Cleek screwed round on his heel, and watched the approach of this interesting pair with undisguised interest. Dollops' discovery had not been without its effect on him, although he proposed taking no active steps at present.

He might reasonably have expected Miss Wynne to make every effort to keep out of his way, but she was evidently bent on being seen as prominently as possible. By daylight she was even more attractive than she had appeared on the preceding night, and made a decidedly charming picture. Cleek found himself wondering how Sir Edgar had withstood her allurement, even with the memory of Lady Margaret Cheyne in his heart. The frail, frightened child fresh from the convent, patrician though she was, could not hold a candle, as the saying goes, to this daughter of a country doctor. Again the thought flashed across his mind. Was it all a blind, this man's love for the girl endowed with such a precious dowry; or did he but wish to obtain them in order that he might bring a bigger fortune to the hands of this country syren? He dismissed the idea instantly as unworthy of the man to whom he had taken an instinctive liking, notwithstanding the fact that by his reticence he was helping to complicate this most difficult case.

"Good morning, Mr. Policeman," said Miss Wynne, gaily, when the mutual introduction had been made. "I hope you have come to the conclusion this morning that I am not a suspicious character. Last night he wanted to arrest me for murder, Miss Lorne," and she gave a little shiver so obviously artificial that Cleek glanced at her quickly through half-narrowed lids.

"I should hope so, Miss Wynne," he said with an air of elaborate carelessness, which only Ailsa recognized at its true value. "No one would think of connecting so gruesome a thing as murder with you. I think we shall probably find it a case of suicide after all, don't you know."

Miss Wynne eyed him in open-eyed astonishment mingled with something that was closely akin to relief and then gave another affected giggle.

Miss Lorne had ignored her completely, knowing that Cleek was but posing for some purpose of his own, but now, in order to give him an opportunity to tackle Bobby Wynne, she engaged Jennifer in conversation.

Cleek did not take much liking to this exuberant young gentleman. About two and twenty, the evident idol of his sister, he was of a type who is to be found studying every sporting paper, and anxiously awaiting the arrival of each edition of the Evening News, to discover his gains or losses. It was not long before Cleek had him sized up, and a casual remark about waiting for a tip for to-morrow's Windsor 2:30 race, and a promise to pass it on to the young gentleman directly it came, made him his friend for life.

"It's all very well for silly girls like Jennifer to go on against racing. It's the finest sport in the world!" said young Wynne to Cleek as he edged him farther up the narrow lane and spoke in a confidential whisper, lest his voice should reach the sharp ears of his sister, though she was apparently deep in conversation with Ailsa.

"I can do with a good tip," went on this refreshing youth, "for I don't mind telling you that I got pretty badly hit at Newmarket last week. Newmarket always plays the deuce with me. Luckily Jenny sold some of her precious flowers and pulled me out of the hole, more than £50, you know. Pretty bad little hole, eh, what?"

He gave a fatuous little giggle that made Cleek feel inclined to shake him.

"But I don't mind, I'll win it all back next week, and I'll make it up to her," he went on hopefully, with a wink at his companion.

But Cleek's mind was now working at lightning speed, though he was apparently deeply interested in Wynne's conversation.

Fifty pounds paid for flowers. What flowers could this girl raise in a riverside cottage that would produce such a sum? Somebody must have paid heavily for something other than flowers; that was certain.

"Talking of flowers," he said, casually, as young Wynne stopped to light a fresh cigarette. "I'm a bit of a ruralist at times, and I'd like to see Miss Wynne's collection if I may. I go in for dahlias myself, but I suppose Miss Wynne's flowers are pretty valuable; orchids, and such like."

"Good lord, no, only those beastly smelling, sickly funeral flowers, hyacinths and tulip things," was the reply in an off-hand manner, "cheap as dirt they are, and how she gets the money beats me. But then Jenny always was a problem since the day she was born."

Cleek felt he wanted to see more of this interesting pair before he had done with them. Already he had gained some valuable information, for Miss Jennifer Wynne had evidently been well paid for her flowers, hyacinths or tulips or whatever they might be, or she could never have given this young idiot fifty pounds to pay his racing debts.

So well did he contrive to work his way into the good graces of both brother and sister that when Ailsa insisted on taking the short cut through the fields to her own home alone, Cleek was easily persuaded to return for lunch to the house where the young couple had lived ever since the days before their father's death. Herein were pictures of every horse, jockey, and trainer that had ever lived.

"See that horse there, Beauty?" said Wynne, after they had been in the house a few minutes. "Well, that old sport got me the finest gold watch I ever saw. That one over there is Bay Tree II, the best tip I ever had, 100 to 1 chance. Only I didn't have more than ten bob in my pockets, worse luck. I'll tell you about the rest after lunch if you like."

Cleek was frankly bored, but he kept his feeling in restraint, being on the watch to get what information he could.

"Delighted, my boy!" he said, cordially. Then as the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel outside came to his alert ears, he stopped short, and Wynne looked down through the open window and withdrew his head with a little muttered exclamation of disgust.

"Oh, hang it all," he growled, "now we're in for a visitation from that doctor chap. I can't stand that fellow Verrall at any price."

