'My lord, do you know the original of that?'
Mr. FitzHoward handed on the likeness to the young gentleman.
'I do. It's the portrait of my brother.'
'Thank you. You see, Mr. Howarth, the connection between them is not so shadowy as it seems you'd like us to think; it's recognised by every one but you. And we're still waiting for you to explain how the Marquis of Twickenham came to die of heart disease.'
Mr. Howarth looked at Mr. FitzHoward as if he'd have liked to have torn him in pieces. I'm confident that if it hadn't been for all of us being there, there'd have been violence used.
'I'm not a medical man, you--clever fellow.'
'It seems as if you know how to manufacture heart disease to order, anyhow.'
'What the----!'
He moved forward so that I thought he was going to strike him; only at the last moment he stopped short and changed his mind. The young gentleman laid his hand on Mr. FitzHoward's shoulder.
'Come, sir; let us not deal in innuendo, if you please. Here comes some one who may be able to give you the information you require.' An old gentleman came into the room. He wore gold spectacles. With the fingers and thumb of one hand he lifted them in their place on his nose as he advanced. 'Sir Gregory, this is very kind of you. Your arrival is most opportune. A rather curious point has arisen with regard to my brother's death. We require your aid for its solution. I believe that you certified that the cause of his death was heart disease.'