Mr. Jacobs, the detective from Scotland Yard, arrived at the Hall a
little after four. He was a short, comfortable-looking person, with a
round, almost boyish face, a pleasant smile and a pair of blue eyes,
with a frank and innocent expression; in fact, anything more unlike the
conventional detective beloved by the fictionist it would be difficult
to imagine. The Inspector had met him at the station, and had gone over
the case with meticulous care; and Mr. Jacobs, smoking placidly, had
listened--well, as you and I, dear reader, would listen to a tale which
had no very great interest for us. If the truth must be told, the worthy
Inspector was rather disappointed; he had expected the great man to
display a hawk-like acuteness and to ask a number of incisive questions;
but Mr. Jacobs asked none; he said merely, when the recital was
finished, "You have done everything you could, Mr. Smith. Not a very difficult
case, eh?"

"Not difficult!" repeated the Inspector, with surprise. "Have you got a
clue already?"

Mr. Jacobs smiled. "Can't say yet," he replied.

As they drove up to the Hall, Heyton was seen standing just within the
threshold, as if waiting for them.

"Lord Heyton, the Marquess's son," whispered the Inspector.

Mr. Jacobs nodded; he did not direct a piercing glance at Heyton's pale
face and bloodshot eyes, with their swollen lids; in fact, he did not
appear to notice anything, as he went forward, hat in hand.