“So we have Müller, a man of profound intellect, suddenly, under the thirst of blood, turned into a killing machine. He kills three people, no more, for the fit passes. He is gorged for years, till he commits a new murder and the fit returns.” “Proceed,” said Freyberger, in a hard voice; for what Hellier had just said was the very thing he had been thinking to himself. “Well, as Müller did eight years ago, so, in all probability, he will do again. He has murdered a man in Cumberland. The thirst for blood, or rather human life, will most probably seize him again. And all you have to do to catch him is to wait. I will wager my reputation that this beast will repeat his actions like some horrible automaton, and that within the next few days you will have a case of motiveless murder to investigate, and that if you catch the criminal it will be Müller.” Freyberger did not reply. What Hellier had just said was exactly what he (Freyberger) had been thinking. It is not pleasant to find one’s astuteness matched. He had put all his energy and mind into the Gyde case, and here was a stranger pointing out to him the course to take for the completion of the affair; and, worst of all, the right course. He quite forgot that it was due to Hellier’s researches that these subsidiary crimes had been connected with the Lefarge case. He was, in fact, human, and he was jealous. “What you have said,” he replied, “may have something in it.” “I think, myself, it may have a good deal in it,” replied Hellier, nettled somewhat at the other’s assumed indifference and the chilliness of his tone. “Well,” said Freyberger, “the matter is in our hands, and you may be sure everything will be done that is needful. We do not, as a rule, require outside help or suggestions in our work. I wish you good night.” “That’s the professional detective all over,” thought Hellier, as he watched the departing figure of Freyberger. “They work in one set groove, they have ideas handed down from generation to generation. I was amazed at this man’s perspicuity at first, and now I find him just one of a class. Well, if he doesn’t see much in my idea I do, and I will keep my eyes open, and if I see a chance I will profit by it.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXVIII IF Hellier could only have seen into the consciousness of our friend Freyberger, he would have admitted that the latter, although a professional detective, had an open mind, and was not entirely bound up in self-conceit. Freyberger, as in duty bound, took a cab and made as fast as a London cab-horse could carry him, through London traffic, towards the Yard. At the Yard the Chief was just getting into his motor-car, when he saw Freyberger he beckoned to him. “Come with me,” he said, “I am going on a case.” Freyberger knew what that meant. Some crime of extra magnitude had just taken place.