Inspector Whyland shook his head with a tolerant smile. “Theory’s all very well in its way, Mr. Ludgrove,” he said, as he replaced the knives in his pocket. “I can’t waste my time establishing connections. There’s evidence enough here to convince a jury that the same man killed all three of them. And I don’t fancy it’ll be very long before I lay hands upon him.” “I sincerely hope your expectations will be realized, Inspector,” replied the herbalist, in a tone of faint irony which was lost upon Whyland. “I suppose it is indiscreet to ask whether you have any suspicions? I confess that for my part I am entirely at a loss. What about young Snyder, for instance?” “Master Wal Snyder is out of this,” returned the Inspector shortly. “He was pinched a week ago for picking pockets in a tube lift, and is safely under lock and key. But I don’t mind telling you in confidence, Mr. Ludgrove, that I know the murderer lives somewhere in this district.” Mr. Ludgrove lifted his eyebrows in real or assumed astonishment. “Indeed?” he exclaimed. “That is indeed a great step forward. Pray, how did you come to that conclusion?” If the Inspector perceived the irony in his tone, he paid no heed to it. “Well, it’s pretty obvious,” he replied. “All three men were murdered in Praed Street, to begin with. Then, there’s another thing. The envelope in which the counter was sent to Pargent bore the post-mark of this district, London, W.2. You can’t get away from it, everything points to the murderer living somewhere about here.” Again Inspector Whyland paused. Then suddenly he rose and stood over the herbalist where he sat in his chair. “There’s another thing, Mr. Ludgrove,” he said, almost menacingly. “You said just now that it didn’t follow that because Pargent received a counter he was killed by the same man that murdered the other two. Do you see where that leads you? If the third counter was sent by a different hand, it can only have been sent by one of the very few who knew of the receipt of the first two. And all of them live in this district, you will remember.” Mr. Ludgrove gazed up at him in mock alarm. “They do, indeed,” he replied. “It makes my blood run cold to think that I am one of them. Really, I am quite relieved to think that I have an alibi in the case of this last murder, at least.” Inspector Whyland laughed shortly. “Oh, for that matter, I’m as much under suspicion as you,” he said. “But, you see, there are some people we know who couldn’t produce an alibi for the time when any of the murders were committed.” And with that he turned abruptly on his heel and strode out of the room. Chapter VII The Black Sailor