“You’re not staying at ‘the George,’ Bill.  Not officially.  You’re going back to London.”

“Oh!”

“Yes.  Ask Cayley to have your luggage sent in to Stanton, ready for you when you catch a train there after the inquest.  You can tell him that you’ve got to see the Bishop of London at once.  The fact that you are hurrying back to London to be confirmed will make it seem more natural that I should resume my interrupted solitude at ‘the George’ as soon as you have gone.”

“Then where do I sleep to-night?”

“Officially, I suppose, in Fulham Place; unofficially, I suspect, in my bed, unless they’ve got another spare room at ‘the George.’  I’ve put your confirmation robe—­I mean your pyjamas and brushes and things—­in my bag, ready for you.  Is there anything else you want to know?  No?  Then go and pack.  And meet me at ten-thirty beneath the blasted oak or in the hall or somewhere.  I want to talk and talk and talk, and I must have my Watson.”

“Good,” said Bill, and went off to his room.

An hour later, having communicated their official plans to Cayley, they wandered out together into the park.

“Well?” said Bill, as they sat down underneath a convenient tree.  “Talk away.”

“I had many bright thoughts in my bath this morning,” began Antony.  “The brightest one of all was that we were being damn fools, and working at this thing from the wrong end altogether.”

“Well, that’s helpful.”

“Of course it’s very hampering being a detective, when you don’t know anything about detecting, and when nobody knows that you’re doing detection, and you can’t have people up to cross-examine them, and you have neither the energy nor the means to make proper inquiries; and, in short, when you’re doing the whole thing in a thoroughly amateur, haphazard way.”

“For amateurs I don’t think we’re doing at all badly,” protested Bill.

“No; not for amateurs.  But if we had been professionals, I believe we should have gone at it from the other end.  The Robert end.  We’ve been wondering about Mark and Cayley all the time.  Now let’s wonder about Robert for a bit.”

“We know so little about him.”

“Well, let’s see what we do know.  First of all, then, we know vaguely that he was a bad lot—­the sort of brother who is hushed up in front of other people.”

“Yes.”

“We know that he announced his approaching arrival to Mark in a rather unpleasant letter, which I have in my pocket.”

“Yes.”

“And then we know rather a curious thing.  We know that Mark told you all that this black sheep was coming.  Now, why did he tell you?”

Bill was thoughtful for a moment.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that he knew we were bound to see him, and thought that the best way was to be quite frank about him.”

“But were you bound to see him?  You were all away playing golf.”