"None at all, I am sorry to say," Kelson answered readily. "I may as well tell you how our very slight acquaintance with him came about."

"If you please," Henshaw responded, in a tone more of command than request.

Kelson, naturally ignoring his questioner's slightly offensive manner, thereupon related the circ.u.mstances of the encounter at the station-yard and of the subsequent drive to the town, merely softening the detail of their preliminary altercation. Henshaw listened alertly intent, it seemed, to seize upon any point which did not satisfy him.

"That was all you saw of my unfortunate brother?" he demanded at the end.

"We saw him for a few moments in the hall of the hotel just as we were starting," Kelson answered.

"You drove here together? No?"

"No; your brother took an hotel carriage, and I drove in my own trap."

"With Mr. ----?" he indicated Gifford, who up to this point had not spoken.

"No," Gifford answered. "I came on later. A suit-case with my evening things had gone astray--been carried on in the train, and I had to wait till it was returned."

Henshaw stared at him for a moment sharply as though the statement had about it something vaguely suspicious, seemed about to put another question, checked himself, and turned about with a gesture of perplexity.

"I don't understand it at all," he muttered. Then suddenly facing round again he said sharply to Gifford, "Have you anything to add, sir, to what your friend has told me?"

"I can say nothing more," Gifford answered.

Henshaw turned away again, and seemed as though but half satisfied.

"The facts," he said in a lawyer-like tone, "don't appear to lead us far.

But when ascertained facts stop short they may be supplemented. Apart from what is actually known--I ask this as the dead man's only brother--have either of you gentlemen formed any idea as to how he came by his death?"

He was looking at Morriston, his cross-examining manner now softened by the human touch.

"It has not occurred to me to look beyond what seems the obvious explanation of suicide," Morriston answered frankly.

Henshaw turned to Kelson. "And you, sir; have you any idea beyond the known facts?"

"None," was the answer, "except that he took his own life. The door locked on--"

Henshaw interrupted him sharply. "Now you are getting back to the facts, Captain Kelson. I tell you the idea of my brother Clement taking his own life is to me absolutely inconceivable. Have you any idea, however far-fetched, as to what really may have happened?"

Kelson shook his head. "None. Except I must say he looked to me the last man who would do such an act."

"I should think so," Henshaw returned decidedly. Then he addressed himself to Gifford. "I must ask you, sir, the same question."

"And I can give you no more satisfactory answer," Gifford said.

"As a man with knowledge of the world as I take you to be?" Henshaw urged keenly.

"No."

"At least you agree with your friend here, that my poor brother did not strike one as being a man liable to make away with himself?"

"Certainly. But one can never tell. I knew nothing of him or his affairs."

"But I did," Henshaw retorted vehemently. "And I tell you, gentlemen, the thing is utterly impossible. But we shall see. The body--is it here?"

"The police have charge of it in the room where he was found. It is to be removed at nightfall. You will wish to see it?" Morriston answered.

"Yes."

Morriston led the way to the tower, explaining as he went the arrangements on the night of the ball. Henshaw spoke little, his mood seemed dissatisfied and resentful, but his sharp eyes seemed to take everything in. Once he asked, "Did my brother dance much?"

"He was introduced to a partner," Morriston replied. "But after that no one seems to have noticed him in the ball-room."

"You mean he disappeared quite early in the evening?"

"Yes; so far as we have been able to ascertain," Morriston answered.

"Naturally, before this awful discovery we had been much exercised by his mysterious disappearance and failure to return to the hotel."

"All the same," Henshaw returned sourly, "one can hardly accept the inference that he came down here for the express purpose of making away with himself in your house."

"No, I cannot understand it," Morriston replied, as he turned and began to ascend the winding stairway.

On the threshold of the topmost floor he paused.

"This is the door we found locked on the inside," he observed quietly.

Henshaw gave a keen look round, and nodded. Morriston pushed open the door and they entered.

The body of Clement Henshaw still lay on the floor in charge of the detective and the inspector, the third man having been despatched to the town to make arrangements for its removal. With a nod to the officials, Henshaw advanced to the body and bent over it. "Poor Clement!" he murmured.

After a few moments' scrutiny, Henshaw turned to the officers. "I am the brother of the deceased," he said, addressing more particularly the detective. "What do you make of this?"

The question was put in the same sharp, business-like tone which had characterized his utterances in the library.

"Judging by the door being locked on the inside," the detective answered sympathetically, "it can only be a case of suicide."

Henshaw frowned. "It will take a good deal to persuade me of that," he retorted. "Mr. ----"

"Detective-Sergeant Finch."

"Mr. Finch. Did the doctor say suicide?"

"I did not hear him express a definite opinion. Did you, inspector?"

"No, Mr. Finch. I rather presumed the doctor took it for granted."

"Took it for granted!" Henshaw echoed contemptuously. "I'm not going to take it for granted, I can tell you. Did the doctor examine the body?"

"He made a cursory examination. He is arranging to meet the police surgeon for an autopsy to-morrow morning."