Rabjohns dropped her hands in astonishment. “That I have, sir! Not one morning, but _every_ morning—I even mentioned it down in the kitchen. Smelt like something burning, it did, sir—but however did you know about it, sir?” Anthony turned to Goodall. “We all have our little secrets, haven’t we, Inspector? As I’ve reminded people before.” The Inspector coughed. What exactly did Mr. Bathurst mean? CHAPTER XIX Inspector Goodall Is Entertained When they left Blanchard’s, Anthony decided to have a few additional words with Goodall. “What do you say to a little supper with me, Inspector?” Goodall caught eagerly at the idea. “Waring,” he said to his subordinate—“you can get along now. Report to me at the ‘Yard’ in the morning—I’m going along with Mr. Bathurst here.” Waring saluted and quickly made himself scarce. “I know a nice quiet little place in Soho,” said Anthony, “where I can give you Omelette Espagnol, Homard Americaine, a delicious piece of Stilton and a really excellent Burgundy—you will be my guest, of course, Inspector!” “I shall be delighted, Mr. Bathurst—may I ask what else you intend to give me?” His eyes twinkled shrewdly. “Patience, Inspector—there are one or two things I want to tell you, but Ricardo’s will be a better setting for them than the street we are in now.” Ricardo’s was all that Anthony had claimed for it. Inspector Goodall warmed under its cheering influence, and with his fourth glass of the really excellent Burgundy toasted Mr. Bathurst almost hilariously, and Mr. Bathurst was pleased to reciprocate. Eventually the latter pushed his chair back and recalled Goodall to the business of life. “Before you tell me what you thought of to-night’s jaunt, Inspector, I’ll tell you briefly what I did at Assynton after you left us at Colonel Leach-Fletcher’s—try one of these cigars, Goodall—they’ll suit your palate.” Goodall lit up, leaned back and prepared to listen. “I conducted a series of little experiments,” continued Anthony. Goodall nodded complacently. The cigar really _was_ intended for a man of discernment. “First of all,” proceeded Anthony, “I was able to trace a letter that had been lying in the library since the fatal evening.” He took the letter from his breast pocket. “Read that, Goodall, will you?” The effect was electrical—Goodall’s complacency became a thing of the past. “Morgan Llewellyn,” he muttered grimly. “I had a pretty shrewd idea that he was interested in that little baggage that treated old Clegg so contemptuously.” He tapped the letter with his forefinger. “I don’t know that I’m altogether too pleased to get hold of this.”