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salad, apart from pleasing the eye.”
    â€œThat’s a nice bit of Stilton,” added Inspector Heather on a more solid note.
    At this juncture Mary Standish brought in a dish of steaming potatoes and two pint tankards of ale and set them down on the table.
    â€œIf you want anything else, gentlemen, will you kindly strike the gong? The electric bells are not working to-day.”
    â€œRight you are,” replied Inspector Heather, settling down with a business-like air to the meal.
    Algernon Vereker, however, remained standing until Mary Standish had left the dining-room, for if anything in the world could disturb his equanimity it was the sudden birth of an inspiration to paint.
    â€œA portrait, inspector, a portrait!” he exclaimed. “Now, I’ve been looking for such a face for years—an uncommonly beautiful face. How often the words are used, and how seldom charged with meaning save to an artist.”
    â€œHow about her young man?” asked Inspector Heather with a heavy wink.
    â€œThere’s something in what you say, inspector,” continued Vereker, “but, as an artist, I want to paint her face, and he doubtless wants to kiss it. She’s radiant!”
    â€œYou’re already losing interest in the Bygrave case, Mr. Vereker,” remarked the inspector. “I’m afraid you’re a painter and not a detective. This salad’s uncommonly beautiful too.” He laughed as he helped himself to a liberal portion.
    â€œNo, I’m working steadily away on the case, inspector. It has not been out of my mind for a moment. You know that modern psychology has knocked the bottom out of the old theory that you can’t think of two things at once—ay, and do them.” Algernon Vereker’s face was temporarily eclipsed by an upturned tankard.
    â€œShe’s got the nicest nose I’ve ever seen on a woman,” he continued on reappearance. “That’s saying something; for my sister Marjorie’s took some beating.”
    Inspector Heather smiled; noses, to him, always bordered on the ludicrous. They suggested colds and comedians and Ally Sloper, and something to punch. They were as much a portion of stock British humour as kippers, landladies and mothers-in-law—but that anyone should have, so to speak, a taste in noses verged on sheer lunacy.
    Vereker could see that his enthusiasm was unintelligible to his companion and, rising from his chair, walked over to the gong and struck it lightly.
    â€œCan’t see too much of a beautiful thing,” he remarked, and when Mary Standish appeared he turned to Heather. “I think coffee and cigars would assist us over the mental strain of further brilliant deductions.”
    â€œNot a bad idea, but I prefer my pipe,” replied Inspector Heather.
    â€œWell then we’ll cut out cigars, because I, too, prefer my briar, and now, while you seek any information you require from Miss Standish, I’ll go and get that tin of Bygrave’s tobacco.”
    Algernon Vereker left the room and went upstairs to Lord Bygrave’s room. He pulled the bunch of keys from his pocket, looked at all the keys carefully and examined the leather buttonholed tab at the other end of the chain. Then, opening the kit-bag once more, he extracted the tin of tobacco, filled his pouch, relocked the bag and returned to the dining-room, where Inspector Heather was still interrogating Mary Standish.
    â€œYou say Lord Bygrave hadn’t shaved before breakfast?” he asked.
    â€œI’m sure he didn’t, sir, because he hadn’t that fresh look which distinguishes a cleanly-shaved man. The can of hot water which I left at his door had not been used, and I don’t remember seeing his shaving requisites on his dressing-table.”
    â€œYou bear me out,” replied Inspector Heather, glancing at Vereker.
    â€œThat’s something you’ve extracted,” remarked Vereker quietly.