“How does it seem, my arch-criminal, to be still breathing God's fresh air?” Francis retorted in the same vein. “Make the most of it. It may not last for ever.” Sir Timothy smiled. He was looking exceedingly well that morning, the very prototype of a man contented with life and his part in it. He was wearing a morning coat and silk hat, his pâtént boots were faultlessly polished, his trousers pressed to perfection, his grey silk tie neat and fashionable. Notwithstanding his waxenlike pallor, his slim figure and lithe, athletic walk seemed to speak of good health. “You may catch the minnow,” he murmured. “The big fish swim on. By-the-bye,” he added, “I do not notice that your sledge-hammer blows at crime are having much effect. Two undetected murders last week, and one the week before. What are you about, my astute friend?” “Those are matters for Scotland Yard,” Francis replied, with an indifferent little wave of the hand which held his cigarette. “Details are for the professional. I seek that corner in Hell where the thunders are welded and the poison gases mixed. In other words, I seek for the brains of crime.” “Believe me, we do not see enough of one another, my young friend,” Sir Timothy said earnestly. “You interest me more and more every time we meet. I like your allegories, I like your confidence, which in any one except a genius would seem blatant. When can we dine together and talk about crime?” “The sooner the better,” Francis replied promptly. “Invite me, and I will cancel any other engagement I might happen to have.” Sir Timothy considered for a moment. The June sunshine was streaming down upon them and the atmosphere was a little oppressive. “Will you dine with me at Hatch End to-night?” he asked. “My daughter and I will be alone.” “I should be delighted,” Francis replied promptly. “I ought to tell you, perhaps, that I have called three times upon your daughter but have not been fortunate enough to find her at home.” Sir Timothy was politely apologetic. “I fear that my daughter is a little inclined to be morbid,” he confessed. “Society is good for her. I will undertake that you are a welcome guest.” “At what time do I come and how shall I find your house?” Francis enquired. “You motor down, I suppose?” Sir Timothy observed. “Good! In Hatch End any one will direct you. We dine at eight. You had better come down as soon as you have finished your day's work. Bring a suitcase and spend the night.” “I shall be delighted,” Francis replied.