"Wait a bit," said Fanks, rapidly making a few notes in his pocket-book. "When a crime is committed, the first thing is to look for a motive. Now, what motive had Spolger for killing Melstane?" "Motive!" repeated Roger, in amazement, "the strongest of all motives. He was in love with Florry and wanted to marry her. She, however, was in love with Melstane, and while he lived Spolger had no chance. So of course he removed his rival by death. It's as clear as daylight." "Why! 'of course'?" said the detective, putting his note-book in his pocket. "Even love would hardly make a man like Spolger commit a crime." "He's a scoundrel." "Eh! but a nervous one." "He's fond of Florry." "And fond of his own skin." "I tell you I'm convinced he committed the crime." "Don't jump to conclusions." "I'm not jumping to conclusions," retorted Axton, hotly. "Look at the case, you blind bat. Spolger loves--adores Florry. He wants to marry her, but finds out she won't have him because she loves another man. Chance, by means of the forgotten pill-box, throws in his way the means of injuring that other man. What is more natural? He takes advantage of the chance." "Injuring a man doesn't mean killing him." "Who said it did? Put it in this way. Spolger intended to merely injure him, but in making up the morphia pills he puts in too much of the drug, and kills Melstane without intending to do so." "Theory! Pure theory!" "Well, as far as I can see, the case is all pure theory at present." "By no means. We have ascertained the cause of death; the way in which the drug was taken; also a number of suspicious circumstances connected with Melstane's past life. That's not all theory." "I think the most suspicious theory connected with Melstane's past life is Monsieur Jules Guinaud, better known as Judas." "Because he has red hair and a crafty face," said Fanks, coolly. "No; because he loves Florry." "How do you know?" "I think so." "Ah, that's theory," replied Fanks, nodding his head; "purely theoretical, if you like. Well, we must be off." "Where to?" "To test your theory. I'm going to see Mr. Jackson Spolger." "He'll tell you nothing," said Axton, putting on his coat. "Perhaps not; but his face may. He's a nervous man. Japix told me that, so if he knows anything about this murder, he may betray himself unconsciously. Come along." So they went down into the sloppy street and hired a cab, but just as they were going to step in, Fanks suddenly darted to the window of a brougham standing a short distance away. It was a large brougham, and contained a large man, who put out his head when he saw Fanks, and roared out a welcome in a stentorian voice: "Hey, Monsieur Fouché!" "Don't advertise me so publicly, Japix." "Pooh! no one here knows Fouché. They think he's a Chinese." "It's best to be on the safe side, anyhow." "Very well, Mr. Rixton." "That's better. I say, Doctor, do you believe in patent medicines?" "No," roared Japix, indignantly, "I don't."