sentry should have been found stationed there—but a sharp glance at the policeman warned the latter that he ran considerable risk of a subsequent reprimand.
Conscious of rectitude, Farrow saluted, and produced his notebook.
"I've just made a memo of this, sir," he said, pointing to an entry.
Furneaux read: