The other men were lunching at the golf club.

He made his way slowly to the impromptu shed which served for a garage.

His own car was standing there.

He looked all around to make sure that he was absolutely alone.

Then he lifted up the cushion by the driving-seat.
Carefully folded and arranged in the corner were the horn-rimmed spectacles and the silk handkerchief of the man who was lying at Market Burnham with a bullet through his forehead..