They were still waiting when the foreman at Riven’s wool store made his unspeakable discovery. By that time the trail was cold. The wool-shed had been cleaned out, the shearers had moved on, heavy rains had fallen, nobody could remember with any degree of accuracy the events of the fatal evening. Your colleagues of our inspired detective force are still giving an unconvincing impersonation of hounds with nose to ground. They return at intervals and ask us the same questions all over again. That’s all really. Or is it?”

“It’s a very neat résumé at all events,” said Alleyn. “But I’m afraid I shall have to imitate my detested colleagues and ask a great many questions.”

“I am resigned.”

“Good. First, then, is your household unchanged since Mrs. Rubrick’s death?”

“Arthur died of heart trouble three months after she disappeared. We’ve acquired a housekeeper, an elderly cousin of Arthur’s, called Mrs. Aceworthy, who quarrels with the outside men and preserves the proprieties between the two girls, Douglas and myself. Otherwise there’s been no change.”

“Yourself,” said Alleyn, counting. “Captain Grace, who is Mrs. Rubrick’s nephew, Miss Ursula Harme, her ward, and Miss Terence Lynne, her secretary. What about servants?”

“A cook, Mrs. Duck, if you’ll believe me, who has been at Mount Moon for fifteen years, and a man-servant Markins, whom Flossie acquired in a fashion to be related hereafter. He’s a phenomenon. Men-servants are practically nonexistent in this country.”

“And what about the outside staff at that time? As far as I can remember there was Mr. Thomas Johns, the manager, his wife and his son Cliff, an odd man — is roustabout the right word? — called Albert Black, three shepherds, five visiting shearers, a wool classer, three boys, two gardeners, a cow-man and a station cook. Right?”

“Correct, even to the cow-man. I need tell you nothing, I see.”