Kean met him in the hall and led the way into his study. He had been working and held a closely written manuscript in his hand. He pushed Fayre gently into an armchair and placed a box of cigars at his elbow, then he seated himself at the writing-table. “I’ve got the whole story here,” he said, pointing to the papers before him. “I suggest that you take it to Grey first thing to-morrow morning. He will know what to do with it. I might have sent it to you. In some ways it would have been easier for me, but I’ve got a feeling I’d rather you heard it from my own lips.” The amused contempt which had angered Fayre earlier in the day had gone from his voice and had given place to an utter weariness. His face was grey with fatigue, and Fayre, remembering all he had gone through that day, forgot his anxiety about Leslie and was conscious only of compassion. He rose impulsively to his feet. “Look here, old man,” he exclaimed, all the warmth of their long friendship back in his voice. “Let’s leave the whole thing for to-night. You’re not fit for it. I’ll take that paper home with me and go through it there or, if you’d prefer it, we can have it out to-morrow. I don’t know to what extent it will help Leslie but a few hours’ delay can make little difference to him.” Kean shook his head. “We’ll go through with it now,” he said, with a touch of his old vigour. “I shan’t sleep till it’s over and done with.” He sat for a moment in silence, his eyes fixed on the closely written sheets before him. When he spoke, his voice was as coldly dispassionate as though he were telling a story in which he was in no way concerned. “As you have no doubt guessed,” he began, “the whole thing dates from the year of my visit to Paris. How you got onto that, I don’t know. You will remember that Gerald Lee and three other men were killed by a shell in the first year of the war. Identification was impossible, but his disk was found close to the spot and it was taken for granted that he was one of the victims. “The first intimation I had that he was alive came from Mrs. Draycott, almost a year after my marriage to Sybil. She wrote from Paris, enclosing a copy of the snapshot you showed me this morning. It appeared that she had been staying with friends in Germany and, so far as I could make out, had had an affair with a doctor out there. It was like her, with her morbid love of sensation, to persuade him to take her over the local lunatic asylum. She had known Gerald Lee slightly in the days before the war and she recognized him at once and, with characteristic acumen, realized that she might make use of the discovery to her own advantage.