It seems queer, but it was not until then that we remembered the Lelands, and Larry finally roused enough to call them. As I have said, their house is still in the heart of town, one of those survivors of a past age before cars came and most people either evacuated the city or moved into apartments. It is a big square red-brick affair which has never compromised with the last quarter century. The Lelands were like that too. They belonged to the no-surrender group. The old lady, Isabel’s grandmother, used a handsome pair of horses and a carriage for her daily outing until she died. Her spinster daughter, Eliza, had lived up to the family tradition, devoted herself to her mother and good works, and left Isabel a fortune in trust when she passed on, the Leland words for dying. Isabel’s father, Andrew—always Andrew, never Andy—still wore a small imperial and a stiff winged collar. He was a precise, dapper little man usually, but there was nothing precise about him when, at three that morning, he stormed into Larry’s house.

The first thing he saw however was Mother, and he stopped dead.

“What is all this?” he demanded. “What has happened? Where’s Isabel?”

“I’m sorry, Andrew,” Mother said. She had called him by his first name since the day Larry and Isabel were married, and he hated it. “I didn’t think Larry was being clear. It’s true.”

“You mean that Isabel—”

“They’ve taken her away. The police, I mean. I tried to stop them, but—Andrew, this will be a shock. She didn’t just die. She was—somebody killed her.”

He took it very well. You have to say that for the Lelands of this world. They can take it. Pride or simply restraint, they can take it. And Andrew Leland, save that he sat down suddenly on one of the hall chairs, kept himself well in control. He shook his head when I brought him some brandy.

“Just a moment,” he said. “I—I’m afraid I … It’s a great shock.” And after a minute: “Where is Lawrence? What does he know about this?”

“He found her,” said Mother. “That’s all he knows. He loved her and he found her. Just remember that, Andrew.”

She looked almost dangerous. They can talk all they like about a lioness protecting her young, but a lioness has nothing on a woman like Mother protecting her beloved son. She glared down at Andrew Leland, and he buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“God knows how I’m to tell Emily,” he said, and got up. “Where is Lawrence?” he inquired, more steadily.

“In the library. The police are there.”

He went in, not bothering to knock. The Inspector looked up, annoyed. Then he saw who it was and came forward.

“Very sorry about this, Mr. Leland,” he said. “Very sorry indeed.”

Andrew, however, was not looking at the Inspector. He was staring at Larry, sunk in a chair and looking collapsed. “I would like to speak to Mr. Shepard alone,” he said.