His sister-in-law, who was seated at the other end of the table, looked across at him with a bright but stereotyped smile.

“I agree with you, of course, Miles.  I always agree with you.  Mr. Fentolin has the knack of being right about most things,” she continued, turning to Lord Saxthorpe.  “His judgment is really wonderful.”

“Wish we could get him to come and sit on the bench sometimes, then,” Lord Saxthorpe remarked heartily.  “Our neighbours in this part of the world are not overburdened with brains.  By-the-by,” he went on, “that reminds me.  You haven’t got such a thing as a mysterious invalid in the house, have you?”

There was a moment’s rather curious silence.  Mr. Fentolin was sitting like a carved figure, with a glass of wine half raised to his lips.  Gerald had broken off in the middle of a sentence and was staring at Lord Saxthorpe.  Esther was sitting perfectly still, her face grave and calm, her eyes alone full of fear.  Lord Saxthorpe was not an observant man and he continued, quite unconscious of the sensation which his question had aroused.

“Sounds a silly thing to ask you, doesn’t it?  They’re all full of it at Wells, though.  I sat on the bench this morning and went into the police-station for a moment first.  Seems they’ve got a long dispatch from Scotland Yard about a missing man who is supposed to be in this part of the world.  He came down in a special train on Tuesday night—­the night of the great flood—­and his train was wrecked at Wymondham.  After that he was taken on by some one in a motor-car.  Colonel Renshaw wanted me to allude to the matter from the bench, but it seemed to me that it was an affair entirely for the police.”

As though suddenly realising the unexpected interest which his words had caused, Lord Saxthorpe brought his sentence to a conclusion and glanced enquiringly around the table.

“A man could scarcely disappear in a civilised neighbourhood like this,” Mr. Fentolin remarked quietly, “but there is a certain amount of coincidence about your question.  May I ask whether it was altogether a haphazard one?”

“Absolutely,” Lord Saxthorpe declared.  “The idea seems to be that the fellow was brought to one of the houses in the neighbourhood, and we were all rather chaffing one another this morning about it.  Inspector Yardley—­the stout fellow with the beard, you know—­was just starting off in his dog-cart to make enquiries round the neighbourhood.  If any one in fiction wants a type of the ridiculous detective, there he is, ready-made.”

“The coincidence of your question,” Mr. Fentolin said smoothly, “is certainly a strange one.  The mysterious stranger is within our gates.”

Lady Saxthorpe, who had been out of the conversation for far too long, laid down her knife and fork.

“My dear Mr. Fentolin!” she exclaimed.  “My dear Mrs. Fentolin!  This is really most exciting!  Do tell us all about it at once.  I thought that the man was supposed to have been decoyed away in a motor-car.  Do you know his name and all about him?”