Newmarket, and we usually rent a flat in town for the season. Hunter’s Lodge is looked after by a housekeeper who is quite capable of doing all we need when we run down for an occasional week-end. Of course, during the shooting season, we take down some of our own servants from Newmarket.

“My uncle, Mr. Harrington Pace (as you may know, my mother was a Miss Pace of New York), has for the last three years made his home with us. He never got on well with my father, or my elder brother, and I suspect that my being somewhat of a prodigal son myself rather increased than diminished his affection toward me. Of course, I am a poor man, and my uncle was a rich one—in other words, he paid the piper! But though exacting in many ways, he was not really hard to get on with, and we all three lived very harmoniously together.

“Two days ago my uncle, rather wearied with some recent gayeties of ours in town, suggested that we should run down to Derbyshire for a day or two. My wife telegraphed to Mrs. Middleton, the housekeeper, and we went down that same afternoon. Yesterday evening I was forced to return to town, but my wife and my uncle remained on. This morning I received this telegram.”

He handed it over to me, and I read:

CONTENTS

Come at once. Uncle Harrington murdered last night. Bring good detective if you can, but do come.

Zoe.

“Then as yet you know no details?”

“No, I suppose it will be in the evening papers. Without doubt the police are in charge.”

It was about three o’clock when we arrived at the little station of Elmer’s Dale. From there a five-mile drive brought us to a small gray stone building in the midst of the rugged moors.

“A lonely place,” I observed.

Havering nodded.

“I shall try and get rid of it. I could never live here again.”

We unlatched the gate and were walking up the narrow path to the oak door when a familiar figure emerged and came to meet us.

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