“Ah, this throws a new light upon the matter!” commented Mr. Ludgrove, with polite interest. “Better look out for himself,” repeated Mr. Copperdock with careful emphasis. “A regular threat, mark you. Jim didn’t say anything about Wal to Ivy or her mother, you never know how women will take these things. Of course, I told the Inspector about it, and he took it all down in his book. He’d already seen Wal, together with the rest of the gang. It seems they’d had a pretty good week, and most of ’em confessed they were a bit on, and didn’t remember much after they was chucked out of the pub. But young Wal said he remembered an old chap barging into him—he said he didn’t recognize him—and just behind him was a fellow who looked like a seaman. He couldn’t say much about this other fellow, except that he had a sort of woollen cap covering his head, a fierce-looking black beard, and a great scar right across his cheek. Said he looked like one of them Russian Bolsheviks. Of course, there was a lot of people on the pavement, but he was the only one he noticed.” Mr. Ludgrove smiled. “I am inclined to think that the story does credit to the young man’s imagination,” he said quietly. “I can’t say that I’ve ever seen a Bolshevik sailor wandering about Praed Street on a Sunday evening.” “Nor hasn’t anybody else,” replied Mr. Copperdock scornfully, “what’s more, the policeman, who was on the spot pretty sharp, didn’t see anybody like this man in the crowd. There’s no question but what Wal Snyder invented this story to cover himself. It’s all plain as daylight to me—ah, but there’s one thing I haven’t told you. Remember I said that poor old Jim had been sent for to St. Martha’s to identify an accident case? Well, that was all my eye. There hadn’t been no accident and St. Martha’s hadn’t rung him up at all. It was just a trick to get him out into Praed Street.” “It ought to be possible for the police to trace where the call came from,” suggested Mr. Ludgrove. “Of course. The Inspector told me they’d done that already, but it didn’t get them much further. The call came from one of the boxes at Paddington station, one of them automatic contraptions where you press the button when you’re through. If you’re sharp with the button, there’s nothing to tell the people you’re speaking to that you’re speaking from a box. And, of course, at a place like Paddington there’s no one to see who goes in and out of those boxes.” “I see. And where was Wal Snyder when the call was made?” “Oh, in the Express Train all right. He’d got his alibi fixed up, no fear of that. Put one of his pals on to that job, the cunning young devil. And then, of course, he’d watch till Jim came past the pub on his way home, and the rest was easy.” “And what did your friend the Inspector think of all this?” inquired Mr. Ludgrove.