“I’m beyond shame,” he said lightheartedly; “and, besides, I’ve heard. You were asking about Reale. Reale is a character. For twenty years proprietor of one of the most delightful gambling plants in Egypt, Rome--goodness knows where. Education--none. Hobbies--invention. That’s the ‘bee in his bonnet’--invention. If he’s got another, it is the common or garden puzzle. Pigs in clover, missing words, all the fake competitions that cheap little papers run--he goes in for them all. Lives at 43 Terrington Square.” “Where?” The Commissioner’s eyebrows rose. “Reale? 43 Terrington Square? Why, of course.” He looked at Angel queerly. “You know all about Reale?” Angel shrugged his shoulders. “As much as anybody knows,” he said. The Commissioner nodded. “Well, take a cab and get down at once to 43 Terrington Square. Your old Reale was murdered last night.” It was peculiar of Angel Esquire that nothing surprised him. He received the most tremendous tidings with polite interest, and now he merely said, “Dear me!” Later, as a swift hansom carried him along Whitehall he permitted himself to be “blessed.” Outside No. 43 Terrington Square a small crowd of morbid sightseers stood in gloomy anticipation of some gruesome experience or other. A policeman admitted him, and the local inspector stopped in his interrogation of a white-faced butler to bid him a curt “Good morning.” Angel’s preliminary inspection did not take any time. He saw the bodies, which had not yet been removed. He examined the pockets of both men, and ran his eye through the scattered papers on the floor of the room in which the tragedy had occurred. Then he came back to the big drawing-room and saw the inspector, who was sitting at a table writing his report. “The chap on the top floor committed the murder, of course,” said Angel. “I know that,” said Inspector Boyden brusquely. “And was electrocuted by a current passing through the handle of the safe.” “I gathered that,” the inspector replied as before, and went on with his work. “The murderer’s name is Massey,” continued Angel patiently--“George Charles Massey.” The inspector turned in his seat with a sarcastic smile. “I _also_,” he said pointedly, “have seen the envelopes addressed in that name, which were found in his pocket.” Angel’s face was preternaturally solemn as he continued-- “The third man I am not so sure about.” The inspector looked up suspiciously. “Third man--which third man?” Well-simulated astonishment sent Angel’s eyebrows to the shape of inverted V’s. “There was another man in it. Didn’t you know _that_, Mr. Inspector?” “I have found no evidence of the presence of a third party,” he said stiffly; “but I have not yet concluded my investigations.”