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That sort of idea. I could work out that later. The thing was to get to Kilmorden Castle as quickly as possible.
    I made a strategic sally from my room, and returned laden with books of reference. Who's Who, Whitaker, a Gazeteer, a History of Scotch Ancestral Homes, and Somebody or other's British Isles.
    Time passed. I searched diligently, but with growing annoyance. Finally, I shut the last book with a bang. There appeared to be no such place as Kilmorden Castle. Here was an unexpected check. There must be such a place. Why should anyone invent a name like that and write it down on a piece of paper? Absurd!
    Another idea occurred to me. Possibly it was a castellated abomination in the suburbs with a high-sounding name invented by its owner. But if so, it was going to be extraordinarily hard to find. I sat back gloomily on my heels (I always sit on the floor to do anything really important) and wondered how on earth I was to set about it.
    Was there any other line I could follow? I reflected earnestly and then sprang to my feet delightedly. Of course! I must visit the “scene of the crime.” Always done by the best sleuths! And no matter how long afterwards it may be they always find something that the police have overlooked. My course was clear. I must go to Marlow.
    But how was I to get into the house? I discarded several adventurous methods, and plumped for stern simplicity. The house had been to let -presumably was still to let. I would be a prospective tenant.
    I also decided on attacking the local house-agents, as having fewer houses on their books.
    Here, however, I reckoned without my host. A pleasant clerk produced particulars of about half a dozen desirable properties. It took me all my ingenuity to find objections to them. In the end I feared I had drawn a blank.
    “And you've really nothing else?” I asked, gazing pathetically into the clerk's eyes. “Something right on the river, and with a fair amount of garden and a small lodge,” I added, summing up the main points of the Mill House, as I had gathered them from the papers.
    “Well, of course, there's Sir Eustace Pedler's place,” said the man doubtfully. “The Mill House, you know.”
    “Not - not where -” I faltered. (Really, faltering is getting to be my strong point.)
    "That's it! Where the murder took place. But perhaps you wouldn't like -
    “Oh, I don't think I should mind,” I said with an appearance of rallying. I felt my bona fides was now quite established. “And perhaps I might get it cheap - in the circumstances.”
    A master touch that, I thought.
    “Well, it's possible. There's no pretending that it will be easy to let now -servants and all that, you know. If you like the place after you've seen it, I should advise you to make an offer. Shall I write you out an order?”
    “If you please.”
    A quarter of an hour later I was at the lodge of the Mill House. In answer to my knock, the door flew open and a tall middle-aged woman literally bounced out.
    “Nobody can go into the house, do you hear that? Fairly sick of you reporters, I am. Sir Eustace's orders are -”
    “I understood the house was to let,” I said freezingly, holding out my order. “Of course, if it's already taken -”
    “Oh, I'm sure I beg your pardon, miss. I've been fairly pestered with these newspaper people. Not a minute's peace. No, the house isn't let -nor likely to be now.”
    “Are the drains wrong?” I asked in an anxious whisper.
    “Oh, Lord, miss, the drains is all right! But surely you've heard about the foreign lady as was done to death here?”
    “I believe I did read something about it in the papers,” I said carelessly.
    My indifference piqued the good woman. If I had betrayed any interest, she would probably have closed up like an oyster. As it was, she positively bridled.
    “I should say you did, miss! It's been in all the newspapers. The Daily Budget's out still to catch the man who did it. It seems, according to them, as our police are