"Shall I write to your dressmaker?" said Mr. Manley.

"No, thank you. I shall be able to tell her what I want better myself."

Mr. Manley withdrew in a pleasant temper. It was true that as a student
of dramatic emotion he had been disappointed by the calmness with which
Olivia had received the news of the murder; but she had instructed him to
do everything he thought fit. He saw his way to controlling the
situation, and ruling the Castle till some one with a better right should
supersede him. He was halfway along the corridor before he realized that
Olivia had asked no single question about the circumstance of the crime.
Indifference could go no further. But--he paused, considering--was it
indifference? Could she--could she have known already?

As he came down the stairs Wilkins opened the door of the big hall, and a
man of medium height, wearing a tweed suit and carrying a soft hat and a
heavy malacca cane, entered briskly. He looked about thirty. On his heels
came a tall, thin police inspector in uniform.

Mr. Manley came forward, and the man in the tweed suit said: "My name is
Flexen, George Flexen. I'm acting as Chief Constable. Major Arbuthnot is
away for a month. I happened to be at the police station at Low Wycombe
when your news came, and I thought it best to come myself. This is
Inspector Perkins."

Mr. Manley introduced himself as the secretary of the murdered man, and
with an air of quiet importance told Mr. Flexen that Lady Loudwater had
put him in charge of the Castle till her lawyer came. Then he took the
keys of the smoking-room and the library door from his pocket and said: