"Least said soonest mended," he communed, "but we may all be murdered in
our beds if them's the sort of 'tecs we 'ave to look arter us."

However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and some
pressmen, arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and the
kitchen was redolent of good fare. All parties gathered in the
dining-room, of course, and Ingerman had an eye for Mr. Franklin's party.
The scraps of talk he overheard were nothing more exciting than the
prospects of a certain horse for the Stewards' Cup. Peters had the tip
straight from the stables. A racing certainty, with a stone in hand.

After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, and
tapped him professionally on the shoulder.

"A word with you outside," he said.

Ingerman was irritated--perhaps slightly alarmed.

"Can't we talk here?" he said, in that singularly melodious voice of his.

"Better not, but I shan't detain you more than five minutes."

"Anything my legal adviser might wish to hear?"

"Not from me. Tell him yourself afterwards, if you like."

In the quiet street the detective suddenly linked arms with his
companion. Probably he smiled sardonically when he felt a telltale quiver
run through Ingerman's lanky frame.