This was caused by the theological argument which was raging over evolution. The controversy had increased after Warren's statement. Back and forth flew the arguments. The scientists contented themselves by saying that every intelligent person believed in evolution, and that if Warren said he had found the final proof that settled it. His reputation and word was enough for the men of science. On the other hand, theologians and demagogues who knew nothing about science cried long and loud that Warren could not have found any proofs of evolution, for, as they said, evolution was not a fact. In all this controversy—one which filled many pages of the papers—Warren bore no part. As soon as he arrived in America, he had gone directly to his home and made the announcement that he would have his manuscript ready as soon as possible. Only one statement he gave the papers—it was to repeat what he had said before: that he had found the final proofs. The proofs which settled for all time the question of man's origin. After that he was silent. And now he was murdered, and I pictured the papers when they heard of his death. And then I began to wonder why he should have been killed. A man of his decided personality must, of course, have made enemies. I puzzled over the man from China, who the housekeeper said had come to the house. I played with this thought for a while, only to decide that perhaps it was better to stop wondering about the case until I had more facts to puzzle over. And by the time we came in sight of Carter's home the only thing I was thinking about was something to eat. The tall grandfather's clock was striking eleven as we entered the living room. With the remark that we must be hungry, Carter went out into the kitchen saying he would see if the cook had left anything in the ice box. Ranville and myself dropped into the nearest chairs. I was too tired to talk, and the experiences of the last few hours had not been pleasant. But to look at the Scotland Yard Inspector one would never have guessed that anything had taken place. The fine face of the Englishman was as peaceful and contented as if he had just returned from a wedding—instead of a murder. He lay back in his chair, his eyes half closed, watching the curling smoke of his cigarette. Carter's voice hailed us from the kitchen, and we rose and joined him. Upon the white enameled table was a cold chicken, three bottles of ale, and some rye bread. We pulled our chairs to the table and set to work. When the chicken had become but a memory, Carter rummaged in the ice box and found a pie—a pie of which we did not leave a crumb.