“I admit,” he said, “that the description you give resembles that of our client. But you must be aware, Inspector, that a client’s dealings are confidential, and unless you can prove to me that this is really the man you want and that it is my duty to discuss his business I do not think I feel called on to say any more.” “I thoroughly appreciate your position,” French returned suavely, “and under ordinary circumstances agree that you would be absolutely right. But these circumstances are not ordinary. Firstly, here are my credentials, so that you will see that I really am an officer of Scotland Yard. Secondly, I must take you into my confidence to the extent of telling you that the man is wanted for a very serious crime indeed—a triple murder, in fact. You will see, therefore, that you cannot keep back any information about him which you may possess.” Mr. Dashwood shrugged. “What you say alters the matter. Tell me what you wish to know.” “First, your client’s name and address.” Mr. Dashwood consulted a small ledger. “Mr. Arthur Lisle Whitman, c/o Mr. Andrew Macdonald, 18 Moray Street, Pentland Avenue, Edinburgh.” “Was he an old client?” “No, I had never seen him before.” “And what was his business?” “He wished us to purchase some stock for him.” “Oh,” said French. “Did he pay for it?” “Yes, he paid in advance.” “In notes of £10 and less in value, I suppose?” Mr. Dashwood shot a keen glance at the other. “That’s right,” he admitted. “It seemed a peculiar way of doing things, but he explained that he was a bookmaker and had been doing some big business lately.” “What was the amount?” “Roughly two thousand pounds.” “No twenty-pound notes, I suppose?” “None. He counted it out here, and ten was the highest value.” French was delighted. There was no doubt he was on the right track. Further, three days at £700 just made the required sum. “In what stock were you to invest?” “Brazilian. A thousand in Government five per cents, and the rest in rails.” This was satisfactory too. French remembered Roper’s Brazilian passport. At the same time he was slightly puzzled. Surely the man was not mad enough to imagine he could get out of the country? Still, if he thought he was not suspected he might try to do so. “Where was the interest to be paid? Did he say he was going out?” “Yes. He said he was sailing in a few weeks and that he already had an account in the Beira Bank at Rio, to which the dividends were to be paid.” French laid his photograph and description on the other’s desk. “That the man?” Mr. Dashwood examined the photograph and slowly read and re-read the description. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “At first glance I should say not, but on consideration I’m not so sure. If it was he, he was disguised.” “I have reason to believe he was disguised.” “Then probably it was he. The features which he couldn’t alter, such as his height and build, correspond all right.” “Have you got a specimen of his handwriting?”