"May I ask who you're talking about?" inquired Robert Fenley hoarsely.
"About that precious rogue, your half brother," was the answer. "That is why he went to his bedroom, one window of which looks out on the park and the other on the east front, where he watched his father standing to light a cigar before entering the motor. He laid the cord before breakfast, knowing that Miss Manning's habit of bathing in the lake would keep gardeners and others from that part of the grounds. When the shot was fired he pulled in the cord——"
"I saw him doing that," interrupted Trenholme, who, after one glance at the signs of his handiwork on Robert Fenley's left jaw, had devoted his attention to the extraordinary story revealed by the detectives.
"You saw him!" And Furneaux wheeled round in sudden wrath. "Why the deuce didn't you tell me that?"
"You never asked me."
"How could I ask you such a thing? Am I a necromancer, a wizard, or eke a thought reader?"
Trenholme favored the vexed little man with a contemplative look.
"I think you are all those, and a jolly clever art critic as well," he said.
Furneaux was discomfited, and Winter nearly laughed. But the matter at issue was too important to be treated with levity.