"Very little," Mr. Jacks admitted; "but, you see, in the case of
theories one must build them brick by brick. Then if, after all,
as we reach the end, the foundation was false, well, we must
watch them collapse and start again."

"Supposing we leave these generalities," Penelope remarked, "and
get on with those questions which you wish to ask me. My aunt, as
you may have heard, is an invalid, and although she seldom leaves
her room, this is one of the afternoons when she sometimes sits
here for a short time. I should not care to have her find you."

The Inspector leaned back in his chair. It was a very pleasant
drawing room, looking out upon the Park. A little French clock, a
masterpiece of workmanship, was ticking gayly upon the
mantelpiece. Two toy Pomeranians were half hidden in the great
rug. The walls were of light blue, soft, yet full of color, and
the carpet, of some plain material, was of the same shade. The
perfume of flowers--the faint sweetness of mimosa and the
sicklier fragrance of hyacinths--seemed almost overwhelming, for
the fire was warm and the windows closed. By the side of
Penelope's chair were a new novel and a couple of illustrated
papers, and Mr. Jacks noticed that although a paper cutter was
lying by their side the leaves of all were uncut.

"These questions," he said, "may seem to you irrelevant, yet
please answer them if you can. Mr. Hamilton Fynes, for
instance,--was he, to your knowledge, acquainted with Mr. Richard
Vanderpole?"

"I have never heard them speak of one another," Penelope