“So he’s pinched Miss Weston, has he?” the little Jew lisped. “He’s a hustler.” “Oh, I expect he’s arrested Ford too, by now. Me and you in a minute. He’s a zealous fellow. By the way, Gordon, who is Ford?” “Yes. He’s a dark horse, ain’t he? I only met him once, doctor. You could see poor old Birdie was sweet on him.” “Oh, so Miss Weston was telling the truth about that.” “Why, didn’t you believe her, doctor?” “D’you know, I wonder if I believe anything I’ve heard in this house.” “Like that, is it?” Gordon lisped. “Just like that,” said Reggie. A gravity had come over the perky little Jew, which he found very engaging. Mr. Gordon nodded at him. “Birdie was the one and only,” he said, and Reggie nodded back. “Nice flowers, doctor,” a new voice said. Reggie turned to see the small insignificance of Superintendent Bell, greeted him heartily, introduced Mr. Gordon. “Am I _de trop_, as the French say?” said Superintendent Bell. “No? Thought it might be a council of war.” “Oh, is it war?” Reggie said. “Well, you know, you’ve quarrelled with Inspector Mordan.” The Superintendent shook his head at Reggie. “I wouldn’t dare. He quarrelled with me.” “Such a pity.” The Superintendent smiled and rubbed his hands. “I ought to tell you, doctor, I quite approve of everything that Inspector Mordan has done.” “Splendid force, the police,” Mr. Gordon lisped. “Wonderful force. So forcible.” “Including the arrest of Miss Weston?” Reggie asked. “Well, well. Any one else you’d like to arrest?” “Any one you suggest, doctor? Now I ask you--what would you have done?” “Oh, I’m not in the force.” “We do have to be so careful,” the Superintendent sighed. “That’s a handicap, that is. I wonder why you wanted me, doctor?” “I’m frightened of your inspector. He’s not chatty. I want to photograph the body.” The Superintendent turned to Gordon. “It’s a taste, you know, that’s what it is. He likes corpses. Speaking as man to man, doctor, are you working with us?” “May I?” “That’s very handsome. Yes. Inspector Mordan, he has a kind of a manner, as you might say. I’ll speak to him. Is there anything you’d like to tell me, doctor?” “Nice flowers, aren’t they?” Reggie nodded to the rose-bed under Birdie Bolton’s window. It was minutely neat. “Look as if they’d been brought up by hand,” said the Superintendent, but he looked at Reggie, not the roses. “Anything queer, sir?” “There’s that,” Reggie said. He pointed to a spray of the Gloire de Dijon beside the window. It bore a bud; it had been broken, and the bud was limp and dead. “That wasn’t broken last night,” said the Superintendent. “No. That’s what’s interesting,” said Reggie, and turned away. At the door and in the drive there was some congested traffic. Mr. Ford’s big car still waited. Reggie’s humbler car had come back with his camera. The taxis of Mr. Gordon and Superintendent Bell took up more room. And yet another taxi was trying to get to the steps. “Who’s this, Superintendent?”