“That’s the effect of constant association with me, James,” he cackled gleefully. “Ten years ago you would have pounced on Elkin. You’ve hit it! I’m a prood mon the day. The pupil is equaling the master.” “You little rat, I had hanged my first murderer before you knew the meaning of _habeas corpus_! Let’s turn now, and get to business.” Few Treasury barristers, leading for the Crown, could have marshaled the facts with such lucidity and fairness as Furneaux during that saunter to Victoria Station. “Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice,” said Othello to Lodovico, and these Scotland Yard men, charged with so great a responsibility, never forgot the great-hearted Moor’s advice. When Winter took his seat in the train at five o’clock he could have drawn a plan of Steynholme, which he had never seen, and marked thereon the exact position of each house mentioned in this record. Moreover, he was acquainted with the chief characters by sight, as it were. And, finally, he and Furneaux had arranged a plan of campaign. Furneaux refreshed a jaded intellect by an evening at the opera. Next morning, at eleven o’clock, he was inquiring for Mr. Ingerman at an office in a certain alley off Cornhill. A smart youth interposed a printed formula between the visitor and a door marked “Private.” Furneaux wrote his name, and put “Steynholme” in the space reserved for “business.” He was admitted at once. Mr. Ingerman, apparently, was immersed in a pile of letters, but he swept them all aside, and greeted the caller affably. “Glad to see you, Mr. Furneaux,” he said. “I missed you on the train yesterday. Did you—” “Nice quiet place you’ve got here, Mr. Ingerman,” interrupted the detective. “Yes. But, as I was about to—” “Artistically furnished, too,” went on Furneaux dreamily. “Oak, self-toned carpets and rugs, restful decorations. Those etchings, also, show taste in the selection. ‘The Embankment—by Night.’ Fitting sequel to ‘The City—by Day.’ I’m a child in such matters, but, ’pon my honor, if tempted to pour out my hard-earned savings into the lap of a City magnate, I would disgorge here more readily than in some saloon-bar of finance, where the new mahogany glistens, and the typewriters click like machine-guns.” Ingerman was nettled. He glanced at his correspondence. “You have a somewhat far-fetched notion of my position,” he said, with a staccato quality in his velvet voice. “I am not a magnate, and I toil here to make, not to lose, money for my clients.” “A noble ideal. Forgive me if my rhapsody took the wrong line.” “And I’m sure you will forgive me if I now put the question which leads to the probable cause of your visit. Did you travel by the two o’clock train yesterday?” “Yes. I avoided you purposely.” “May I ask, why?” “My mind was weary. I wanted my wits about me when I tackled you.” Ingerman smiled, and leaned back, resting both elbows on the arms of the chair, and bringing the tips of his fingers together. “Proceed,” he said.