inclined to like young Mr. Marlowe. Though he seemed so near a physical
breakdown, he gave out none the less that air of clean living and inward
health that is the peculiar glory of his social type at his years. But there
was something in the tired eyes that was a challenge to Trent's penetration;
an habitual expression, as he took it tobe, of meditating and weighing things
not present to their sight. It was a look too intelligent, too steady and
purposeful, to be called dreamy. Trent thought he had seen such a look before
somewhere. He went on to say: 'It is a terrible business for all of you. I
fear it has upset you completely, Mr. Marlowe.'

'A little limp, that's all,' replied the young man wearily. 'I was driving the
car all Sunday night and most of yesterday, and I didn't sleep last night
after hearing the news--who would? But I have an appointment now, Mr. Trent,
down at the doctor's--arranging about the inquest. I expect it'll be tomorrow.
If you will go up to the house and ask for Mr. Bunner, you'll find him
expecting you; he will tell you all about things and show you round. He's the
other secretary; an American, and the best of fellows; he'll look after you.
There's a detective here, by the way--Inspector Murch, from Scotland Yard. He
came yesterday.'

'Murch!' Trent exclaimed. 'But he and I are old friends. How under the sun did
he get here so soon?'

'I have no idea,' Mr. Marlowe answered. 'But he was here last evening, before
I got back from Southampton, interviewing everybody, and he's been about here
since eight this morning. He's in the library now--that's where the open
French window is that you see at the end of the house there. Perhaps you would
like to step down there and talk about things.'

'I think I will,' said Trent. Marlowe nodded and went on his way. The thick