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Updated: June 26, 2025
From its summit, and from no other part of the wood, they could see the east front of The Towers. In fact, while perched there, having climbed its shoulder with great care lest certain definite tokens of a recent intruder should be obliterated, they discovered a dusty motor car ranged between the doctor's runabout and the Fenley limousine, which had returned.
I don't see that we are any nearer laying hands on a murderer because we have unearthed various little scandals in the lives of Mortimer Fenley's sons. And what game are you playing with this artist, Trenholme?" "The supremely interesting problem just now is the game which he is playing with Robert Fenley.
She had no one to confide in. For reasons beyond her ken Mortimer Fenley had set his face against any of her school friends being invited to the house, while Mrs. Fenley, by reason of an unfortunate failing, was a wretched automaton that ate and drank and slept, and alternated between brief fits of delirium and prolonged periods of stupor induced by drugs.
"Come, now, Bates," said Furneaux, "you can tell us the day Mr. Robert Fenley left home recently? There is no harm in mentioning his name. It can't help being in our thoughts, since it was discovered that his gun was missing." "He went off on a motor bicycle last Saturday mornin', sir." "Can you fix the hour?" "About half past ten." "You have not seen him since?" "No, sir."
"You didn't really think she would eh, what? But look here, I'll buy it. Send me a line later." He hurried after Sylvia, running to overtake her. Trenholme stood there a long time; in fact, until the two were hidden by the distant line of trees. Then he smiled. "So you are Robert Fenley," he communed, packing the portfolio leisurely.
Fenley, you would have twigged him, too." "It strikes me that way, sir." "Did you see nothing not even a puff of smoke? You must certainly have looked at the wood when you heard the shot." "I did, sir. Not a leaf moved. Just a couple of pheasants flew out, and the rooks around the house kicked up such a row that I didn't know the Guv'nor was down till Harris shouted."
Mortimer Fenley, a private banker in the City, was shot dead about nine thirty at his own front door. His place is The Towers, which stands in a park between the villages of Roxton and Easton, in Hertfordshire.
Albans to London, and take the High Barnet road to the City; but Fenley produced a five-pound note at the right moment, and the man reflected that his master would not hesitate to oblige a wealthy client, who evidently meant to make good the wear and tear on the car. In about an hour Fenley alighted on the pavement opposite the firm's premises in Bishopsgate Street.
I wish to Heaven Bob had gone to Africa, as he was planning. Then all this misery would have been avoided." "Do you mean your father's death?" Fenley started. He had not weighed his words. "Oh, no, no!" he cried hurriedly. "Don't try to trip me into admissions, Mr. Winter. I can't stand that, damned if I can."
All three, detective and police, were on their feet promptly, for none was seriously injured; but Furneaux was dazed and had to grope for the torch, and the second constable's lamp had gone out owing to a rush of oil from the cistern. Thus, during some precious seconds, they were in total darkness. Meanwhile Fenley had escaped. Luck, after deserting him, had come to his rescue in the nick of time.
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