"As his name had been associated with the scandal it seemed only fair," remarked Malcolm Sage, then turning to Inspector Murdy he said, "I shall leave it to you, Murdy, to see that a proper confession is obtained. The case has had such publicity that Mr. Blade's innocence must be made equally public." "You may trust me, Mr. Sage," said the inspector. "But why did the curate refuse to say anything?" "Because he is a high-minded and chivalrous gentleman," was the quiet reply. "He knew?" cried Freynes. "Obviously," said Malcolm Sage. "It is the only explanation of his silence. I taxed him with it after the girl had been taken away, and he acknowledged that his suspicions amounted almost to certainty." "Yet he stayed behind," murmured the inspector with the air of a man who does not understand. "I wonder why?" "To minister to the afflicted, Murdy," said Malcolm Sage. "That is the mission of the Church." "I suppose you meant that French case when you referred to the 'master-key,'" remarked the inspector, as if to change the subject. Malcolm Sage nodded. "But how do you account for Miss Crayne writing such letters about herself?" enquired the inspector, with a puzzled expression in his eyes. "Pretty funny letters some of them for a parson's daughter." "I'm not a pathologist, Murdy," remarked Malcolm Sage drily, "but when you try to suppress hysteria in a young girl by sternness, it's about as effectual as putting ointment on a plague-spot." "Sex-repression?" queried Freynes. Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders; then after a pause, during which he lighted the pipe he had just re-filled, he added: "When you are next in Great Russell Street, drop in at the British Museum and look at the bust of Faustina. You will see that her chin is similar in modelling to that of Miss Crayne. The girl was apparently very much attracted to Blade, and proceeded to weave what was no doubt to her a romance, later it became an obsession. It all goes to show the necessity for pathological consideration of certain crimes." "But who was Faustina?" enquired the inspector, unable to follow the drift of the conversation. "Faustina," remarked Malcolm Sage, "was the domestic fly in the philosophical ointment of an emperor," and Inspector Murdy laughed; for, knowing nothing of the marriage or the _Meditations_ of Marcus Aurelius, it seemed to him the only thing to do. CHAPTER XV THE MISSING HEAVYWEIGHT I "Mr. Doulton, sir. Very important." Rogers had carefully assimilated his master's theory of the economy of words, sometimes even to the point of obscuring his meaning. Taking the last piece of toast from the rack, Malcolm Sage with great deliberation proceeded to butter it. Then, with a nod to the waiting Rogers, he poured out the last cup of coffee the pot contained.