Miss Silver, who had been watching him, produced an encouraging smile. Like a great many other people who had had dealings with her he had a flash back to his schoolroom days-his very first schoolroom when he was a very small boy, everything frightfully new and desperately unknown. And the teacher, that awful, godlike being behind the desk, had looked at him and smiled-“Come, Latter-I am sure you know that answer.” Absurd reminiscence. He had a smile for it himself.

Miss Silver was saying, “Pray continue, Mr. Latter. I shall be glad to know just how things stand.”

His face hardened.

“I came down early this morning. Miss Vane rang me up. By the way, do you know who we all are?”

“I think so. Mr. Latter gave me a good deal of information when he came to see me. You mean Miss Julia Vane?”

His brows drew together.

“Yes-my fiancée.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Mr. Latter did not mention that.”

He said shortly, “We were not engaged then.”

“I see-Miss Vane telephoned you, and you came down early.”

“Yes. My cousin is in a dreadful state.” He hesitated, for a moment and then went on. “There had been a-” He hesitated again.

“A quarrel?”

Something inside him said, “How did you know?” He would have denied it if it had been any use. But it wasn’t any use. Murder is like the day of judgment-the secrets of all hearts are opened. He frowned deeply and took another word.

“They had had a disagreement. It makes it much worse for him. He reproaches himself. And the police-”

“Yes, Mr. Antony?”

He said gloomily,

“It puts ideas into their heads. That’s why we thought it would be a good thing if you came down. That is to say, it was my cousin who thought about it. It’s the only thing that has seemed to rouse him at all, and we agreed that he ought to have someone to advise him.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“You say that it puts ideas into their heads. What kind of ideas?”

“I expect you can guess.”

There was a shade of reproof in her look.

“What I require just now is facts, not guesswork, Mr. Antony. I would like the answers to one or two questions. Has the post-mortem taken place? If it has, to what is Mrs. Latter’s death attributed?”

She got her answer to both questions in a single word.

“Morphia.” Then, after a moment, “A considerable quantity.”

She said, “Dear me! Was she known to have any in her possession?”

He shook his head.

“She never took drugs. She was boasting about it one of the last times I saw her. She had-a very good complexion. She was laughing and saying it was because she never took anything like that. I don’t know how we got on to the subject, but that’s what she said.”

“Morphia is not very easy to get hold of nowadays. It could be obtained abroad… Did anyone else in the house have any in their possession?”

“Not that I know of-I should think it most unlikely. I’m the only one who has been abroad. I certainly did not bring any morphia back with me.”

Miss Silver gave him a long look, deep, kind, and searching.

“Do you think that Mrs. Latter committed suicide?”

“I should say it was most unlikely.”

He received an inclination of the head which appeared to express approval.

“That is honest of you. It will make my work very much easier if everyone will be as frank. It would interest me to hear your reasons for the opinion you have just expressed.”

Antony was not feeling particularly frank. The midnight scene in his room stuck in his mind. He didn’t believe that Lois had taken her life. He told himself with emphasis that he didn’t believe it. But she might have done. She had offered herself and been refused, and Jimmy had come in. Suppose it really was suicide… He felt a kind of horror at the thought, which was purely instinctive, since reason was prompt to suggest that any other solution must be more horrible still. He spoke quickly lest Miss Silver should read his thoughts.

“She was very fond of her life. She had most things she wanted-good looks, health, money. She was full of plans.”

Miss Silver considered that. She put the word “most” away for future thought. She enquired,

“Do the police reject the idea of suicide?”

“I gather the local Inspector made it tolerably clear that he didn’t think much of it. What the Yard people think, I don’t know. They haven’t been here very long.”

Miss Silver looked up brightly.

“Do you mean that Scotland Yard has been called in?”

“Yes. I take it that means they don’t think it’s suicide.” He gave a short hard laugh. “Old Marsfield, the Chief Constable, is a family friend. My guess is he’s dropping the case before it burns his fingers. He’s a bit of an old woman anyway. The idea of encountering a criminal in his own walk of life has never occurred to him till now, and it’s given him the jitters- he can’t get rid of us fast enough. Hence Chief Inspector Lamb and Sergeant Abbott.”

Miss Silver coughed.

“Two excellent and intelligent officers,” she said.

Chief Detective Inspector Lamb sat solidly in Jimmy Latter’s heavy oak writing-chair, which he filled a good deal better than Jimmy did. On the table in front of him was a pile of papers. He had left his bowler hat in the hall and appeared, in his neat dark clothes, as a stout, strongly built figure, very upright and as solid as the oak which supported him. His strong black hair had receded a little at the temples, leaving his large square face rather more in evidence than it had been twenty years before. His round brown eyes, which Frank Abbott irreverently compared to peppermint bullseyes- the dark, strongly flavoured kind-were turned upon that young man, who in a beautiful suit of summer grey sat in an easy attitude on the farther side of the table. There could have been no greater contrast than that which the two men presented. Lamb, the old-time policeman, experienced in discipline and life, just, honest, intelligent. Frank Abbott, product of the public school and Police College, much more educated, but under all his irreverence a loyal subordinate and a staunch admirer of his chief. To look at him, one would not suppose him to be given to loyalties and admirations. Rather an exquisite young man-rather blasé, very fair hair slicked back with unguents, pale blue eyes fixed in a meditative stare, the latest collar, the latest tie, hands noticeably well shaped and beautifully kept, slim elegant feet in slim elegant shoes.

The Chief Inspector tapped the table and said,

“Well, Frank, what do you make of it?”

“It’s not for me to say, sir.”

Lamb made a sound which might have been described as a snort.

“Oh, it isn’t, isn’t it? Very proper and respectful all of a sudden, aren’t you? Not feeling ill, I suppose?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

The table was banged.

“Then come off it! I asked you a question.”

Sergeant Abbott smiled negligently.

“I should like to hear your opinion first, sir.”

The Chief Inspector’s colour had risen. Frank was an insubordinate young dog. There were times when he wanted taking down a peg or two. There were times when he got the taking down. This morning had been one of the times, and Lamb had dealt faithfully. Young men with swelled heads were what he never had tolerated and never would. Frank was a good boy, but none the worse for a setting down-too free by half with his opinions. And now he was getting his own back. Insubordination-that was what it was, and he’d got him in a cleft stick. You can’t discipline a man for being respectful. He said rather loudly,

“It’s too soon to be giving opinions, but if the locals hadn’t thought it was murder they wouldn’t have called us in.”

Frank Abbott gave a slight cool nod.

“As you say, sir.”

“The Chief Constable didn’t want to be mixed up in it. I don’t think his opinion’s worth having. He’s overdue for retirement. But that Inspector-what’s his name, Smerdon?-he’s a smart fellow, there’s no doubt about what he thinks. And Dr. Hathaway. The doctor’s right, you know, about sleeping-draught suicides-they take the stuff in bed, every man jack of them. I suppose it’s natural-what they call association of ideas. You go to bed and you go to sleep- especially the women. The only exceptions I can think of are the people who try and get off the map altogether-go off into a wood or something like that where they think they won’t be found. Now this Mrs. Latter, she’s a smart, sophisticated woman-a goodlooker too. She’s had a row with her husband. He finds her in his cousin’s room in the middle of the night. By Mrs. Marsh’s account she’s chucked herself at his head, and he isn’t having any. Then the husband comes in-says he’s heard everything and sends her packing. Well, there’s no denying that’s a slap in the face for a woman- about the worst she could have. She might commit suicide.”