Both men were quick to see that Alan Warburton looked very much the worse for wear. He was unshaven, his hair anything but tidy, and his clothes unbrushed—so completely unbrushed and creased that they gave the impression of having been slept in. And very recently at that. His collar by no stretch of imagination could be described as clean and his tie had been tied with glaring and almost exaggerated carelessness. He himself was in no different condition from the clothes in which he stood. His not too-clean hands were shaking, and in his eyes glittered something that looked exceedingly like a dangerous malevolence. Decidedly Mr. Warburton was looking anything but his best. Anthony had seen a suggestion of the same look before in the eyes of the mentally unbalanced and knew that it bordered upon a state of fanaticism. He was quite prepared therefore to hear startling news. He was not disappointed. He has been heard moreover, more than once afterwards to remark, when this astounding case has been the subject of discussion, that this coming of Warburton enabled him to disentangle the threads perhaps more than any other feature of the affair. Coincidental with Warburton’s voluntary entrance into the cast he avers that he began to see a glimmer of light stabbing through the darkness of doubt. He was able to reconcile certain suspicions with actual facts. Alan Warburton came to grips immediately. His self-control seemed to have entirely gone and he appeared mastered and dominated by a kind of raw desperation. “Chief-Inspector Bannister?” he exclaimed abruptly. “My name,” said Bannister laconically. “I understand you’re in charge of the Seabourne murder case—my name is Alan Warburton.” The Inspector watched him very carefully through his glasses. “Yes?” he murmured encouragingly. “What can I do for you?” “I’ve got information for you,” went on Warburton, fiercely; “information that only I can give, information that lets daylight into the case. I know the murderer and I’ll give you his name and by Heaven may I be there when the swine swings.” He brought his fist down on to the centre of the table with a resounding crash. “Steady, Mr. Warburton, steady. Collect yourself if you possibly can. Tell your story intelligently.”