“Oh, well, show him up,” I said resignedly. “You’d better put those cards away, Richey. I fancy it’s the rector of the church around the corner.” But when the door opened to admit a curiously alert little man, adjusting his glasses with nervous fingers, my face must have shown my dismay. It was the amateur detective of the Ontario! I shook hands without enthusiasm. Here was the one survivor of the wrecked car who could do me any amount of harm. There was no hope that he had forgotten any of the incriminating details. In fact, he held in his hand the very note-book which contained them. His manner was restrained, but it was evident he was highly excited. I introduced him to McKnight, who has the imagination I lack, and who placed him at once, mentally. “I only learned yesterday that you had been—er—saved,” he said rapidly. “Terrible accident—unspeakable. Dream about it all night and think about it all day. Broken arm?” “No. He just wears the splint to be different from other people,” McKnight drawled lazily. I glared at him: there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing the little man. “Yes, a fractured humerus, which isn’t as funny as it sounds.” “Humerus—humorous! Pretty good,” he cackled. “I must say you keep up your spirits pretty well, considering everything.” “You seem to have escaped injury,” I parried. He was fumbling for something in his pockets. “Yes, I escaped,” he replied abstractedly. “Remarkable thing, too. I haven’t a doubt I would have broken my neck, but I landed on—you’ll never guess what! I landed head first on the very pillow which was under inspection at the time of the wreck. You remember, don’t you? Where did I put that package?” He found it finally and opened it on a table, displaying with some theatricalism a rectangular piece of muslin and a similar patch of striped ticking. “You recognize it?” he said. “The stains, you see, and the hole made by the dirk. I tried to bring away the entire pillow, but they thought I was stealing it, and made me give it up.” Richey touched the pieces gingerly. “By George,” he said, “and you carry that around in your pocket! What if you should mistake it for your handkerchief?” But Mr. Hotchkiss was not listening. He stood bent somewhat forward, leaning over the table, and fixed me with his ferret-like eyes. “Have you seen the evening papers, Mr. Blakeley?” he inquired. I glanced to where they lay unopened, and shook my head. “Then I have a disagreeable task,” he said with evident relish. “Of course, you had considered the matter of the man Harrington’s death closed, after the wreck. I did myself. As far as I was concerned, I meant to let it remain so. There were no other survivors, at least none that I knew of, and in spite of circumstances, there were a number of points in your favor.” “Thank you,” I put in with a sarcasm that was lost on him.