“Let it strike you now, Babe,” he said. “The sixty-ninth inch brain, the generally accepted theory that anything under the sixty-nine inch level is solid ivory is the theory that keeps Lew Vann and old Joe Haspinell and similar crook acquaintances of mine dining in the Grand Criterion when they ought to be atoning for their sins in the Cold Stone Jug. But Carver is a good man. He thinks, though it is against regulations.” “What does he think about Wellington?” “Didn’t tell him,” said Tab. “You ought to warn your uncle.” “I’ll see him today,” nodded Rex. They went out together before the lunch hour. Tab had a call to make at the office and afterwards he was meeting Carver for lunch. Carver, a lanky and slow-speaking man, was ordinarily no conversationalist. On some subjects he was impressively interesting, and as Tab provided the subject, two hours slipped away very quickly. Before they left the restaurant, Tab told him of the drunken stranger and his threats against Jesse Trasmere. “I don’t worry about threats,” said Carver, “but a man with a grievance, and especially a Number One grievance, like this man has, is pretty certain to cause trouble. Do you know old Trasmere?” “I’ve seen him twice. I was once sent to his house to make an inquiry about an action that the municipality started against him for building without the town architect’s permission. Rex Lander, who is a kindergarten architect, by-the-way, and rooms with me, is his nephew and I’ve heard a whole lot about him. He writes to Rex from time to time; letters full of good advice about saving money.” “Lander is his heir?” “Rex hopes so, fervently. But he says it is just as likely that Uncle Jesse will leave his money to a Home for the Incurably Wealthy. Talking of Trasmere, there goes his valet, and he seems in a hurry.” A cab dashed past them, its solitary passenger was Walters, a pinched-faced man, bareheaded, and on his face a tense, haggard look that immediately arrested the attention of the two men. “Who did you say that was?” asked Carver quickly. “Walters--old Trasmere’s sergeant,” replied Tab, “looks pretty scared to me.” “Walters?” The detective stood stock still, thinking. “I know that man’s face. I’ve got him! Walter Felling!” “Walter who?” “Felling--he was through my hands ten years ago and he has been convicted since. Walters, as you call him, is an incorrigible thief! Old Trasmere’s servant, eh? That’s his speciality. He takes service with rich people and one fine morning they wake up to find their loose jewelry and money and plate gone. Did you notice the number of the cab?” Tab shook his head. “The question is,” said the detective, “has he made a get-away in a hurry, or is he on an urgent errand for his boss? Anyway we ought to see Trasmere. Shall we take a cab or walk?”