Lucas gave him some sage advice. He should go and see Joan, and offer to help in any way he could. But on no account must he make love to her yet awhile. From which it may be seen that Harry Lucas, up to date as he thought himself, had still some old-fashioned ideas about propriety. Ellery stayed the night at Hampstead, and went to bed in a mood of cheerfulness which, he told himself, was quite unforgivably brutal. He would go and see Joan the next day. He would try to follow his guardian’s advice: but, if he failed, well, he would fail, and he was not sure that to fail would be quite such a disaster as Lucas made out. After all, she had not been engaged to Prinsep; and why should he not say he loved her? The next morning Ellery left, after an early breakfast, without seeing his guardian, and went off for another long walk across the Heath and over to Mill Hill. His mood had changed, and he now told himself that to go and see Joan would be an intrusion, and that he must at least let some days pass before he went. He felt he could not see her without telling her of his love, and he was sure that to tell her now would be wrong. He tried to put the thing out of his mind, and, as long as he kept walking, he succeeded fairly well. But when, after a long day, he found himself back in his lodgings at Chelsea, he was soon aware that he would be fit for nothing else until he had seen her. He tried to go on with his work; but after a few attempts he put it aside as useless. Then he sat down to try to bring his mind to bear on the crime. He felt that he, as an amateur expert in “detecting,” ought to be able to see some light upon the conditions of the crime; but he could see none. At length he was obliged to tell himself that he had not nearly enough information to go upon, and that he could not hope to make any progress without going himself over the scene of the crime and hearing more of what the police had done. But how could he do that without going to Liskeard House? And how could he go there without seeing Joan? As he went to bed, he told himself that he could do nothing. But he was a healthy fellow, and his perplexity did not long interfere with his slumbers. Tired out by his long walk, he slept like a top. He was still in bed and asleep on the following morning when the landlady knocked at the door and told him that a gentleman, who would not state his business, was waiting to see him downstairs. Dressing hastily, he went down, and found a stranger standing before the fireplace. His visitor handed him a card, on which he read, “Inspector Gibbs, New Scotland Yard.” So they had come to ask him something about the murders.