in a frenzied fashion until it stood upright in little tufts, looked even less like a peer of the realm than usual.
“Where’s the body?” asked the doctor, in curt business-like fashion.
Lord Caterham turned to him as though relieved at being asked a direct question.
“In the Council Chamber—just where it was found—I wouldn’t have it touched. I believed—er—that that was the correct thing to do.”
“Quite right, my lord,” said the inspector approvingly.
He produced a notebook and pencil.
“And who discovered the body? Did you?”
“Good Lord, no,” said Lord Caterham. “You don’t think I usually get up at this unearthly hour in the morning, do you? No, a housemaid found it. She screamed a good deal, I believe. I didn’t hear her myself. Then they came to me about it, and of course I got up and came down—and there it was, you know.”
“You recognized the body as that of one of your guests?”
“That’s right, inspector.”
“By name?”
This perfectly simple question seemed to upset Lord Caterham. He opened his mouth once or twice, and then shut it again. Finally he asked feebly,
“Do you mean—do you mean—what was his name?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Well,” said Lord Caterham, looking slowly round the room, as though hoping to gain inspiration. “His name was—I should say it was—yes, decidedly so—Count Stanislaus.”
There was something so odd about Lord Caterham’s manner, that the inspector ceased using his pencil and stared at him instead. But at that moment a diversion occurred which seemed highly welcome to the embarrassed peer.
The door opened and a girl came into the room. She was tall, slim and dark, with an attractive boyish face, and a very determined manner. This was Lady Eileen Brent, commonly known as Bundle, Lord Caterham’s eldest daughter. She nodded to the others, and addressed her father directly.
“I’ve got him,” she announced.
For a moment the inspector was on the point of starting forward under the impression that the young lady had cap-
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