His unfavourable impression of Miss Fewbanks was deepened when he saw her
and heard what she had to tell him. The girl had come up from the country
filled with horror at the crime which had deprived her of a father, and
firmly determined to leave no stone unturned to bring the murderer to
justice. It was true that she and her father had lived on terms of
partial estrangement for some time past because of his manner of life,
but all the girl's feelings of resentment against him had been swept away
by the news of his dreadful death, and all she remembered now was that he
was her father, and had been brutally murdered.

When she sent for Inspector Chippenfield she had visited the room in
which lay the body of her father. It had been placed in a coffin which
was resting on the undertaker's trestles in the bay embrasure of the big
room with the folding doors. There was nothing in the appearance of the
corpse to suggest that a crime had been committed, but it had been
impossible for the undertaker's men to erase entirely the distortion of
the features so that they might suggest the cold, calm dignity of a
peaceful death. The ordeal of looking on the dead body of her father had
nerved her to carry through resolutely the task of discovering the author
of the crime.

She awaited the coming of the inspector in a small sitting-room, and
when he entered she pointed quickly to a chair, but remained standing
herself. In appearance Miss Fewbanks was a charming girl of the typical
English type. She was of medium height, slight, but well-built, with
fair hair and dark blue eyes, an imperious short upper lip and a
determined chin, and the clear healthy complexion of a girl who has
lived much out of doors. The inspector noted all these details; noted,
too, that although her breast heaved with agitation she had herself well
under control; her pretty head was erect, and one of her small hands was