“Is there a Mrs. Elmer?” asked Michael as he put the slip into his pocket. The other nodded. “Yes, but she can throw no light upon the murder. She, by the way, is the only person who knows he is dead. She had not seen her husband for a month, and apparently they had been more or less separated for years. She benefits considerably by his death, for he was well insured in her favour.” Michael read again the gruesome note from the Head-Hunter. “What is your theory about this?” he asked curiously. “The general idea is that he is a lunatic who feels called upon to mete out punishment to defaulters. But the two exceptions disturb that theory pretty considerably.” Staines lay back in his chair, a puzzled frown on his face. “Take the case of Willitt. His head was found on Clapham Common two years ago. Willitt was a well-off man, the soul of honesty, well liked, and he had a very big balance at his bank. Crewling, the second exception, who was one of the first of the Hunter’s victims, was also above suspicion, though in his case there is no doubt he was mentally unbalanced a few weeks before his death. “The typewritten notification has invariably been typed out on the same machine. In every case you have the half-obliterated ‘u,’ the faint ‘g,’ and the extraordinary alignment which the experts are unanimous in ascribing to a very old and out-of-date Kost machine. Find the man who uses that typewriter and you have probably found the murderer. But it is very unlikely that he will ever be found that way, for the police have published photographs pointing out the peculiarities of type, and I should imagine that Mr. Hunter does not use this machine except to announce the demise of his victims.” Michael Brixan went back to his flat, a little more puzzled and a little more worried by his unusual commission. He moved and had his being in the world of high politics. The finesses of diplomacy were his peculiar study, and the normal abnormalities of humanity, the thefts and murders and larcenies which occupied the attention of the constabulary, did not come into his purview. “Bill,” said he, addressing the small terrier that lay on the hearth-rug before the fireless grate of his sitting-room, “this is where I fall down. But whether I do or not, I’m going to meet an extra—ain’t that grand?” Bill wagged his tail agreeably. CHAPTER II MR. SAMPSON LONGVALE CALLS ADELE LEAMINGTON waited till the studio was almost empty before she came to where the white-haired man sat crouched in his canvas chair, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, a malignant scowl on his forehead. It was not a propitious moment to approach him: nobody knew that better than she. “Mr. Knebworth, may I speak to you?”