“But,” said I, “doesn’t he realize that her marriage will render that will null and void?” “Apparently not,” replied Meade; “nor, to tell the truth, did I realize it myself. Will she have to make a new will?” “Certainly,” I replied. “And as that new will may be expected to be still less favourable to him, that will presumably be a further grievance.” “One doesn’t understand,” said Thorndyke, “why he should excite himself so much about her will. What are their respective ages?” “Miss Fawcett is thirty-six and Ponting is about forty.” “And what kind of man is he?” Thorndyke asked. “A very unpleasant kind of man, I am sorry to say. Morose, rude, and violent-tempered. A spendthrift and a cadger. He has had quite a lot of money from Miss Fawcett--loans, which, of course, are never repaid. And he is none too industrious, though he has a regular job on the staff of a weekly paper. But he seems to be always in debt.” “We may as well note his address,” said Thorndyke. “He lives in a small flat in Bloomsbury--alone, now, since he quarrelled with the man who used to share it with him. The address is 12 Borneo House, Devonshire Street.” “What sort of terms is he on with the cousins, his rivals?” “No sort of terms now,” replied Meade. “They used to be great friends. So much so that he took his present flat to be near them--they live in the adjoining flat, number 12 Sumatra House. But since the trouble about the will, he is hardly on speaking terms with them.” “They live together, then?” “Yes, Frederick and his wife and James, who is unmarried. They are rather a queer lot, too. Frederick is a singer on the variety stage, and James accompanies him on various instruments. But they are both sporting characters of a kind, especially James, who does a bit on the turf and engages in other odd activities. Of course, their musical habits are a grievance to Ponting. He is constantly making complaints of their disturbing him at his work.” Mr. Meade paused and looked wistfully at Thorndyke, who was making full notes of the conversation. “Well,” said the latter, “we seem to have got all the facts excepting the most important--the nature of the threats. What do you want us to do?” “I want you to see Miss Fawcett--with me, if possible--and induce her to give you such details as would enable you to put a stop to the nuisance. You couldn’t come to-night, I suppose? It is a beast of a night, but I would take you there in a taxi--it is only to Tooting Bec. What do you say?” he added eagerly, as Thorndyke made no objection. “We are sure to find her in, because her maid is away on a visit to her home and she is alone in the house.” Thorndyke looked reflectively at his watch. “Half-past eight,” he remarked, “and half an hour to get there. These threats are probably nothing but ill-temper. But we don’t know. There may be something more serious behind them; and, in law as in medicine, prevention is better than a post-mortem. What do you say, Jervis?”