"Ah, sir. That brings your illustration home, indeed. But shall we ever know who killed him?"
"Certainly. Look at that high dome of intelligence glistening at you across the table. But that it is forbid to tell the secrets of the prison house, it could a tale unfold whose slightest word would harrow up thy soul——"
Harris, the footman, entered, carrying a decanter.
"Mr. Hilton Fenley's compliments, gentlemen, and will you try this port? He says Mr. Tomlinson will recommend it, because Mr. Fenley himself seldom takes wine. Mr. Fenley will not trouble you to meet him again this evening. Mr. Tomlinson, Mr. Fenley wants you for a moment."
The butler rose.
"That is the very wine I spoke of," he said. "If Mr. Hilton did not touch it, Mr. Robert evidently appreciated it."
He glanced at Harris, but the footman did not even suspect that his character was at stake. The decanter was nearly full when placed on the sideboard; now it was half empty.
Singularly enough, both Winter and Furneaux had intercepted that questioning glance, and had acquitted Harris simultaneously.
"Are the gentlemen still in the dining-room?" inquired Winter.
"Mr. Hilton is there, sir, but Mr. Robert went out some time since."