The idea of how to kill him was Hessel’s—I wish I could claim the credit for it. On the very day that Fratten told him about having been invited to join our Board he also told him about having a thorasic aneurism. By the merest chance, Hessel knew what a thorasic aneurism was—and where it was—he’d had a relation or someone with it. What’s more, just after he heard about it, Fratten was nearly run over by a motor and the shock nearly did him in—that gave Hessel the idea. The affair on the Steps of course, we staged to distract attention from the actual attack. It would probably be put down to an accident and it was a million to one against my being traced. I don’t know now how you got on to it. After the ‘accident’ I made for the car and Hessel led Fratten exactly where we wanted him, waving a bright cigar end to mark his course. The shooting was easy, but the damn slug caught somewhere and the cord broke. I went back to look for it but couldn’t find it—perhaps you did. My own disguise for the part, of course, was very slight—moustache darkened with grease stick—easily wiped off—and a clerk’s voice. My overcoat and hat I’d hung on the visitors’ peg in the passage outside the small library—the coat was a shabby one, so I’d walked in with it over my arm. My appointment with Lukescu was made officially by my office for 6.30—no doubt you checked that—but I telephoned to him privately not to come till 7. Of course the times were very carefully worked out and Hessel neatly steered Fratten into them. Just two small points to interest the good Inspector. When he and Miss Fratten sleuthed us on the Underground that evening and we slipped out at Charing Cross Station, we took the only taxi on the rank—pure luck that—we’d had no time to plan—and then slipped down into the tube at Piccadilly Circus. When he came to interview Blagge and ‘Miss Saverel’ at the Conservative office, she sent a note to me from under his very nose, telling me he was there and asking me to cut her out. I did. Anything more you want to know, you must ask—but you’ll probably be blue in the face before you get an answer. Adieu, cher Commissionaire, James Wraile. P. S. I dedicate the identical cross-bow—it’s killed Boches as well as bankers—to the Black Museum—you’ll find it in the cloak-room at King’s Cross.” “That’s the letter, Miss Fratten.” “Well I’m dashed, he’s got a nerve,” said Ryland. “So they’ve slipped you after all, Mr. Poole,” said Inez—her voice poised half-way between relief and disappointment. Poole shook his head.