“God bless my soul! Mason! Poor chap, poor chap! But what are you talking about? The papers said that was a man called Rand.” “Mason, otherwise Rand. Rand, otherwise Mason. Who was Mason, and why did somebody kill him?” Kimball made one of his jerky gestures. “Killed, was he? I thought he fell out of the window.” “He was murdered.” “Good God! Old Jack Mason! It’s beyond me. I haven’t a notion. You know this upsets me a good deal. I’ve seen little of him for a long time. I can hardly believe he’s gone. But why the devil did he call himself Rand?” “What was he?” said Reggie sharply. “God bless me, I couldn’t tell you,” Kimball laughed. “He was always very close. An agent in a small way, when I knew him--colonial produce, and so forth. I fancy he went in for building land. Comfortably off always, but he never got on. Very reserved fellow. Loved to be mysterious. No. I suppose it isn’t surprising he used two names.” “Why was he murdered?” said Reggie. “I can’t help you.” “That’s all you can say?” “Yes. Afraid so. Yes. Let me know as soon as you have anything more. Good morning, good morning.” He bustled out. “A bit hurried, as you might say,” said Superintendent Bell. Reggie picked up a paper-knife and fell on his knees. He rose with some fragments of white powder on the blade. “I suppose you saw me jog his arm,” he said. “And that’s cocaine.” He tumbled Lomas’s paper-clips out of their box and put the stuff in. “Do you remember the first time we had him here, he took snuff? I thought he was rather odd about it and after it, and I went over to the window where he stood to see if I could find any of the stuff he used. But he’d been careful. He is careful, is Kimball.” “He is damned careful,” Lomas agreed, and began to write on a scribbling-pad, looking at each word critically. There was a pause. “Beg your pardon, sir,” said Superintendent Bell. “You talked about the murder being a madman’s job. Do you mean Mr. Kimball, being a dope fiend, is not responsible for his actions?” “O Lord, no. Kimball’s not a dope fiend. He uses the stuff same like we use whisky. He’s not a slave to it yet. Say he’s a heavy drinker. It’s just beginnin’ to interfere with his efficiency. That’s why he left the box behind in the bathroom; that’s why he’s a little jerky. But he’s pretty adequate still.” “You talked about mad. You were emphatic, as you might say,” Bell insisted. “What might you have in your mind, sir? Mr. Kimball’s generally reckoned uncommon practical.” “He isn’t ordinary mad,” said Reggie. “He don’t think he’s Julius Cæsar or a poached egg. He don’t go out without his trousers. He don’t see red and go it blind. But there is something queer in him. I doubt if they’re physical, these perversions. Call it a disease of the soul.” “Ah, well, his soul,” said Bell gravely. “I judge he’s not a Christian man.” “I wish I did know his creed,” said Reggie, with equal gravity. “It would be very instructive.”