ments, a spire or so, oriel windows, a dome, Tudor chimneys, and some wedding-cake furbelows.
Reggie writhed and called to his factotum, who was sitting beside the chauffeur. "Sam, who had that nightmare?"
"That must be Colney Towers, sir. Mr. Victor Lunt's place."
Reggie groaned. "And Victor yet lives!"
A mile or two farther on they ran into a village which, before ruthless fellows stuck garden-city cottages on to it, must have been placid and pretty. The car drew up at an honest Georgian lump of red brick which bore the plate of Dr. Gerald Barnes.
Gerald Barnes was a ruddy young man who looked and dressed like a farmer. "I say, this is very decent of you. Jolly day, isn't it?" he bustled.
"Have you a fire, Barnes—a large fire? Put me on it," said Reggie. "And don't be so cheerful. It unnerves me." Still in his fur coat, Reggie planted himself in front of the consulting-room hearth. "Now, what do you want me for?"
"Well, it's not so much me, though I'd like your opinion. It's more Lady Lunt. Medically speaking, it's a pretty straight case. Lunt was shot in the chest and the bullet lodged in the spine, •38 revolver bullet. So there's not much doubt about the cause of death, what? But there are one or two odd things. The right thumb seems to be sprained.
