Night was falling, and Dr. Philip Garon’s dining-room windows blazed with light. Mr. Mulberry’s, on the right, was more modestly illuminated. Mr. Cunningham’s house was in darkness, as also was “The Bishop’s.” There were lights in the bedroom at Number Seven but Number Six was black as also was Number Eight. He saw Millet standing at his garden gate, smoking, and crossed the road toward him, realizing that the keen-eyed gentleman had already observed his presence. Millet, a florid man with a genial, almost fulsome, manner met him with a friendly nod. “Good evening, Mr. Pretherston,” he said. “I hope you are not looking for trouble.” Michael leant on the top bar of the gate and shook his head. “I shouldn’t come here for trouble,” he said; “this is the most law-abiding spot in London.” Mr. Millet sighed and murmured something about misfortunes which overtake mankind and added a pious expression of his desire to forget the past and to end his days in that security and peace which sin denies its votaries. “Very pretty,” said Michael blandly, “and how are all our good neighbours? I was thinking of taking a house here myself. By-the-way,” he added innocently, “I suppose you don’t know any that are to be let?” Mr. Millet shook his head. “I am all alone here,” he said, “if you were really serious about wishing to live in this neighbourhood, I should be honoured to act as your host, Mr. Pretherston.” “And how is Kate?” demanded Michael, ignoring the invitation. “Kate?” asked the puzzled Mr. Millet; “oh, you mean, Miss Westhanger. I haven’t seen her for several days--I think it was last Tuesday afternoon I saw her last.” “Yes, at 2:30 in the afternoon,” mocked Michael, “she was wearing a blue dress with white spots and a green hat with an ostrich feather. You remember her distinctly because she dropped her bag and you crossed to pick it up. You needn’t start the alibi factory working, Millet; I have nothing against Kate for the moment.” Mr. Millet laughed softly. “You will have your joke,” he said. “I will,” said Michael with grim emphasis, “but it is going to be a long time developing. I haven’t seen the Stockmars lately either.” “I never see them at all,” Mr. Millet hastened to state. “I have very little in common with foreigners. Whatever there is against me, Mr. Pretherston, I am a patriot through and through. I am proud to be English and I don’t take kindly to foreign gentlemen and never will.” “Your patriotism does you credit, Millet,” said the detective dryly as he prepared to move on. “I wish you would be patriotic enough to give me a tip as to what game is on,” he lowered his voice. “You know all that is happening here and you might do yourself a little bit of good.” “If I knew anything,” said the other earnestly, “I would tell you in a moment, Mr. Pretherston, but here I am, out of the world, so to speak. Nobody ever consults me and I am glad they don’t. I want to be left alone to forget the past--”