“The gang ‘busted’ a house the other side of Guilford at nine o’clock,” he said. “The car smashed into a ditch and two of them have been caught by the Surrey police.” Coldwell pursed his lips. “That disposes of your theory,” he said. Driving back up Kingston Vale, Coldwell expatiated upon his favourite theme, which might be headed, “No effort is wasted when you’re dealing with law-breakers.” “A lot of men would grouse about being brought out in the middle of the night on a fool’s errand, but it isn’t possible to investigate the reason why a condensed milk tin has been found in an ashpit without learning something valuable. And if that hirer was friend Druze----” “As it was,” said Leslie promptly. “Well, we’ve learned something,” continued Coldwell. “It brings him into a new list, so to speak. He’s in the people-who-do-strange-things class, and that makes him stand out from the mass of law-abiding citizens.” They passed swiftly down Roehampton Lane, climbed the little slope that carried them over the railway bridge, and had reached the middle of the Common when Chief Inspector Coldwell began to enlarge and illustrate his theory. Just ahead of them, Leslie saw the rear lights of a car moving out from the side of the road. “Never despise little cases,” he began, “because----” There was a grinding of brakes; the car stopped so violently that Leslie’s nose touched the glass screen painfully. “What’s wrong?” asked Coldwell sharply. He, too, had seen the car ahead, and his first thought was that his driver was avoiding a collision. The police chauffeur was looking round. “I’m sorry, sir, I was rather startled. Did you see a man lying on the sidewalk?” “No, where?” asked the interested Coldwell. The driver reversed and the car moved slowly backward. They saw a black something in the darkness, and then, as the machine moved back a few more feet, the headlamps showed the figure of a man. Coldwell got down from the car slowly. “It looks like a drunk,” he mumbled. “You’d better stay where you are, Leslie.” But his foot had hardly touched the ground before she had followed. Well enough Inspector Coldwell knew that this was no drunk. The attitude, the outstretched arms, the legs slightly doubled, told him, before he saw the little pool of crimson on the sidewalk, that there was no life here. For a second the two stood gazing down at the pitiable figure. “Druze,” said the girl quietly. “Somehow I expected it.” It was Druze, and he was dead. The heavy overcoat was buttoned across his chest; there was no sign of a hat, and his hands, ungloved, were tightly clenched. As she looked, Leslie saw a queer green glitter in the light of the motor lamps. “He has something in his left hand,” she said in a hushed voice, and, kneeling down, Inspector Coldwell pried loose the fingers, and the thing that the dead man held fell with a tinkle to the gravelled path.