“I am a queer man, Mr. Gaylor; I am cursed, as you are aware, with a peculiarly evil mind. I am also intensely curious--I have always been. I am curious about criminals and chickens--I have perhaps the finest Wyandottes in London, but that is by the way. It would be cruel to give you my theories. The blood on the policeman’s horse: that is interesting. And Henry--I suppose Mr. Enward’s clerk has another name--the blood on his coat, though he did not go near the body of the late Mr. Wentford, that is interesting. Poor Henry is suffering from a severe chill and is in bed, but his mother, an admirable and hardworking woman, permitted me to see him. Then the two aces pinned to the door, all very, very, very interesting indeed! Mr. Gaylor, if you will permit me to interview old George McKay I will undertake to tell you who committed these murders.” “The girl told you something--the girl Lynn?” “The girl has told me nothing. She also may be very informative. I purpose spending a night or two in her flat--um--not, I hope, without a chaperon.” Gaylor looked at him, amazed. Mr. Reeder was blushing. CHAPTER VII The last page of the letter which Mr. Eric Kingfether had begun with such ease in the early part of the morning was extremely difficult to compose. It had become necessary to say certain things; it was vital that he should not put his communication into writing. In desperation he decided to make a break with practice. He would go to town. It was impossible to leave before the bank closed, but he could go immediately afterwards, though there was urgent work which should have kept him on the bank premises until six, and some private work of serious importance that should have occupied him until midnight. When the bank closed he handed over the key of the safe to Kenneth. “I’ve been called to town. Balance up the books and put them in the safe. I’ll be back by six; I’d like you to wait for me.” Kenneth McKay did not receive the suggestion favourably. He also wished to get away. “Well, you can’t!” said the other sharply. “The bank inspector will be in to-morrow to check the Wentford account. It will probably be required as evidence.” Mr. Kingfether got out his little car and drove to London. He parked his machine in a Bloomsbury square and made his way on foot to a big mansion block behind Gower Street. The elevator man who took him up grinned a welcome. “The young lady’s in, sir,” he said. The “young lady” herself opened the door to his ring. “Look who’s here!” she said in surprise, and stood aside to let him in. She was dressed in an old kimono and did not look as attractive as usual. “In another half-hour I’d have been out,” she said. “I didn’t get up till after lunch. These late nights are surely hell!”