"Fine, invigorating air this, Wigan," he remarked. "Is there really a case for us to deal with, or did you merely telegraph for the purpose of giving me a holiday?" "The case is for you rather than for me. I am still--" "Still waiting for something to turn up in the Beverley affair?" he asked. "Were I answering a layman, or even a rival detective, I should look very wise and talk indefinitely of clues; to you I will admit a blank ten days, not a forward step in any direction whatever." "So you send for me." "Upon a different matter altogether," I returned. I had come to Fairtown ten days ago on the lookout for a man named Beverley. His friends were anxious about him, and said they believed he was suffering from a loss of memory; the police had reason to suspect that he was implicated in some company-promoting frauds, and thought the family only wanted to find him to get him out of the country. His people were certainly not aware that I was looking for him in Fairtown, and I need not go into the reasons which made me expect to run my quarry to earth in this particular spot; they were sound ones, or I should not have spent ten days on the job. To describe Fairtown would be superfluous. Every one knows this popular seaside resort. This year, I believe for the first time, a large tent had been erected behind the sea-baths building, which was occupied each week by a different company of entertainers. In my second week a troupe of pierrots was there, the "Classical P's," they were called, and hearing from some one in the hotel that they were quite out of the ordinary, I went on the Thursday evening. At the opening of the performance the leader of the troupe announced that Brother Pythagoras, after the performance on the previous evening, had been obliged to go to town, and unfortunately had not yet returned, so they would be without his services that night. There was some disappointment; he had a charming tenor voice, my neighbor told me. The full troupe numbered six, described on the program as Brothers Pluto, Pompey, and Pythagoras, and Sisters Psyche, Pomona, and Penelope; that night, of course, they were only five, but the entertainment was excellent. Sister Pomona was altogether an exceptional pianist, her interpretation of items by Schumann and Mendelssohn being little short of a revelation. She was pretty, too, and her scarlet dress with its white pompons, and her pierrot's hat to match, suited her to perfection. I was amongst the last left in the tent after the performance, partly owing to the position of my seat, partly, at least so Zena would have it later, and I did not contradict her, because I was lingering in the hope of getting another glimpse of Pomona. As I moved toward the exit there came a short scream, a terrified scream it seemed to me, from behind the stage. I turned back and waited, and in a minute or two Brother Pluto came from behind the curtains. "Are you a doctor?" he asked. "No, but--"