“I have acquired a nephew since then,” said Carver calmly, his eyes still upon the tape, “it is a poor kind of detective who can’t discover a nephew or two. I may fall down on a murderer, but when it comes to unearthing distant relations, I am at the top of my class. You will find me somewhere in the shadows of the Central,” he added. Tab did not see the detective again until he had left the girl in the vestibule of her hotel. Coming out into the street, Carver, true to his word, appeared from the night and took his arm. “We will walk home. You don’t take enough exercise,” he said. “Lack of exercise is bad for the old, but it is fatal for the young.” “You are very chatty this evening,” said Tab. “Tell me something about your little nephew.” “I haven’t a nephew,” said the detective shamelessly, “but I am feeling kind of lonely tonight. I have had a very disappointing day, Tab, and I want to pour my woes into a sympathetic ear.” “Faugh!” said Tab. Carver showed no inclination to find a sympathetic listener, even when they were back at the flat, and he had a modest whiskey and soda before him. “The truth is,” he said at last, in answer to a direct question, “I have reason to believe that I am being most carefully watched.” “By whom?” asked the startled Tab. “By the murderer of Trasmere,” said the detective quietly. “It is a humiliating confession for a man of my experience and proved courage to make, but I am afraid to go home tonight, for I have a large premonition that our unknown friend is preparing something particularly startling in the way of trouble for me.” “Then you really want to stay the night here?” said Tab as the fact dawned upon him. Carver nodded. “Your instinct is marvellously developed,” said he. “That is just what I want to do, if it is not inconvenient. The fact is, I had not the moral courage to ask you before. It isn’t very pleasant to admit----” “Oh shush!” said Tab scornfully. “You are no more scared of the murderer than I am.” “I am more accessible to him in my own lodgings,” said the detective and that sounded fairly true. “If I stayed in a hotel I should be even more accessible, so I am going to make use of you, Tab. How do you feel about it?” “You can bring your belongings and stay here until the case is over,” invited Tab. “I don’t think that Rex’s old bed is made up.” “I prefer the sofa, anyway. Luxury enfeebles and vitiates a man as it enfeebles and vitiates a nation----” “If you are going to be oracular, I am retiring to bed,” said Tab. He went into his room, brought out a rug and a pillow and threw them on to the broad settee. “I’d like to say,” said Carver, as Tab was leaving him for the last time, “how surprisingly good you look in evening kit. The difficulties of making a reporter look like a gentleman must be almost insuperable, but you have succeeded beyond my most sanguine expectations.” Tab chuckled. “You’re indecently humorous tonight,” he said.