ulate man. Not one weakness that might be served up as a criminal tendency, not one deviation from the path of rectitude, not even a hint of a predilection for the opposite sex, was found to be placed to his debit. His life had been as regular and austere as a monk’s; his habits, simple and unconcealed. Generous, charitable, and a model in propriety, was the verdict of all who knew him.
“What, now?” asked Robbins, fingering his empty notebook.
“Cherchez la femme,” said Dumars, lighting a cigarette. “Try Lady Bellairs.”
This piece of femininity was the race-track favourite of the season. Being feminine, she was erratic in her gaits, and there were a few heavy losers about town who had believed she could be true. The reporters applied for information.
Mr. Morin? Certainly not. He was never even a spectator at the races. Not that kind of a man. Surprised the gentlemen should ask.
“Shall we throw it up?” suggested Robbins, “and let the puzzle department have a try?”
“Cherchez la femme,” bummed Dumars, reaching for a match. “Try the Little Sisters of What-d’-you-call-’em.”
It had developed, during the investigation, that Mr. Morin had held this benevolent order in particular favour. He had contributed liberally toward its support and had chosen its chapel as his favourite place of private worship. It was said that he went there daily to make
