He was a tall man in the middle-thirties, with very wide-set grey eyes, and a humorous mouth. As he stepped into the hall he exchanged a glance with Stella, who at once went forward to greet him. “Oh Deryk, thank God you've come!” she said, taking his hand.

“Stella, not with your uncle lying dead upstairs!” begged Miss Matthews distractedly. “Not that I disapprove, because I'm sure dear Dr Fielding—But after all Gregory said—though I daresay he feels quite differently now that he's passed on: I believe they do, though I've never been able to understand why. Oh dear, how very confusing it all is! If I'd ever dreamed it would all be so difficult and unpleasant I should have been the last person in the world to have wanted Gregory to die. It was the duck, doctor. I implored him not to eat it, but he would go his own way, and now he's dead, and there are two beautiful lamb cutlets gone to waste. Eaten in the kitchen! English lamb!”

Dr Fielding, returning the pressure of Stella's fingers, broke in on this monologue to request that he might be taken at once to Gregory Matthews' room.

“Oh yes!” said Miss Matthews, looking round in a flustered way. “Of course! I should take you up myself, only that I feel I never want to enter the room again. Guy, you are the man of the house now!”

“No one need take me up,” replied Dr Fielding. “I know my way.”

Beecher coughed, and stepped forward to the foot of the stairs. “If you please, sir, I will escort you to the Master's room.”

The doctor looked at him. “You were the one who found Mr Matthews, I think? By all means come up.”