“_I_ have,” said Elkin. “I locked it after the last performance, and, unless you’ve been up to any monkey tricks, Tomlin, the duds are there yet.” “You’re bitin’ me ’ead off all the mornin’, Fred,” protested the aggrieved landlord. “Fust, the gin was wrong, an’ now I’m supposed to ’ave rummidged yur box. Wot for?” Furneaux popped in. “My bill ready?” he squeaked. “No, sir. The train—” “Leaves at two, but I’m driving to Knoleworth with Superintendent Fowler.” The door closed behind him. Tomlin shook his head. “Box! Jack-in-the-box, I reckon,” he said darkly, turning to a dog-eared ledger. Neither at Knoleworth nor Victoria did Ingerman catch sight of the detective, though he was anxious either to make the journey in the company of the representative of Scotland Yard or arrange an early appointment with him. True, he was not inclined to place the strange-mannered little man on the same high plane as that suggested by certain London journalists to whom he had spoken. But he wanted to win the confidence of “the Yard” in connection with this case, and the belief that he was being avoided was nettling. He found consolation, of a sort, in the illustrated papers. One especially contained two pages of local pictures. “Mr. Grant addressing the crowd,” with full text, was very effective, while there were admirable studies of _The Hollies_ and the “scene of the tragedy.” His own portrait was not flattering. The sun had etched his Mephistophelian features rather sharply, whereas Grant looked a very fine fellow. Ingerman would have been more than surprised were he privileged to overhear a conversation which began and ended before he reached his flat in North Kensington. Furneaux, who had jumped into the fore part of the train at Knoleworth, and was out in a jiffy at Victoria, handed his bag to a station detective, and turned into Vauxhall Bridge Road, one of the quietest of London’s main thoroughfares. There he met a big man, dressed in tweeds, whose manifest concern at the moment seemed to center in a rather bad wrapping of a very good cigar. “Ah! How goes it, Charles?” cried the big man heartily, affecting to be aware of Furneaux’s presence when the latter had walked nearly a hundred yards down a comparatively deserted street. “What’s wrong with the toofa?” inquired Furneaux testily. “My own carelessness. Stupid things, bands on cigars.... Well, what’s the rush?” “There’s a train to Steynholme at five o’clock. I want you to take hold. I must have help. Like your cigar, this case has come unstuck.” Mr. James Leander Winter, Chief Inspector under the Criminal Investigation Department, whistled softly. “Tut, tut!” he said. “One can never trust the newspapers. Reading this morning’s particulars, it looked dead easy.” “Tell me how it struck you. Sometimes the uninformed brain is vouchsafed a gleam of unconscious genius.”