They all wanted to know everything he could tell them concerning Tom May.  Had he enemies?  Was it conceivable that he might have even bitter and unscrupulous enemies?

“Dear Mary is keeping up splendidly,” said Mrs. Travers.  “She is magnificent.  Thank Heaven I have been some little help to her.”

“You have, Nelly, without a doubt.”

“Do try to eat more, Walter,” urged Ernest Travers.  “Much lies before you.  Indeed, the worst has yet to come.  You must keep up for all our sakes.  How thankfully I would share your load if I could!”

“I hope you are going to make this an official matter, Sir Walter, and communicate with the Society for Psychical Research,” urged Felix Fayre-Michell.  “It is just a case for them.  In fact, when this gets known widely, as it must, of course, a great many skilled inquirers will wish to visit Chadlands and spend a night in the room.”

“The police will have to be considered first,” declared Colonel Vane.  “This is, of course, a police affair.  I should think they will so regard it.  There is the Service, too.  The Admiralty will be sure to do something.”

“Is he to be buried at Chadlands?  I suppose so, poor fellow,” murmured Ernest Travers.  “I think your family graves so distinguished, Walter—­so simple and fine and modest—­just perfectly kept, grassy mounds, and simple inscriptions.  I was looking at them after service to-day.  The vicar made a very tactful allusion to the great grief that had overtaken the lord of the manor at the end of his sermon.”

Henry assisted his uncle to the best of his power.  It was he who went into the question of the Sunday service from the neighboring market town, and proved, to the relief of Colonel Vane and Mr. Miles Handford, that they might leave in comfort before nightfall and catch a train to London.

“A car is going in later, to meet poor Tom’s father,” he said, “and if it’s any convenience, it would take you both.”

The pair thankfully agreed.

Then Colonel Vane interested Sir Walter in spite of himself.  The latter had spoken of an inquiry, and Vane urged a distinguished name upon him.

“Do get Peter Hardcastle if you can,” he said.  “He’s absolutely top hole at this sort of thing at present—­an amazing beggar.”

“I seem to have heard the name.”

“Who hasn’t?  It was he who got to the bottom of that weird murder in Yorkshire.”

“It was weird,” said Handford.  “I knew intimate friends of the murdered man.”

“A crime for which no logical reason existed,” continued the colonel.  “It puzzled everybody, till Hardcastle succeeded where his superior officers at Scotland Yard had failed.  I believe he’s still young.  But that was less amazing than the German spy—­you remember now, Sir Walter?  The spy had been too clever for England and France—­thanks to a woman who helped him.  Peter Hardcastle got to know her; then he actually disguised himself as the woman—­ of course without her knowledge—­arrested her, and kept an appointment that she had made with the spy.  What was the spy called?  I forget.”