* * * * * Mr. Pentecost left the train at Back Bay Station on arrival in Boston, thus saving about five minutes. And he saved some three minutes more by not having to explain to the taxi man where Torrington Road could be found, the morning and early afternoon papers having thoroughly attended to that. It was a few minutes after four o’clock (Advanced time) when his machine came tearing up the drive—that is, tearing up the lower part of it, for it was stopped by a patrolman some distance from the house. Two policemen and a plainclothesman were on watch there. Pentecost hurriedly explained who he was, and that his firm had paid a large amount of money the day before for one of the murdered man’s inventions—which was still in the house, he supposed. They’d left it crated in the front hall. The detective made no reply to that, but instead informed Mr. Pentecost that the Chief would like to see him at headquarters. “Yes, but wait a minute!” remonstrated Pentecost. “I want to find out if that machine——” “You can talk it over with the Inspector when you get there.” “Talk it over! But my God, man—it’s our property!” “The Inspector’ll attend to that. You don’t need to worry.” “Was there a truck out here after it?” “There sure was, but the truck didn’t get it. How do we know but it might have something to do with the case?” “Have you got the idea that anybody’s going to shoot up a man for a three-ton machine he couldn’t get out of the house?” “Ask the Inspector that.” Pentecost was allowed to go in and satisfy himself that his property was still in the house and had not been tampered with. After a moment of breathing easier (not overdone you know) upon finding that this was the case, he apparently began to call to mind that a terrible crime had been committed and finally asked if he could see the poor chap who’d been shot. But the body’d been taken to the morgue some hours before. Half an hour later the detective and Mr. Pentecost arrived at Pemberton Square and the Inspector didn’t keep them waiting long. Besides the latter there were two plain-clothes men in the room—one at a table ready to make notes, the other standing back near the window. The Inspector, seated at his desk, greeted Pentecost pleasantly; and after an informal question or two regarding his business and the methods of running it, came down to the matter in hand. “Understand your firm’s been having some dealings with the man they shot out in Roxbury—or rather Jamaica Plain—last night.” “Why yes, we just bought an invention of his—that is, rights to exploit and so forth—and paid the money down for it. It was only yesterday, and the machine’s still out there in the house. One of your men in charge advised me to speak to you about it, and I certainly hope you’ll be so good as to arrange it so we can——” “All in good time Mr. Pentecost. First I’d like to have you tell me what you know about the affair or the people concerned in it.”