Lane felt he would like to discuss this matter in strict confidence with somebody as clever as himself. Sellars was very intelligent in his own way, had a wonderful nose for investigation when he was once put on the right track, when, to use a hunting metaphor, he had picked up the scent. But he lacked experience and he was not very imaginative—he had little faculty of anticipating facts, in contrast to Lane, who had moments of inspiration which guided him instinctively in a puzzling labyrinth. Casting about in his mind for a helpful confidant, he thought at once of his old friend MacKenzie, who now occupied a prominent position at Scotland Yard. They had joined the Force together as young men, had risen together, step by step, till separation came when Lane decided to set up for himself. Of the two, Lane was slightly the better man, owing to the particular streak of imagination—that frequency of inspiration to which allusion has been made. But MacKenzie was only slightly inferior; very sound, very painstaking, very logical. There was perfect confidence between the two men. If MacKenzie wanted counsel or sometimes assistance from Lane, he applied to him without hesitation; and his friend as frequently availed himself of the shrewd Scotchman’s powers of analysis and deduction. There was nothing the two men enjoyed more than a long yarn over their experiences, to the accompaniment of a good cigar and a stimulating dose of sound whisky. “Ah, glad to see you, my boy, it’s a little time since we met,” was MacKenzie’s greeting to his old friend and comrade, uttered in his rather broad Scotch, which need not be reproduced here. “We are rather quiet at the moment, nothing very exciting, just a few simple little things. I hope you have got something really worth taking trouble about.” “I’ve got in hand one of the most remarkable cases I think I’ve ever had in my life,” was Lane’s reply, and he straightway plunged into a full recital of the Morrice mystery and the salient facts connected with it. His friend listened with the deepest attention, and when it was finished the two men engaged in a long and animated discussion, exhausting the arguments for and against the various hypotheses that were thrown out first by the one and then by the other. “Well, now, about this Clayton-Brookes,” said MacKenzie presently. “I think I can give you a little assistance. We’ve had him under observation since a little after you left us, and that’s a few years ago now.” “Ah!” Lane drew a deep breath. He was glad that he had paid this visit to his old friend and wished that he had come sooner. The Scotchman waved his big hand round his comfortable, roomy apartment. “I wouldn’t care to say it outside these four walls, and not to more than a few inside them, because we’ve nothing but very substantial conjecture, and up to the present we’ve not been able to lay a finger on him, he’s so devilish clever. But there’s no doubt he’s a ‘wrong ’un.’”