Feeling savage, and defeated, Poole made his way back by bus to Pall Mall. It was four o’clock by the time he got to The Junior Service Club but he was soon introduced to the bereaved waiter. Mr. Buntle proved to be as shrewd a man as the early disposal of his mother-in-law suggested. He quite well remembered Captain Wraile sending him with a message to the hall-porter about a Mr. Lukescu (he pronounced it Look-askew) being expected. The Captain was sitting in the small library at the back—the room to which visitors were generally taken for prolonged conversation; he was actually sitting at the writing table in the window when he (Buntle) entered. “You don’t remember what time, that was, Buntle?” asked Poole eagerly. “I do so; Captain Wraile asked me what time it was—he couldn’t see the clock from where he sat, sir. It was 6.25 pip emma.” “6.25! You’re certain?” “Absolutely, sir; because he said the gentleman was expected at 6.30 and I thought to myself ‘I must slip along or he’ll be here before I get there.’” Poole felt blank depression settle upon him. This was surely cutting Wraile’s limits too close for possibility. “That clock,” he asked, “is it accurate—does it usually keep good time? Is it set regularly?” “Every day, sir; my own duty, as soon as it comes through each morning, is to get round and check every clock in the Club by the time from 2 LO. That clock’s dead regular.” Poole groaned. This was surely defeat. “That’s what made me wonder, sir, when I checked the clocks next day and found this one was ten minutes fast.” Poole leapt to his feet. “Ten minutes fast! Do you mean—do you mean that it had been put on?” “Looks re—markably like it, don’t it, sir?” said Buntle with a wink. Poole stared for a second at the clock, then dashed to the window and threw it open. “Where does this give on to?” he exclaimed ungrammatically. “Yard at the back, sir, leading into St. James’s Alley.” Poole leaned out. Dark as it was, he could see just below him the top of a large ash-bin. It would be a simple matter for an active man to climb out of the window—and in again. “By God, I’ve got him,” exclaimed the detective eagerly. “Called the waiter in to see him at 6.15—clock at 6.25—slipped out of the window the moment he was out of the room; back at 6.40 and straight down to the hall-porter—apparently only 15 minutes unaccounted for! Now for Mrs.—? What’s her game?—probably the window-trick again—they generally repeat themselves.” Poole hurried to the nearest call-box and was soon through to Chief Inspector Barrod at Scotland Yard. “The bottom’s out of Wraile’s alibi, sir. I’m going down now to see about his wife’s. But we ought to have them both shadowed from now on; if you agree, sir, will you send me down a couple of plain-clothes men to Ald House, in Fenchurch Street, about thirty yards west of Tollard Lane? I’ll put them on to their people.”