“Inside” was a tiny, dingy parlour at the back of the shop. The chemist closed the door. “Well, Mr. Colson?” “You know most people who’ve lived here the last forty years, Mr. Buckland. Did you ever hear of anyone by the name of Ezra Price?” “Ezra Price,” reflected the chemist—“the name has a sort of familiar sound. There aren’t many Ezras about, either. Ezra _Price_—it—somehow doesn’t seem right—yet——” “Ezra Grice, then.” “Ezra _Grice_—that seems more like it—yes—now let me think—it must have been a long time ago——Grice—yes—I know now. He was a lawyer’s clerk—or something—I’m beginning to remember—a bad lot, wasn’t he? I’m not sure. Stop, though—I know who’d tell you more about him. He was in Mr. Norwood’s office—so far as I can recollect.” “Mr. Norwood?” “That’s it—you’d better try him.” “All right, I will,” said the detective. “Thank you very much for putting me on the scent.” “Not at all.” As he passed down the street, however, he saw Mr. Norwood hurrying into the Magistrates’ Court which was then sitting. So, wishing to see him at leisure, he called at the lawyer’s house in the evening, when he felt pretty certain of finding him at home. He waited in the hall while the maid tapped at the dining-room door and announced him. “Oh—show him in here,” came a voice from the room. Francis Norwood had just finished his solitary dinner and was draining his glass of port. “Good evening, sergeant,” he said in his formal manner. “Something you want to see me about? Another inquest?” “No, sir. But I thought you could give me some information—I was told you could. I understand there was a young man employed by you—many years ago.” “I’ve employed a number of young men in my time—some of them to my cost! What was his name?” “Ezra Grice, sir.” “Oh—oh—yes, I think I remember him. Of course I do.” He reached for the decanter, noticed it was empty, and said: “I was going to offer you a glass of port, sergeant, but I see there’s none left. Will you have a whisky and soda?” “Thank you, sir.” Francis Norwood rose stiffly from his chair and opened the door of a sideboard just behind him. “Tut, tut!” he exclaimed, “there isn’t any decanter—oh, here’s a bottle.” He took a corkscrew from a drawer and drew the cork from the bottle, Colson looking on in silence. Then he produced two tumblers and poured whisky into both, filling them up with soda. One he gave to Colson, and the other he kept for himself. First taking a drink from it, he said: “Well, now, I dare say I can help you. May I ask what you want to know about Ezra Grice?” “Eh? Oh—yes. Anything you can tell me, sir.” “And why?” “It concerns a case we have in hand, sir.” Colson never gave anything away if he could help it.