“Wasn’t sure that I should catch you, Inspector,” he opened. “I’m speaking from Paddington—I’ve come up myself you see—close on your heels too! What’s that? No—not exactly—what I wanted to know was this. Have you had time to go over to Blanchard’s Hotel yet? To-night? Good man—I’ll come with you—if you don’t mind—I’ll meet you in Clifford Street at nine o’clock. Right‑o—I’ll have a little light refreshment and come round.” Punctually to the time arranged he turned the corner of Clifford Street from New Bond Street, to walk into the arms almost of Detective-Inspector Goodall and a plain clothes officer. The Inspector greeted him cordially. “Good evening, Mr. Bathurst—I’ve been engaged on following up a clue in connection with these two Stewarts from America—that’s why I’ve left this job round here till now.” “Any luck, Inspector?” “Not up to the moment, Mr. Bathurst. They seem to have walked out of this hotel and been swallowed up—but I’ll get ’em—you can rest assured on that. When I got back to the ‘Yard’ this afternoon, I was sent hot-foot to a house in Wimbledon where they were supposed to be—not a doubt about it, I was informed! That’s the worst of our game, Mr. Bathurst—we have to listen to all sorts of information that can’t be tested till _we_ test it. And it often means the waste of valuable time.” He clicked his tongue in emphasis of his dissatisfaction. “But I’ll comb ’em out—if it takes me six months—the teeth of my comb will pick ’em up somewhere—Scotland Yard may be slow but it’s sure—and remarkably patient. Here we are, Mr. Bathurst—they’re expecting me here.” The reception clerk telephoned news of their arrival. “Mr. Blanchard says will you please go up to his private room. Atkins! Show these gentlemen up to the governor’s room, will you?” Atkins, a uniformed attendant, quickly piloted them to the proper quarters. “Come in, Inspector! Good evening, gentlemen. I’ve been expecting you ever since your telephone inquiry of this morning.” Blanchard was a fair, stout man, somewhere, at a glance, in the early fifties. His eyelashes and eyebrows were so fair as to be almost invisible—giving his eyes a strange protruding tendency. He had a nervous habit of throwing his eyes down to the floor, immediately after he addressed a remark to anybody, which gave him a bird-like appearance. “Sit down, gentlemen.” He waved a pudgy hand—much be-ringed—towards an arm-chair and a comfortable looking settee. Anthony selected the former. “This gentleman is Mr. Bathurst—he is acting for Mr. Charles Stewart, of Assynton Lodge, Berkshire. Doubtless you have heard of the tragedy that has taken place down there?” The Inspector made the introduction. “I read of it in this evening’s paper, Inspector,” replied Blanchard. He looked at Anthony. “Good evening, sir. I’m sorry that we haven’t met under more pleasant circumstances. Now, Inspector, what is it you want of me?”