“Then I saw him. It was like this, you see. About a quarter-past eleven on Tuesday I gets up to walk round the works here and see if all’s right. Up there at the corner by Shaftesbury Avenue I saw a gentleman—very like your gentleman he was and smoking a big cigar—come strolling across the road. Very slow, he was walking. Seemed as if he was annoyed about something—waving his stick in the air, he was, as if he was making believe to hit somebody. I only noticed him because a big motor-car came round suddenly from Regent Street as he was crossing, and he had to skip. Came straight into the ropes round the work up there. I hurried to see if he was all right; but before I got there he dusted himself down and walked on. I’m almost sure he was your man. I’ve got a memory for faces, and I noticed him particularly because he seemed that ratty, if I may say so.” “Can you tell me again what time that was?” “Not far short of half-past eleven—leastways it was after the quarter, twenty to twenty-five past, maybe.” Ellery congratulated himself on an extraordinary stroke of luck. It was, of course, far more important to establish Walter Brooklyn’s presence in Piccadilly Circus between 11.15 and 11.30 than at 10.30; but it had seemed impossible to do so. Some one might have noticed him when he hung about there for several minutes; but it seemed very unlikely that his mere walking across the Circus at the later time could have been confirmed. By a lucky chance it had been, and the first link in the _alibi_ had been successfully joined. The next thing was to get the watchman’s name and address, and to arrange for his appearance if he were called upon. The old man readily gave the particulars; but when Ellery talked of payment for his services, he refused. “I don’t want money for it,” he said; “not unless I have to appear in court. Then I’ll want my expenses same as another. But I’ll tell you what. If I’ve done you a good turn, you come here again some night and talk to me about books. That’ll be a lot more to me than what you’d give me. There ain’t no one I’ve got to talk to about what I read. It’ll be a treat to have a talk to a gent like you, what knows all about books and what’s inside ’em.” “I’m afraid,” said Ellery, “you do me too much credit. It’s years since I read Carlyle, and I’ve forgotten most about him. But I’ll come back, and lend you some more of him if you want it. But I expect you know a lot more about him than I do.” It turned out that what the old man wanted above all else was a copy of Carlyle’s _Cromwell_. Ellery promised to bring it, and after a few words more they parted on the best of terms, and Ellery walked on slowly along Coventry Street and into Leicester Square. He felt that luck was on his side. Chapter XVII The Lovely Lady