Dr. Verrall! Cleek turned as he heard the name and looked out of the window. He would have given anything to have overheard the meeting between him and Miss Jennifer downstairs.

That there was some secret connection between them he felt sure, and that Dr. Verrall would try to shield the girl he loved, even at the cost of his professional honour, was also an assured fact. He must get down as quickly and as quietly as possible, and he blamed himself and Bobby, whose offer to show him his pictures was the cause of his having been out of the room.

"Lord," he muttered, clapping his hand to his forehead and wheeling round blindly, "'pon me soul, I think he's just in time. Got one of these staggering attacks—got it through the Boer War, dontcher know. Don't you trouble, old man, I'll find my way down myself."

He lurched across the room and just as he passed the edge of the old-fashioned chest of drawers against the wall, his elbow caught the projecting edge of a book, and with a crash it fell to his feet. From between its leaves there fell some sporting prints, and a photograph of a man. Cleek stooped to replace them, when young Wynne sprang forward almost excitedly, snatching them from his hand, but not before Cleek had made a startling discovery. The picture was that of the man who lay murdered in the house of mystery, Cheyne Court. As if realizing that his act needed apology, young Wynne put the photo hastily back.

"Sorry I snapped at you, old chap," he said, a flush of mortification reddening his face. "Don't think me an ill-bred pup. Fact is, I was a bit excited and forgot for a moment. But that chap's a pal of mine, first class tipster he is, too. Jenny can't bear him, and if she knew I still get tips from him, she'd carry on like a wild cat, so mum's the word, old man."

"Of course," replied Cleek, hastily, a trifle shaken it must be confessed by this astonishing discovery. "'Tisn't likely I'm going to betray secrets—men of the world both of us." He winked broadly and young Wynne, his fears allayed and highly flattered at this "man of the world's" appreciation of him, winked back. "Besides, I shouldn't be surprised if that gentleman and I are not old acquaintances if I remember rightly."

Wynne fell into the trap as neatly as a mouse after a piece of cheese.

"What—Blake?" he ejaculated involuntarily.

"Ah, yes," Cleek nodded. "I thought as much. I knew I was right," he exclaimed with well-simulated enthusiasm. "That chap Blake did me a good turn once, bit of a tipster myself, but not a patch on him, dontcher know."

"Don't think any one could beat that old sport!" agreed Wynne, complacently, "why, he was the one who gave me the tip for Baytree—but I've had rotten luck lately. I don't know how I shall ever pay him."

Hmn—— Pay him? So that was how the land lay, was it? The boy was heavily in debt to Blake, and if he had been at Cheyne Court that night....

No, that was wrong, too, for there had been no trace of Bobby Wynne—up to the present.

Meanwhile that young gentleman was obviously waiting to lead him downstairs, and Cleek hesitated, trying to make up his mind what to do for the best.

He would have liked to stay in this racing den, try to trace the connection between Blake the tipster and Blake the head of the Pentacle Club, and to find out whether Master Bobby Wynne had had any suspicions as to the real identity of the "mistress" of Cheyne Court. But other things called. There was that Verrall chap downstairs with Jennifer Wynne herself. And the question of those utterly priceless flowers that could fetch as much as fifty pounds for their grower.

Silently he followed his host downstairs, still looking a bit hang-dog about the mouth for he was far too careful in his methods to cast any doubt regarding the genuineness of that sudden attack of a moment before by pretending that it was already over.

Nor did he fear that he had lost all opportunity for pursuing the subject of Bobby Wynne's acquaintance with the murdered man. The mere fact that the young man feared discovery of his connection with this Blake proved conclusively that he knew his danger and that at any moment inquiry might be made, even though there was no actual proof that he had been in the vicinity of Cheyne Court that night.

"Fearfully groggy, old chap," he said in answer to Wynne's inquiry as to whether he felt any better. They were passing down a dark, narrow passage at the moment and a little door stood ajar toward the end of it. A quick glance showed Cleek that the room beyond this door was lined with shelves on which stood numerous rows of bottles.

Bobby Wynne's face seemed to whiten with unwonted anger. He gave a sharp exclamation, and ran back to close the door quickly.

"The old guv'nor's surgery," he said in explanation. "Wonder who's been in? Door's been kept locked ever since the old man died. Hullo, Headland, you're not going to have another attack, are you?" For Cleek had suddenly lurched against the bannister at the head of the stairs, and swung round, until his back was resting against it.

He lolled his head back, gave a sort of hollow groan, and then under cover of this began swiftly to count the doors in order to make sure of the location of that surgery.

"No, it's only just a passing spasm. I was just wondering whether your old dad had anything in his surgery to pull me together, clever chaps some of these doctors, dontcher know."

Bobby Wynne groaned. For once he was disposed to be cautious, and there was evidently some reason why he did not wish any one to look into that surgery. And that was just why Cleek wanted to get into it. He felt tolerably sure that it would contain a quantity of prussic acid, and a stab of memory brought up the sight of long, slender finger-marks——

Get into that room he must. So leaning heavily on young Wynne, he said "I'm all right now. I'll get a pick-me-up presently."

And descending the staircase arm in arm, they entered the dining room together.