He seemed a little surprised at my urgency, but waved his hand and was off. I continued my walk, but no longer slowly. I always walk quickly when I am interested, excited or moved by any emotion. I was now all three. Maxwell! Dud Hanson knew him, and had even fancied that I might have known him myself! Whatever luncheon engagement Hanson might have had that day I can assure you that I should have urged him to break it. My Club is in Piccadilly, and I waited for him in the entrance hall with impatience. I gave his name to the porter as expressly as if otherwise he might have been denied; I set my watch by the club clock, I fiddled with the skeins of tape in the baskets. I had even a momentary scare lest I should not have pronounced the name of my Club distinctly or lest by any chance he should have misheard. You see the reason for my eagerness. Maxwell was our unknown quantity, the one big blank in our Case. One or another of us could contribute his portion of knowledge about everybody else, but nobody knew anything of Maxwell. His function was entirely unconsidered, his rights totally disregarded. Rights? I know nothing of the law of the matter, nor whether a dead man has rights; but if he has they should be all the more enforceable because he is in no position to enforce them for himself. What would Maxwell have had to say about his own shooting? What had brought about that shooting? Was he the kind of man who, in Monty Rooke's large and equable view of the crime of murder, ought to have been shot? Or was he the other kind, whose death was a loss to the world? These were a few of the questions I wanted Dud Hanson to help me to answer. He appeared, and we made our way to the dining-room at once. I gave the order for the whole of the lunch so that we might be interrupted as little as possible, and then I came straight to the point. "First of all," I said, "you say you knew Maxwell. Do you know the fellow who came down with him--C. V. Smith?" "Smith? Smith? Yes, I think I do, if he was Bobby's pilot out there. Smith's a pretty common name. Slightish build, but tough as they make 'em--dashing sort of chap with very lively dark eyes?" At the time I could not verify this physical description. "Well, were they friends?" I asked. "I guess a pilot and his observer are like the little birds in their nests--it's dangerous to fall out," Hanson replied. "What's _to_ all this?" "The position's this. They happened to crash on the roof of a friend of mine and this fellow Smith's. Smith's still in hospital, and neither my friend nor I knew Maxwell. So I want you to tell me about him--anything you know about the pair of them." "Right you are...."