Hadn't you thought of talking to Miss Bolton's solicitors?"
"Never you mind what I thought of. Don't you use that telephone again. I won't have it."
"Oh, yes, you will. Now I'm going to talk to Superintendent Bell." The inspector was visibly startled. For Superintendent Bell was near the summit of the Criminal Investigation Department. "Any objection? No? How nice of you. . . ." He conferred with the telephone, and at length: "Dr. Fortune. Yes. Oh, is that you, Bell? So glad. I wish you'd come along here, Normanhurst, Westhampton. One of my patients murdered. No, not by me. Quite unusual case. Yes, it is the Birdie Bolton case. The inspector in charge is such a good, kind man. Sweet face he has. You'll come right on? So glad." Reggie put down the receiver and smiled upon the puzzled inspector. "That's that," he said, and went out. Samuel, the chauffeur, put away his picture paper. "I want my camera," Reggie said, and Samuel touched his hat and drove off. Reggie sauntered into the garden.
Normanhurst, as you know, is a low, spreading house of a comfortable Victorian dowdiness. There are—don't count the attics—only two stories. It is old enough to be quite covered with climbing plants—ivy on the north, roses and a wisteria on
