“That’s a thought,” Reggie admitted, and the Superintendent lifted an eyebrow at him. “You ought to have Ford watched. No, I mean it. If I was you, Inspector, I’d have his place watched night and day.” The Inspector was visibly gratified. “I know my business, thank you,” he said. “I say, doctor--it is growing, isn’t it?” “Oh, yes, as if it was forced,” Reggie smiled. “What do you mean?” The Inspector flushed. “You see, you’re so witty, Mordan,” said the Superintendent. “And that’s that,” Reggie yawned. “You don’t really want me any more. Good-bye. Oh, Inspector--I don’t want you to be disappointed. The murder wasn’t done in that room where you found the body. Good-bye!” “Wasn’t done----” The Inspector stared after him. “Good Lord, he’s mad!” “Better get him to bite you, Mordan,” said the Superintendent. * * * * * That party did not meet again till the day of the inquest. Before the court met, Superintendent Bell called on Reggie and found him in a bad temper. This was unusual, and equally unusual in the Superintendent’s experience was a pallor, a certain tension, across Reggie’s solid, amiable face. A civil question about his health brought a snappish answer. It seemed to the Superintendent that Dr. Fortune had been making a night of it. “Well, what is it?” Reggie snarled. “Got anything to tell me?” “I’ve been rather disappointed,” the Superintendent said meekly. “More fool you. I told you to watch Ford.” “That’s it, sir. Were you pulling my leg?” “Oh, damn it, man, this is serious! Miss Bolton was a patient of mine. I don’t let any one but me kill my patients.” “Very proper, I’m sure,” the Superintendent agreed. “But we have watched him, doctor. Nothing doing.” “Set a man to stand on his doorstep, I suppose. What’s the good of that?” “As you say,” the Superintendent agreed. “We’ve picked up one thing, though. Just before the murder his father turned him down for wanting to marry this girl Weston. He hasn’t a penny except from his father. That might have made him desperate--him and the girl. It does grow, you know, doctor.” “Queer case,” Reggie grunted. “Going to the inquest? Sorry I can’t drive you down. My chauffeur’s taking a day off.” So they walked to the coroner’s court, and on the way Superintendent Bell used his large experience in the art of extracting confidences in vain. But Reggie mellowed, perceptibly mellowed, as he baffled Superintendent Bell. The court was crowded to its last inch. The coroner was conscious of his importance, and made the most of it in a long harangue. The divisional surgeon was more pompous than ever, and made it a point of honour to use terms so technical that all his evidence had to be translated to the jury, and the coroner and he argued over the translation. “What a life, ain’t it?” Mr. Gordon murmured in Reggie’s ear.