Glass laid down the receiver, and restored his handkerchief to his pocket. "Lo, this is the man that made not God his strength, but trusted in his riches," he said.

The sombre pronouncement recalled Simmons's thoughts. He gave a sympathetic groan. "That's true, Mr. Glass. Woe to the crown of pride! But how did it happen? How do you come to be here? Oh dear, oh dear, I never thought to be mixed up with a thing like this!"

"I came up that path," said Glass, nodding towards the French windows. He drew a notebook from his pocket, and the stub of a pencil, and bent an official stare upon the butler. "Now, Mr. Simmons, if you please!"

"It's no use asking me: I don't know anything about it, I tell you!"

"You know when you last saw Mr. Fletcher alive," said Glass, unmoved by the butler's evident agitation.

"It would have been when I showed Mr. Budd in," replied Simmons, after a moment's hesitation.

"Time?"

"I don't know - not for certain, that is. It was about an hour ago." He made an effort to collect his wits, and added: "About nine o'clock. I was clearing the table in the dining-room, so it couldn't have been much later."

Glass said, without raising his eyes from his notebook: "This Mr. Budd: known to you?"

"No. I never saw him before in my life - not to my knowledge."

"Oh! When did he leave?"

"I don't know. I didn't know he had left till I came in just now. He must have gone by the garden-way, same as you came in, Mr. Glass."

"Was that usual?"