it to be, 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
