“There’s a lot on the program to-day, Thomas,” Queen said mysteriously. “Did you get hold of Michaels after I telephoned you yesterday morning?” “Sure thing, Inspector. He’s been waiting outside for an hour. Came in early, with Piggott hanging on his heels. Piggott’s been tailing him all over creation and he’s pretty disgusted.” “Well, I always said a man’s a fool to become a policeman,” chuckled Queen. “Bring in the lamb.” Velie went out, to reappear a moment later with the tall, portly Michaels. Field’s valet was dressed sombrely. He seemed nervous and ill at ease. “Now, Thomas, my lad,” said the Inspector after he had motioned Michaels to the chair beside his desk, “you go out and lock that door and don’t let the Commissioner himself disturb me. Get that?” Velie repressed a curious glance, grunted and departed. A few moments later a bulky figure was dimly discernible in silhouette through the frosted glass of the door. At the expiration of a half-hour Velie was summoned by telephone to his superior’s office. He unlocked the door. On the desk before the Inspector reposed a cheap square envelope unsealed, a sheet of notepaper partly visible as it lay inside. Michaels was on his feet, pale and trembling, his hat crushed in two beefy hands. Velie’s sharp eyes noticed a generous ink-stain on the fingers of the man’s left hand. “You are going to take _very_ good care of Mr. Michaels, Thomas,” said the Inspector genially. “To-day, for instance, I want you to entertain him. I have no doubt you’ll find something to do—go to a movie—there’s an idea! In any event be friendly with the gentleman until you hear from me.... No communication with anybody, Michaels, do you hear?” he added brusquely, turning to the big man. “Just you tag along with Sergeant Velie and play nicely.” “You know I’m on the square, Inspector,” mumbled Michaels sullenly. “You don’t have to—” “Just a precaution, Michaels—just an elementary precaution,” interrupted the Inspector, smiling. “Have a nice time, boys!” The two men left. Seated at his desk, Queen tilted his swivel chair, picked up the envelope before him reflectively, took out the slip of cheap white paper and read it over with a little smile. The note bore neither date nor salutation. The message began abruptly. “The writer is Chas. Michaels, I think you know me. I have been Monte Field’s right-hand man for over two years. I won’t beat around the bush. Last Monday night you killed Field in the Roman Theatre. Monte Field told me Sunday he had an appointment with you at the Theatre. And I am the only one who does know this.