Feeling that this was an occasion when his diplomacy would probably be outmatched, the detective produced his official card. “I am Inspector Poole, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard,” he said in a crisp voice. “I have come to ask you for information regarding a sum of money advanced by you to Mr. Ryland Fratten.” This was banking rather heavily upon the slender framework of his late informant’s credibility. Poole was relieved to see an unmistakable flutter of apprehension pass over the otherwise inscrutable features in front of him. Following up his advantage, Poole assumed his most official manner. “You will probably realize,” he said, “that you will be well advised not to attempt to conceal any phase of this transaction. The consequences of any deception would be very serious for you.” He paused to let these words sink in. “What precisely do you want to know?” Silence asked, in a low but curiously refined voice. “I want to know how much you lent Mr. Fratten, on what security, and at what rate of interest?” The man remained silent, his fingers beating a tattoo, his eyes cast down upon the writing-pad before him. “My business is supposed to be confidential,” he said at last. “I realize that, but if the police require information it will be advisable for you not to withhold it.” Poole knew that this was a delicate point as between police and public, but a man engaged in such a business as this probably was, could afford to run no risks. He was not mistaken. “I lent Mr. Fratten £15,000 for three months only, at 10% per month. The rate of interest is high but Mr. Fratten’s reputation is not good. I know well what trouble others in my profession have had to recover their advances. I could only do business on very special terms.” “And the security?” “A note of hand only.” “Surely something more? If Mr. Fratten’s reputation is so bad, what expectation could you have had of being repaid within three months?” The moneylender fidgeted uneasily. “He showed me a letter,” he said at last, “a letter from his father’s (Sir Garth Fratten’s) doctor. I gathered from it that Sir Garth’s expectation of life was very short; Mr. Fratten was his heir. I took a risk; it came off.” A shadow of a smile crossed the pale face. Poole felt a shudder of repugnance—this gambling upon a man’s life was an ugly business. Ugly enough, from the moneylender’s point of view—hideous when applied to father and son. He learnt nothing more of interest from the rather melodramatic moneylender, except the significant fact that the transaction was affected on 17th October, exactly half-way between the date of Ryland Fratten’s threatened disinheritance by his father and the latter’s death. After a thoroughly blank and unpromising beginning, Poole felt that the day had ended well. He went home to bed, carefully folding his evening clothes before putting them away until next time.