“I think that will certainly be the best course,” agreed Hanslet. “I will just run round to the local police station after dinner, and have a chat with whoever’s in charge. We must certainly follow up this valuable clue of yours.” They returned to the inn, and after dinner Hanslet went round to the police station. The superintendent who had been in charge at the time of Morlandson’s death had since been promoted and had left the district, but Hanslet had no difficulty in verifying the story as told by the landlord. He had disclosed his identity, and explained that he had come down in connection with a case in which he was interested, without however mentioning the Praed Street murders. In the course of conversation with the sergeant in charge he elicited the information that no strangers had recently been heard of in the district, and certainly nobody in any way resembling the Black Sailor. “There’s a few foreigners and the like comes in to Poole, sir,” the sergeant had explained. “But they never comes over this way. The barges what goes up to Goathorn are all local craft, and there’s never a stranger among them. If any stranger was wandering about the heath, we’d get to hear of it, sharp enough. Why, it’s an event in the lives of these clay-workers if they see a strange face.” “Well, if you should hear of a strange man with a bicycle having been seen, you might let me know,” said Hanslet. “Good night, sergeant, I won’t trouble you any further.” Hanslet left the police station, more convinced than ever that the Professor was suffering from some temporary aberration. He had known such cases before, where overwork had caused the queerest effects. It was quite understandable. The Professor had certainly discovered the motive for the murders; it could not be a coincidence that all the men who had died had served on this particular jury and had been the victims of this mysterious murderer. But, having discovered this, and realizing that he was the only survivor, the Professor must have received a shock which had unduly stimulated his imagination. This was all that Hanslet could make of it. Meanwhile he determined to keep a very close watch over the Professor, for, if his theory was correct, his life was undoubtedly threatened, Black Sailor or no Black Sailor. The party returned to London on the Monday morning, and Hanslet immediately went to see Whyland, whom he had left in charge during his absence. At the police station he was told that he had gone to see Mr. Ludgrove, and thither Hanslet followed him. He found Whyland and Ludgrove seated in the latter’s sanctum, and the herbalist greeted him warmly on his entrance. “Come in, Inspector,” he said. “Mr. Whyland and I are talking about the death of Mr. Copperdock. As you see, I am still alive, in spite of my numbered counter.” “So I see,” replied Hanslet. “You’ve seen or heard of nothing suspicious, I suppose, Whyland?”