The Crown Prince nodded again. “Quite so—and you will agree I feel sure that it appears to be a most remarkable case. You will have been able to glean sufficient from the accounts in the Press to admit that. Listen—I have a theory—an idea has persisted in my brain since I heard of the affair in the first place. Those letters that were addressed to me. Vile blackmail! Mr. Bathurst—supposing that blackmailer is also the murderer of Miss Carruthers. It fits! It is on all four legs as you English say. Supposing he knew that Miss Carruthers and I had met amicably—that the affair was settled—that she had returned the photograph to my keeping—that the letters were burned—it would be clear to him that I could snap the finger-tips to him—that I could treat his threats with scorn—with disdain—in short that I could say to him, ‘Go to Hell.’ Well, then—assume that he knows what I have just said—he follows Miss Carruthers whose arrangement with me has spoiled his little game and in a rage and passion at being thwarted—he kills her at this dentist’s to whom she had gone. Why not—I say—why not? Find my blackmailer, Mr. Bathurst—and you’ll find the murderer of Daphne Carruthers.” He paused—his face and lips tremulous with anxiety and excitement—and took out a cigarette. Anthony watched him closely—the affair had got badly on his nerves—there was no denying the fact. “It’s feasible, certainly,” he conceded. “But it would be extremely injudicious of me to debate the case, with so little first-hand evidence upon which to go. The worst mistake any investigator can ever make is to let his brain run away and play mental Badminton with fanciful theories. It might pay, perhaps, once—or even twice—but I can hardly see it bringing consistent success. And, as, in this case, I am not likely to obtain any first-hand evidence——” His host interposed eagerly. “But you are, Mr. Bathurst. You are! Permit me to explain. I am privileged, as you may guess, by reason of my rank and powerful influence, to know many who sit in high places. I have this morning spoken to the Chief Commissioner of Police—Sir Austin Kemble,” he indicated the telephone on the table in the corner of the room, “he has given orders for you to have access to anything you desire in your handling of the case upon my behalf. Chief-Inspector Bannister of Scotland Yard who was called in by the local police has already been informed to that effect. I am very anxious that my interests should be in the very ablest hands. I may need them.” Anthony waved aside the very direct compliment. “Really, Your—Mr. Lucius, rather, I am not at all sure that my engagements will allow me to do what you wish. As I pointed out to you previously, I am not a professional inquiry-agent.”