“Ludgrove. Elmer Ludgrove,” said Hanslet. “Rather an interesting personality, from what Whyland tells me. He keeps a herbalist’s shop, and is a bit of a character in his way. He’s a man of some education, between fifty and sixty, a very dignified old boy with a striking white beard, which I expect is a bit of an asset in his trade. He doesn’t say much about himself, but does a lot of good in his own quiet way. All the poorer people in the neighbourhood come to him if they’re in any sort of trouble, and he freely admits he hears a good many secrets. Whyland thought he would be a useful chap to get on the right side of, and often used to drop in to see him. He says he got more than one valuable hint from him. He was also pretty certain that this chap Ludgrove shared his suspicions of Copperdock, but he would never say so outright. You see, Copperdock was a friend of his.” The Professor nodded. “I see,” he said. “And it was this Mr. Ludgrove who received the counter you say?” “Yes, and, what’s more, Whyland was with him when he found it. The poor old boy was terribly shaken for the moment, Whyland says, but after a bit he pretended to treat it as a joke. I’ve seen him since, and he’s pretty plucky about it, knowing as he does that everybody who has received one of these infernal numbered counters has died a sudden death. He says that he is an old man, anyhow, alone in the world and with only a few more years to live in any case, so that his death will be no great blow to anybody.” “A most philosophic attitude,” agreed the Professor. “But to return to Mr. Copperdock, I should like to hear the circumstances under which he met his death.” Hanslet related the events of the previous Saturday night in considerable detail, up to the time when Whyland and Ludgrove entered the latter’s sanctum. “There’s not much more to add,” he continued, “except that the doctor’s suspicions were confirmed as to the poison. The Home Office people examined the fragment of broken needle, and I heard this afternoon that they found traces of a remarkable virulent synthetic alkaloid. You’ll know what that is better than I do, Professor.” “Yes, I know,” replied the Professor grimly. “I have reason to. It was with one of these synthetic alkaloids—there are a number of them—that Farwell tipped the spines of the hedgehog to which I so nearly fell a victim.¹ You remember that incident, I dare say?” ¹ See _The Ellerby Case_ by John Rhode.