Mr. Foster brightened still more. The story of his nose’s rupture was a good one and its telling never palled; and here was an ideal audience for it. Schoolboy, boxing. . . . The two of them were obviously going to be great chums. Of course he mustn’t keep that poor girl waiting, but perhaps just a couple of minutes. . . . “Yes,” he said, and did not notice the slight start performed by his audience. “It was at Beanhurst College, where I was at school. We used to have an annual boxing tournament at the end of each winter term, and I had entered for——” “I say, were you at _Beanhurst_?” interrupted his audience in a voice of incredible scorn. Unfortunately a voice of incredible scorn sounds very much like a voice of incredible awe (if you do not believe this, address yourself absent-mindedly in a voice of incredible scorn and see whether your opinion of yourself does not immediately rise). With his customary complacency Mr. Foster read into this one the latter interpretation. “I was, yes.” “Good God!” said his audience simply, with the unmitigated contempt of one who is at Harrow for one who was at a minor public school. Misreading the signs again, Mr. Foster prattled on happily. His audience listened to not a word; he was busy adding up two and two. Not that there was really any necessity, for the thing was practically clinched. First of all there was the evidence of the footprints, which was pretty well conclusive; then the fellow actually admitted that he had a broken nose; but, most damning of all, the blighter had actually been at _Beanhurst_, of all filthy, lousy holes! It was tantamount to a complete confession of guilt. Reginald Foster, Esq. and Alan Spence had very little in common (the inexpressible Beanhurst effectually prevented that), but they had this; they both had dreams of catching the Man with the Broken Nose. Ever since Alan had propounded his great theory to the Inspector and Colonel Ratcliffe and noted the unmistakable way in which they had shown themselves impressed during the subsequent tour of the prints, he had been revolving this great project in his mind; and on his way up to Mr. Foster’s house, after leaving the other two still measuring and looking grave, he had formed a tentative plan for carrying it out. He now proceeded to put it into effect. “I say,” he broke without ceremony into the climax of the good story, “I say, do you know they’ve got hold of a hell of a clue to that murder the other night?” Mr. Foster was pained at the interruption, but his pain disappeared before its significance. He stared at the boy. “Got hold of a hell of a clue?” he repeated, his thoughts flying at once to that wistful figure in his tool-shed. Into Mr. Foster’s unmistakable agitation, indifferently concealed, Alan read the signs of conscious guilt. Under his studiously stolid demeanour his heart began to beat furiously. “Yes, rather. I’m Mrs. Nesbitt’s brother, you see, so I’m in the know. But it’s a ghastly secret.”