Lomas was in his room with Superintendent Bell, when Kimball came to them. He was brisker than ever. “Anything new, is there? Have you hit on anything? I came round at once, you see, when I got your note. Delighted to get it. Much better to have all the details cleared up. Well, what is it?” “I’m afraid I’ve nothing for you myself,” said Lomas. “The fact is, Fortune thought you might be able to give him some information on one or two points.” “I? God bless me, you know all that I know. Where is he, then, if he wants me?” And Reggie came. “Have you been waitin’?” he said, with his airiest manner. “So sorry. Things are really rollin’ up, you know. New facts by every post. Well, well.” He dropped into a chair and blinked at the party. “What are we all doin’ here? Oh, ah! I remember.” He smiled and nodded at Kimball. “It was that fellow I wanted to ask you about.” Kimball, as was natural, did not relish this sort of thing. “I understood you had something important on hand. I’ve no time to waste.” “Why, it’s so jolly hard to understand what’s important and what isn’t, don’t you know? But it all comes out in the end.” “You think so, do you? This is the coal affair?” “I wouldn’t say that,” Reggie answered thoughtfully. “No, I wouldn’t say that. After all, the Coal Ramp isn’t the only pebble on the beach.” “Then why the devil do you bother me?” Kimball cried. Reggie sat up suddenly. “Because this is something you must know.” He rearranged his coat and slid down into the chair again, and drawled out what he had to say. “Some time the end of last year--point of fact--last December--bein’ quite precise, from fifth to twenty-ninth--in one of the nursin’-homes in Queen Anne Street--speakin’ strictly, No. 1003--there was a man bein’ operated on by Sir Jenkin Totteridge for an affection of the middle ear. This chap was called Mason. You went to see him several times. Who was Mason?” Kimball stared at him with singular intensity. Then he swung half round in his chair with one of his characteristic jerky movements, and pulled out his snuffbox. He took a pinch. “You’ve found a mare’s nest,” he said, with a laugh, and took another pinch. As he spoke, Reggie sprang up with some vehemence, bumping into his arm. “Sorry--sorry. A mare’s nest, you say? Now what exactly do you mean by that?” Kimball stood up too. “I mean you’re wasting my time,” he said. “That isn’t what I should call an explanation,” Reggie murmured. “For instance, do you mean you didn’t go to see Mason?” “Don’t let’s have any more of this damned trifling,” Kimball cried. “Certainly I went to see Mason.” “Good! Who is he?” “Jack Mason is a fellow I knew in my early days. I went up and he didn’t. I’ve seen little of him this ten years. When he had that operation, poor chap, he wrote to me, and I went to see him for the sake of old times. And what the devil has it to do with Scotland Yard?” “Mason is the man who was found at the Montmorency House flats with his face smashed in.”