Dick Remington has a plan of operations already cut and dried--I'll take my oath of that. It's humiliating to have to confess that I haven't a notion what it is. Never mind. I'll back what I know against what he knows, and we'll see who'll get to the winning post first. If I had a leisure hour I'd ferret out the connection between him and that old fence Higgins; as it is, I haven't a leisure minute. Let me see. What have I to do to-morrow? First, the magistrate's court, to give evidence of the arrest. Shall have to remain till the remand's granted. There is sure to be a sharp lawyer on the other side. If they're wise they will engage one of the highest standing. I don't expect to be free till two or three o'clock, and then I must see if I can hunt up the case of Louis Lorenz. There was a description of the man in the papers, but I doubt if I shall be able to lay hands on it, as there was no suspicion of the man coming our way. Then there was a report that he was found dead in a wood in Gallicia, shot through the heart. It was in Gallicia he was tried and condemned to death, and three days afterwards escaped from gaol. Some said he bribed the gaolers. The property was never traced. Friend Joseph Pitou promises to send a portrait of him, and full personal particulars. At eight o'clock I present myself at Dr. Pye's house in Shore Street, and send in my card. A welcome visitor? Not much of an open question that. Then will commence the tug of war. Strange that I have never set eyes on him. I was not in the Coroner's Court when he gave evidence. Very good of him to come forward, wasn't it, to drive a nail in Mr. Reginald Boyd's coffin. One o'clock. I must get to bed. _Friday, March 16th_, 1896. A busy day. I must set things down, or they will get muddled. Nothing like system. Order is nature's first law. It is also mine. By the first post a letter from friend Joseph. I passed it across the table to my wife to translate. She shook her head. "Why," I said, "you translated his other letters." "They were in French," she replied; "this is in Italian. I don't understand Italian." And there the rubbish lay on my table, and me staring helplessly at it, exasperating me to that degree----! Wasn't it enough to put a man out? What the devil does Joseph Pitou mean by writing to me in all the languages under the sun? English is good enough for me; isn't French good enough for him? Does it to crow over me, I dare say, to show how superior the foreign detective service is to ours. But I think we could teach you a trick or two, friend Joseph. Off went a telegram to him in French (written, of course, by my wife), requesting him to send me that letter again in his own native language. And though it is now eleven o'clock at night there is no reply. Do you call that business, Joseph Pitou? And where is the portrait you promised to send?