Gifford spoke.  “From what one could judge of the dead man’s personality and character it is not a far-fetched supposition that he must have had enemies.”

“Down here?” Morriston objected incredulously.  “Where he was a stranger?  Unless some ingenious person, bent on vengeance, tracked him here and then lured him into the tower.  Then how did the determined pursuer contrive to leave him and the key inside the locked room?”

At Wynford Place, where they had now arrived, they found several callers.  The subject of the tragedy was naturally uppermost in everybody’s mind, and the principal topic of conversation.  Morriston and his companions were eagerly questioned as to what had come out at the inquest, but, except that the medical evidence was rather sceptical of the suicide theory, were unable to relieve the curiosity.

“I think, my dear Dick,” remarked Lord Painswick, who was there, “we can furnish more evidence in this room than you seem to have got hold of at the inquest.”  And he looked round the company with a knowing smile.

“What do you mean, Painswick?” Morriston asked eagerly.  “Has anything more come to light?”

“Only we have had a lady here, Miss Elyot, who says she danced with the poor fellow.”

“I only just took a turn with him, for the waltz was nearly over when he asked me,” said the girl thus alluded to.

“Did you wear a green dress?” Kelson asked eagerly.

“Yes.  Why?”

“Only that it must have been you I saw with him.”

“And can you throw any light on the mystery?” Morriston asked.

The girl shook her head.  “None at all, I’m afraid.”

“Did Mr. Henshaw’s manner or state of mind strike you as being peculiar?”

“Not in the least,” Miss Elyot answered with decision.  “During the short time we were together our talk was quite commonplace, mostly of the changes in the county.”

“Did he, Henshaw, know it formerly?” Morriston asked with some surprise.

“Oh, yes,” Miss Elyot answered, “he used to stay with some people over at Lamberton; you remember the Peltons, Muriel?” she turned to Miss Tredworth.  “Of course you do.”

“Oh, yes,” Muriel Tredworth answered.  “I remember them quite well, although we didn’t know much about them.”

“Don’t you recollect,” Miss Elyot continued, “meeting this very Mr. Henshaw at a big garden party they gave.  I know you played tennis with him.”

“Did I?” Miss Tredworth replied.  “What a memory you have, Gladys.  You can’t expect me to recollect every one of the scores of men I must have played tennis with.”

As she spoke she caught Gifford’s eye; he was watching her keenly, more closely perhaps than manners or tact warranted.  “And do you find the place much changed since your time, Mr. Gifford?” she inquired, as though to relieve the awkwardness.

“Not as much as I could have imagined,” he answered, through what seemed a fit of preoccupation.