Prosper Craven lived in a small brick house near the car-line. He was a sad-faced man of fifty years, with light-blue eyes, which blinked continually, as if the sight were defective. His nose was long and sharp, his mouth wide and his chin narrow and non-aggressive. Nick sized him up when he came to the door as secretive, obstinate, and weak in judgment. Not a man of force. He might err through weakness, but his aspirations were in the line of good. Corner him and it would be hard to tell what he would do. After stating that he had important business to transact, the detective was invited into the house. "Mr. Craven," Nick began, "a murder has been committed and every good citizen is expected to furnish information, if he have any, that will assist the officers in the search for the murderer. On the afternoon preceding the death of James Playfair you conversed with a dark-faced young man near this house. What is that young man's name?" A troubled look came into Craven's face. He tapped the floor nervously with his foot. "You don't suspect him, do you?" he asked, in affected surprise. "You have not answered my question," returned Nick sharply. "What is the man's name?" A pause, and then the answer: "Arthur Mannion." "I thought so." Craven showed astonishment. His eyes blinked with unusual rapidity. "Now," continued Nick, in a tone which made the ex-grocer shiver, "what do you know of Mannion? What was your business with him?" Craven's sallow face flushed. "I shall have to consult my attorney before answering your questions," he said, slowly and painfully. "I shall be guided entirely by his advice. He may advise me not to tell you anything." "Not if what you know has any bearing on the murder?" Craven did not reply. His expression was enigmatical. "Don't you know." said Nick, "that Mannion is the stepson of James Playfair?" "I know that, certainly; but that fact has no bearing on the matter about which you have interrogated me."