I had not been surprised on receiving Fred's telegram the evening before to find that the name it contained was that of the young artist. Had he not already told me that Greywood was supposed to have been the favoured suitor? And, knowing May Derwent as I did, I had felt sure from the very first that she must have entertained the liveliest feelings of trust and liking--to say the least--for the man whom she permitted to visit her on that Tuesday evening. That the cur had not known enough to respect the privilege filled me with mingled feelings of rage and delight. Had he not offended my divinity there would have been no chance for me, and yet that he had dared to do so made me long to punish him. But to do this I must first find him. His name did not appear either in the Social Register or the Directory, but I thought that by visiting the various studio buildings dotted over the city I should eventually find the one in which he lived. So I got up bright and early the following morning, determined to begin my search at once. As I sat down to my breakfast with a hopeful heart and an excellent appetite, I little thought what a bomb-shell was contained in the papers lying so innocently beside my plate. I had hardly read the terrible news before I was out of the house and on my way to Merritt's. Luckily, I found the detective at home, calmly eating his breakfast. He showed no signs of surprise at my early appearance, and invited me to share his meal with simple courtesy. As I had hurried off without stopping to eat anything, I thought that I had better do so, although I grudged the time spent in such a trifling pursuit, while so much hung in the balance and every minute might be precious. "Well, Mr. Merritt," I exclaimed, "what is this fairytale about Greywood? I see from the papers that your people do not put much faith in the identification." "We do, and we don't," he answered, "but it is not proved yet, and, while there is still some doubt about it, I thought it as well for the gentlemen of the press to be kept guessing a little longer." "But what do _you_ think? Surely, you do not believe the murdered man to be Greywood?" I urged. "Doctor, I'm afraid I do." "You do?" I cried. "Yes." "But when I saw you, on Friday, you were equally sure of Miss Derwent's innocence." "Ah! that was Friday! Besides, I have not said that I believe the young lady guilty; I merely say that I believe Maurice Greywood, and not Allan Brown, to be the name of the victim." "But, then, you must think that she killed him," I insisted. "Not necessarily. Have you never thought of the possibility that Allan Derwent (for we will assume that he was the man whom you saw in her apartment) might be the murderer?" "No," I confessed, "that had not occurred to me."