The man turned a greenish hue. “Beyond doubt his death was the direct result of the crime which you incited him to commit. The whole story’s known. I heard myself, this morning, a confession from the lips of the miserable tool who actually concocted the fraudulent documents. You will find him quite willing to turn Queen’s Evidence. The bills will be produced in Court, when you will have an opportunity to tell your story.” He put his hand up to his collar, as if it had suddenly become tight. “It’s a lie that Edwin Lawrence was murdered last night. It’s a lie.” “By the way, sir, what is your name?” “What’s it to do with you?” “Chancing to notice in your letter-case some visiting-cards, I ventured to abstract one. We will refer to that.” I produced it from my waistcoat pocket. “From this it appears that you are Mr. Isaac Bernstein, of 288, Great Poland Street. Very good, Mr. Bernstein. Your bills are in safe keeping. You will hear of them again, never fear. Their history will be threshed out to your complete satisfaction--when you will be wanted again. Until then you can go.” “It’s a lie that he was murdered--it’s a lie.” “On that point you may be able to obtain information from Mr. and Mrs. Morley, or from the first policeman you meet in the street.” “God help us all!” groaned Mr. Morley. Apparently there was something in the old gentleman’s ejaculation which carried sufficient corroboration to Mr. Bernstein’s alert intelligence. He quitted the room to presently return. “Who--who killed him?” “In due course that will be made plain; also your association with the motive which was in the murderer’s mind, causing him to compass the death of the man whom you had incited to the perpetration of a hideous and unnatural crime.” Mr. Bernstein went out of the house without another word. When I heard the door bang, I turned to the old people. “You see? That is the way in which to treat impertinent persons who presume upon your master’s absence to traduce his name and to take liberties with the establishment which he has left in your charge.” The old gentleman shook his head. “It’s easy talking, but we haven’t all got your persuasive manner, sir.” It was an absurd thing for him to say, for no one knows better than myself that my manner is rude and awkward, and that I am unskilled in all those arts which go to make the master of persuasion. As I followed Mr. Bernstein out of the house, almost immediately, I had an illustration of how true that is. And again, in a more serious matter, a little later on. CHAPTER XVII. MY UNPERSUASIVE MANNER