"No. I had other things to bother me."
"Now, Mr. Fenley, can you tell me where your brother is?"
"I can not."
He placed a rather unnecessary emphasis on the negative. The question seemed to disturb him. Evidently, if he could consult his own wishes, he would prefer not to discuss his brother.
"I take it he has not been home since leaving here on Saturday?" persisted Winter.
"That is so."
"Had he quarreled with your father?"
"There was a dispute. Really, Mr. Winter, I must decline to go into family affairs."
"But the probability is that the more we know the less our knowledge will affect your brother."
The door opened again. Mr. Winter was wanted on the telephone. Then there happened one of those strange coincidences which Furneaux's caustic wit had christened "Winter's Yorkers," being a quaint play on the lines: