“One of your largest cigars,” Reggie mumbled and took it. “Yes. What can you do? I wonder.” He looked at Lomas with a baleful eye. “Who lives at Millfield? Speaking more precisely who lives at Millfield double three something?” Lomas suggested that it was a large order. “It is,” Reggie agreed gloomily, “it’s a nasty large order.” And he described his morning’s work. “There you are. The further you go the queerer.” “Quite, quite,” Lomas nodded. “But what’s your theory, Fortune?” “The workin’ hypothesis is that there’s dirty work doin’ when a magic stone gets stolen and the man who wants the magic stone vanishes on the same day: which is confirmed when a female connected with a chap who knows all about magic stones is found colloguin’ with the vanished man’s heir: and further supported when that heir being rattled runs to telephone to the chaste shades of Millfield--the last place for a sporting blood like him to keep his pals. I ask you, who lives at Millfield double three something?” Lomas shifted his papers. “George Coppett stands to gain by Tetherdown’s death, of course,” he said. “And the only man so far as we know. But he’s not badly off, he’s well known, there’s never been anything against him. Why should he suddenly plan to do away with his brother? All your story might be explained in a dozen ways. There’s not an ounce of evidence, Fortune.” “You like your evidence after the murder. I know that. My God, Lomas, I’m afraid.” “My dear fellow!” Lomas was startled. “This isn’t like you.” “Oh, many thanks. I don’t like men dying, that’s all. Professional prejudice. I’m a doctor, you see. What the devil are we talking for? Who lives at Millfield double three something?” “We might get at it,” Lomas said doubtfully and rang for Superintendent Bell. “But it’s a needle in a bundle of hay. And if Tetherdown was to be murdered, it’s done by now.” “Yes, that’s comforting,” said Mr. Fortune. Superintendent Bell brought a list of the subscribers to the Millfield exchange and they looked over the names of those in the thirty-fourth hundred. Most were shopkeepers and ruled out. “George Coppett don’t buy his fish in Millfield,” said Reggie Fortune. Over the doctors he hesitated. “You think it’s some fellow in your own trade?” Lomas smiled. “Well, there’s nothing like leather.” “Brownrigg,” Reggie Fortune muttered. “I know him. 3358 Dr. Jerdan, The Ferns, Chatham Park Road. Where’s a medical directory? 3358 Dr. Jerdan is not in the medical directory. Ring up the divisional inspector and ask him what he knows about Dr. Jerdan.” There was nothing, Superintendent Bell announced, known against Dr. Jerdan. He had been at the Ferns some time. He didn’t practise. He was said to take in private patients. “Come on,” said Reggie Fortune, and took the Superintendent’s arm. “My dear Fortune,” Lomas protested. “This is a bow at a venture. We can’t act, you know. Bell can’t appear.”