“And about your engagement also,” said Caranby without a vestige of a smile.  “That should interest a young man of your ardent temperament.  I certainly thought the subject amused you.”

“Would you be surprised to learn that my engagement has been broken off since our conversation,” said Cuthbert, crossing his legs.

“No!  Who can account for the whims of a woman.  After all, perhaps you are to be congratulated on not marrying a weathercock.”

“Juliet has nothing to do with the breaking of our engagement.  Her mother objects.”

“I understood for the last six months that her mother not only approved, but was delighted.”

“That is the strange part, sir.  On hearing of the death of her sister, Mrs. Octagon suddenly changed her mind, and told me that the marriage could not take place.”

“Did she give any reason?”

“She declined to do so.”

“The same woman,” muttered Caranby, “always mysterious and unsatisfactory.  You say her sister is dead?”

Cuthbert cast a look at the Globe, which lay on a small table near Caranby’s elbow.  “If you have read the papers, sir—­” “Yes!  I have read that Miss Loach has been murdered.  You went down to Rexton to-day.  I presume you heard something more than the details set forth by the press.”

Cuthbert nodded.  “It appears to be a mystery.”

Caranby did not reply, but looked into the fire.  “Poor Selina!” he said half to himself.  “A sad end for such a charming woman.”

“I should hardly apply that word to Miss Loach, sir.  She did not appear to be a lady, and was by no means refined.”

“She must have changed then.  In her young days she and her sister were the handsomest women in London.”

“I believe you were engaged to one of them,” said Mallow politely.

“Yes,” replied his uncle grimly.  “But I escaped.”

“Escaped?”

“A strange word is it not, but a suitable one.”

Cuthbert did not know what to make of this speech.  “Have I your permission to smoke?” he asked, taking out his case.

“Yes!  Will you have some coffee?”

“Thank you.  I had some before I came here.  Will you—­” he extended the case of cigarettes, which Caranby declined.

“Ring for Fletcher to get me my chibouque.”

“It is in the corner.  We will dispense with Fletcher with your permission.”  And Cuthbert brought the chibouque to his uncle’s side.  In another minute the old man was smoking as gravely as any Turk.  This method of consuming tobacco was another eccentricity.  For a few moments neither spoke.  Then Caranby broke the silence.

“So you want me to help you to find out Mrs. Octagon’s reason?”

“I do,” said Mallow, rather surprised by Caranby’s perspicuity.

“What makes you think I can explain?”

Cuthbert looked at his cigarette.  “I asked you on the chance that you may be able to do so,” he said gravely.  “The fact is, to be frank, Mrs. Octagon appears to think you might have something to do with the crime.”