“I’ve told you all I know,” he said. “But I doubt if it’s been much help to you. There’s one thing more that you might think worth following up. A fellow I know saw Mrs. Draycott in Paris in 1920, three years after she married Draycott. Draycott was in Egypt at the time and she was with a man whom this friend of mine, Lloyd, was unable to identify. He was an old friend of Baxter’s and knew that I should not be sorry to have a hold over her, so, after he’d run across them three or four times, he followed them to their hotel one night, but her name was not on the register and he couldn’t trace the man. He believes they were staying together under assumed names. I kept his letter, thinking I might bluff her with it if we ever came up against each other. I give you the story for what it’s worth and I’ll write down Lloyd’s address for you and send him a line asking him to tell you what he knows, if you think it’s worth while to look him up. But I warn you, he doesn’t know much. It’s possible, however, that if she went to Paris with this man, she may have put the screw on him later.” He scribbled an address on the back of a card and placed it on the table. Fayre picked it up and slipped it into his pocket-book. “Anything’s worth while at this stage of the game,” he admitted thoughtfully. He stood hesitating, considering his next move. Knowing Gregg’s quick temper, he found considerable difficulty in clothing the question that was trembling on his lips in a form the other would not immediately resent, but he knew that he could not let the man go until he had an answer. “I wish you’d tell me one thing,” he said at last. “Fire away. I’m not going off the deep end again, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” answered Gregg with disconcerting intuition. “Can you give me your movements from, say, five onwards on the evening of the murder? I’ve a good reason for asking.” Gregg looked genuinely surprised; then his lips parted in a rather grim smile.