The remarkable Mr. Thrush was a duly qualified solicitor, who had never been the man for that orderly and circumscribed profession. The tide of events which had turned his talents into their present channel, was known to but few of his many boon companions, and much nonsense was talked about him and his first career. It was not the case (as anybody might have ascertained) that he had been struck off the rolls in connection with the first great scandal in which he was professionally concerned. Nor was there much more truth in the report that he drank, in the ordinary interpretation of the term. It is true, however, that Mr. Thrush had a tall tumbler on his dressing-table, to help him shave for the evening of that fateful Friday. He was dressing for an early dinner before a first night. His dressing-room, in which he also slept in Spartan simplicity, was the original powder-closet of the panelled library out of which it led. There was a third room in which his man Mullins prepared breakfast and spent the day. But the whole was a glorified garret, at the top of such stairs as might have sent a nervous client back for an escort. Mullins, with the expression of an undertaker’s mute (a calling he had followed in his day), was laying out his master’s clothes as mournfully as though his master were in them, instead of chatting genially as he shaved. “I’m sorry to have missed your evidence, Mullins, but if we go into this case it’s no use letting the police smell the competitive rat too soon. Inquests are not in my line, and they’d have wondered what the devil I was doing there, especially as you refrained from saying you were in my service.” “I had no call, sir.” “Quite right, Mullins! An ideal witness, I can see you were. So you’d only to describe the finding of the body?” “That was all, sir.” “And your description was really largely founded on fact?” Mullins stood like a funereal grenadier at his gentleman’s shaving elbow. “I told the truth, sir, and nothing but the truth,” said he, with sombre dignity. “But not the whole truth, eh, Mullins! What about the little souvenirs you showed me yesterday?” “There was no call to name them either, sir. The cheroot-end I must have picked up a hundred yards away, and even the medicine-cork wasn’t on the actual scene of the murder.” “That’s all right, Mullins. I don’t see what they could possibly have to do with it, myself; and really, but for the fluke of your being the one to find the body, and picking the first-fruits for what they’re worth, it’s the last kind of case that I should dream of touching with a ten-foot pole. By the way, I suppose they won’t require you at the adjourned inquest?” “They may not require me, sir, but I should like to attend, if quite convenient,” replied Mullins deferentially. “The police were very stingy with their evidence to-day; they’ve still to produce the fatal bullet, and I should like a sight of that, sir.”