“Yes, but he said he’d wait until you came down.” The man handed him the card, and Mr. Marl reading it, jumped and turned a sickly yellow. “Inspector Parr,” he said unsteadily. “What does he want with me?” His shaking hand fingered his mouth. “Show him in,” he said with an effort. He had not met Inspector Parr either professionally or socially, and his first glance at the little man reassured him. There was nothing particularly menacing in the appearance of the red-faced detective. “Sit down, inspector. I’m sorry I was busy when you came,” said Mr. Marl. When he was agitated his voice was almost bird-like in its thinness. Parr sat down on the edge of the nearest chair, balancing his Derby hat on his knee. “I thought I’d wait until you came down, Mr. Marl. I wanted to see you about this Beardmore murder.” Mr. Marl said nothing. With an effort he kept his trembling lips from quivering, and assumed, as he believed, an air of polite interest. “You knew Mr. Beardmore very well?” “Not very well,” said Marl. “I certainly have had business dealings with him.” “Have you met him before?” Marl hesitated. He was the kind of man to whom a lie came most readily, and his natural habit of mind was to state the exact opposite of the truth. “No,” he admitted. “I had seen him years ago, but that was before he had grown a beard.” “Where was Mr. Beardmore when you were coming into the house?” asked Parr. “He was standing on the terrace,” replied Marl with unnecessary loudness. “And you saw him?” Marl nodded. “They tell me, Mr. Marl,” Parr went on, looking down at his hat, “that for some reason or other you were startled--Mr. Jack Beardmore says that he thought you were momentarily terrified. What was the cause of that?” Mr. Marl shrugged his shoulders and forced a smile. “I think I explained it was a little heart attack. I am subject to them,” he said. Parr had turned his hat so that he was looking into the interior, and he did not raise his eyes when he asked: “It was not the sight of Mr. Beardmore?” “Of course not,” said the other vigorously. “Why should I be scared of Mr. Beardmore? I’ve had a lot of correspondence with him, and know him almost as well----” “But you hadn’t met him for years?” “I hadn’t seen him for years,” corrected Marl irritably. “And the cause of your agitation was just a heart attack, Mr. Marl?” asked the inspector. For the first time his eyes rose and fixed themselves upon the other’s. “Absolutely.” Marl’s voice did not lack heartiness. “I had forgotten all about my little seizure until you reminded me.” “There is another point I wanted cleared up,” said the detective. His attention had gone back to his fascinating hat, which he was turning over and over mechanically until it had the appearance of a revolving butter-churn. “When you came to Mr. Beardmore’s house you were wearing pointed patent shoes.” Marl frowned. “Was I? I’ve forgotten.”