“Bring him in, the poor soused herring,” said Tab, and Mr. Wellington Brown swaggered and staggered into the sitting-room. He was abominably intoxicated. “Wish of you young gen’lemen is Rex Lander?” “That is my name,” said the puzzled Rex. “I’m Wellin’ton Brown of Chei-Feu. A pensioner at the mercy of a dam’ ol’ scound’l! A pension’r! He pays me a pittance out of what he robbed me. I can tell you some’n about ol’ Trasmere.” “Trasmere, my uncle?” asked the startled young man. The other nodded gravely and sleepily. “I can tell you some’n about him. I was his bookkeeper ’n sec’tary. I know! I’ll tell you some’n about him!” “You can save your breath,” said Rex coldly. “Why have you come here?” “Because you’re ’is nephew. Thas why! He robbed me--robbed me!” he sobbed. “Took bread out ’f the mouth of innocent child--that what! Took bread out ’f orphan’s mouth and robbed me, swin’led me out ’f my share Mancurian Trading Syn’cate, an’ then gave me remittance ’n said ‘Drink yourself to death’--thas what he said!” “And did you?” asked Tab sardonically. The stranger eyed him unfavourably. “Who’s this?” he demanded. “This is a friend of mine,” said Rex, “and you’re in his flat. And if the only business you have is to abuse my uncle, you can get out just as soon as you like.” Mr. Wellington Brown tapped the young man’s chest with a grimy forefinger. “Your uncle is a rascal! Get that! A low thief!” “Better write and tell him so,” said Tab, briskly. “Just now I am engaged in churning out two yards of journalese, and you’re disturbing my thoughts.” “Write to him!” roared Mr. Brown delightedly, “write to him! Thas good--best thing I’ve heard for years! Why--!” “Get out!” Babe Lander threw open the door with a crash and the visitor glared at him. “Like uncle, like nephew,” he said, “like nephew, like lackey--I’m goin’. And let me tell you--” The door slammed in his face. “Phew!” said Babe, wiping his brow. “Let’s open the window and let in some fresh air!” “Who is he?” “Search me,” said Rex Lander. “I’ve no illusions about Uncle Jesse’s early friends. I gather that he’s been a pensioner of the old boy’s, and there is probably some truth in his charge that he was robbed. I cannot imagine uncle giving money away from charitable motives. Anyway, I’m seeing him tomorrow and I’ll ask.” “You’ll see nothing,” said Tab. “Do you ever read the fashionable intelligence or society news? Uncle is leaving town tomorrow.” Rex smiled. “That is an old trick when he doesn’t want to be seen--by Joab! It is the Wellington who has put his name in the society column!” Tab paused, pen in hand. “Silence will now reign,” he commanded, “whilst a great journalist deals adequately with the Milligan Murder Appeal.” Rex looked at him, admiringly. “How you can stick your nose at the grindstone is a source of wonder to me,” he said. “I couldn’t--”