On this occasion, he made his way to the “Grand Couronne” in Greek Street, Soho, and after ordering himself a special risotto and a large glass of Münchener—which had to be fetched from “over the way,” the restaurant possessing no licence—set himself to review the progress he had made. In the first place he knew fairly thoroughly the nature of the disease which had resulted in Sir Garth Fratten’s death, together with the circumstances which had led up to it; he had a fairly clear picture of the scene on the Duke of York’s Steps, when the accident which caused his death had occurred; he had, he thought, solved the mystery surrounding the nature of the disease—the ignorance of the family and friends was evidently a foible of Sir Garth’s, and even so, not very closely adhered to; finally he had discovered that one person at any rate had a very strong motive indeed for desiring the death—and the death within very narrow limits of time—of the late banker. Not very much perhaps, but still, more than was known twenty-four hours ago. His satisfaction was somewhat modified when he turned to a consideration of the progress he had _not_ made. He did not know, in the first place, whether a crime had been committed at all—a rather vital point! Assuming that it had, he did not know who had committed it, nor how it had been committed. If he had found one person with a motive, he had by no means eliminated all possible alternative suspects—in spite of Mr. Hessel’s chaff, he still believed that rich and powerful men often made dangerous enemies. On that line alone he had a great deal of ground to cover. He had, in fact, a long way still to go before he even created a case, let alone solved it. Finishing his modest dinner, he invited the manager, Signor Pablo Vienzi, to join him in a cup of coffee and a cigar. Signor Vienzi was only too willing, but was unable to repay this hospitality by any useful information. Poole’s discreet pumping revealed only the fact that the proprietor had never heard either of Mr. Ryland Fratten or of Miss Pinkie Crystel—though Poole did not expect much help from the latter line. The detective paid his bill, said good-night, and went home to bed. Arriving at Scotland Yard soon after nine the next morning, Inspector Poole went through the small amount of routine work that awaited him and made his way to the room of the Assistant Commissioner. On his way there, he hesitated outside the door of Chief Inspector Barrod. He felt that the correct procedure was for him to report in the first place to his immediate superior, and through him, if necessary, to Sir Leward. But Chief Inspector Barrod had been very curt and decided on the point, and Poole, with some misgiving, complied with this short-circuiting of established routine.