There was no answer to his first knock, but he had the curious feeling that the silence within had become even more silent. He knocked more sharply and soon heard footsteps approaching, followed by the opening of the inner door; he stepped back a pace and the heavy outer door swung slowly out towards him. In the doorway stood a curious figure, which might have stepped out of a page of Dickens; an elderly man, dressed in baggy subfuscous trousers, a worn velvet jacket, and a tasselled cap, such as Poole imagined to have been extinct since Balmoral lifted its ban upon smoking. The face underneath the cap, however, was by no means Victorian; the nose certainly was aquiline and carried a pair of gold pince-nez, but the skin was clear and healthy, the mouth sensitive, and the eyes bright and intelligent. Probably Mr. Menticle amused himself in his solitude by posing as a participator in Jarndyce and Jarndyce. At the moment there was a frown of displeasure on the lawyer’s fine brow. He remained in the doorway, waiting for his visitor to explain his presence. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, sir,” said Poole. “My card will explain my insistence.” Mr. Menticle took the card, glanced at it, and, with a short nod, signed to Poole to come in. “Shut the outer door behind you,” said Mr. Menticle. “It may prevent our being disturbed.” Poole thought he caught a slight emphasis on the “may” and a faint chuckle from the retreating figure of his host. He followed, and found himself in a remarkably comfortable room, with a soft carpet, two easy-chairs, and a blazing wood fire. The walls were lined with bookcases, with an occasional well-balanced engraving, whilst over the fireplace hung a photograph of an O.U. Cricket Eleven. Poole checked with difficulty his natural inclination to go straight up and look at it. “Take a chair, Inspector,” said the lawyer, pointing to the least worn of the two. “You’ve come just in time for a glass of sherry.” He opened an oak corner cupboard and brought out a cut-glass decanter, two tulip sherry-glasses, and a tin of biscuits. “Amontillado,” he said. “Sound stuff. Not to be found everywhere in these days.” The two men lifted their glasses to each other. Poole’s glance lifting for an instant to the photograph over the fire, Mr. Menticle allowed his gaze to rest for a time upon his visitor’s face, before he spoke. “What year were you up?” he asked. Poole stared at him, then broke into a laugh. “You’re very quick, sir,” he said. “’17 to ’19. St. James’s.” “Get a blue?” “Half-blue, sir—Athletic. I played in a Seniors match once, but didn’t get any further in cricket.” “’Tics, I suppose?” “Yes, sir.” “And now you’ve taken to police work—C.I.D. Very interesting career. And I suppose you want to forget all about Oxford when you’re on your job?” “That’s exactly what I do want, sir. Curiously enough it’s come out twice today, and I’m rather annoyed with myself for letting it.”