“We didn’t know a thing about it till eight o’clock on Saturday evening,” continued Mr. Copperdock eagerly. “I was just going across to the Cambridge Arms when Inspector Whyland came in and asked me casual-like what I’d been doing all the afternoon. As a matter of fact neither Ted nor I had hardly left the shop, and so I told him. It wasn’t till then that he let on that three hours before a gentleman had been murdered not a hundred yards away, exactly the same as poor Tovey. Then I remembered that a customer had told me something about an accident outside Paddington station, but, being busy, I hadn’t taken any heed of it. And, that reminds me, the Inspector left a message for you, asking if you would let him know when you got back. I’ll ring him up from here if you like, I’ve got his number.” “I wish you would, I have no telephone, as you know,” replied Mr. Ludgrove. “Has Mrs. Cooper brought my key back yet?” Mr. Copperdock felt in his pocket and handed the herbalist a Yale key. “She brought it in ten minutes ago. She was terribly upset, and talked about our all being murdered in our beds next. It’s a terrible thing to have happened just before Christmas like this. People will be afraid to go out of doors after dark.” Mr. Ludgrove nodded rather absently, and took the key which his friend offered him. “You’ll let Inspector Whyland know I’m back?” he said, and, without awaiting Mr. Copperdock’s reply, he left the shop, crossed the road, and entered his own premises, a thoughtful frown upon his face. Inspector Whyland lost no time in acting upon Mr. Copperdock’s message. The murder of Mr. Richard Pargent, following so soon upon that of Mr. Tovey, and perpetrated by the same method, had made a great sensation, not only among the public, but, which was far more important to the Inspector, at Headquarters. He had been given a pretty direct hint that unless he could find some clue within the next few days, the case would be taken out of his hands and given to some more capable officer. All the machinery at the disposal of the police had been put into action, but so far without the slightest result. And in Inspector Whyland’s despair it seemed to him that the only hope left of gaining any information was through the herbalist, with his peculiar inner knowledge of the inhabitants of the district. He arrived to find Mr. Ludgrove busily engaged in writing up descriptions of his botanical trophies in a large manuscript book. The herbalist greeted him warmly, and invited him to a seat in the best chair. The two sat for a moment in silence, until the Inspector spoke abruptly. “Look here, Mr. Ludgrove, what do you know about this man who’s been killed?” “Richard Pargent?” replied the herbalist quietly. “I know nothing about him personally. I have seen his name mentioned once or twice as a writer of verse, but I doubt if I should have remembered it had it not been recalled to me by what I read in the papers this morning.”