“‘It’s a lie!’ shouted the Corsican, but his lips were white. “‘And then old Marley saw you, and the rage on his face was replaced by a dreadful terror. He knew what you had come for. I don’t think you wasted much time, Lenardi. You picked up the poker with a gloved hand—oh! you were taking no chances—and you battered his head in. And then, Lenardi—and then you drank a whisky-and-soda. You drank a whisky-and-soda, and then you decided on a very bold move: you came and alarmed the rest of the house. It was clever of you, but——’” The sandy-haired man smiled thoughtfully. “We sprang forward together—the inspector and I; but we were too late. The Corsican had swallowed poison before we could stop him. He was dead in half a minute and he never spoke again. So I can only assume that my imagination was not far off the rails.” “Yes, but hang it, man,” said the Barrister, peevishly, “the whole thing was a pure fluke on your part.” “I’ve never laid any claim to being a detective,” murmured the sandy-haired man, mildly, rising and helping himself to some more whisky. “All that I said was that there are times when you can build an entire case from your half-brick or its equivalent. And when you find two glasses both smelling strongly of whisky in a room, you assume that two people have drunk whisky. Which was where the Corsican tripped up. You see, he distinctly swore he hadn’t entered the room till he came in with us.” The Barrister raised protesting hands to the ceiling. “The man is indubitably mad,” he remarked to no one in particular. “Was not Fairfax in the room most of the evening?” The sandy-haired man looked even more mild. “I think that perhaps I ought to have mentioned one fact sooner, but I was afraid it would spoil the story. The cat has an aversion to water; the fish have an aversion to dry land. But both these aversions pale into total insignificance when compared to Jack Fairfax’s aversion to whisky.” He gazed thoughtfully at his glass. “A strange flaw in an otherwise fine character. Thank heavens the symptom is not common!” _XII_ _The Man Who Could Not Get Drunk_ “YES; she’s a beautiful woman. There’s no doubt about that. What did you say her name was?” “I haven’t mentioned her name,” I returned. “But there’s no secret about it. She is Lady Sylvia Clavering.” “Ah! Sylvia. Of course, I remember now.” He drained his glass of brandy and sat back in his chair, while his eyes followed one of the most beautiful women in London as she threaded her way through the tables towards the entrance of the restaurant. An obsequious head-waiter bent almost double as she passed; her exit, as usual, befitted one of the most be-photographed women of Society. And it was not until the doors had swung to behind her and her escort that the man I had been dining with spoke again. “I guess that little bow she gave as she passed here was yours, not mine,” he said, with the suspicion of a smile.