"A Greek. Bocaros means bull's head or bull's tail--at least it did when I was at school. Ah! I've been educated, though you mightn't think so, Mister Inspector." Derrick passed over this remark. "Did you see this man?" "No. My time's too valuable to run after foreigners. I wrote to him at the address given by Mrs. Brand. She said he was a cousin of hers. He wrote back saying that she was a respectable person. I dare say she was, but I don't believe she had a husband. If she had, why didn't he show? A commercial gent! Bah! Don't tell me." "What address did Mrs. Brand give you?" "Now that's queer. She gave me Ulysses Street, Troy!" This time Derrick could not suppress an exclamation. "Why, that is only a stone-throw from Achilles Avenue. It's near Meadow Lane." "I said it was queer," remarked Webb, nodding. "Perhaps he did her to death. What do you think?" "I think you may have put a clue into my hand," said the inspector, noting the address in his useful little book. "Don't speak of this to any one. I'll make it worth your while." "Halves," said the miser again; "though it's only fifty pounds. I think Mr.--what's his name?--Fane should give me the whole hundred." "Oh, indeed." Derrick put the book into his pocket. "And what about me, Mr. Webb, if you please?" "You're paid for finding criminals, I ain't," said Webb, entering a side door. "Come and look at the room. My time's valuable. I can't stand talking to you all day. The drawing-room this is." "Ha!" Derrick stood at the door, and looked at the small room, which was furnished in the same fashion as the larger one in Ajax Villa, though not in so costly a manner. The walls and hangings were white, the carpet and furniture also, and even the piano was cased in white wood. In all respects, save in the way of luxury, the room was the same. It was strange that Mrs. Brand should have been killed in a room similar to her drawing-room, and in a house situated at the other end of London. "Though we don't know if the dead woman is Mrs. Brand," said Derrick, looking round. "That's easily settled," said Webb, who had taken up his position in a cane chair. "There's her portrait." On the mantel-piece were two silver frames, one on either side of a gimcrack French clock. The frame to the left contained the photograph of a pretty slight woman, in whom Derrick immediately recognised the dead unknown. "That's her sure enough," said he, taking a long look. "I wonder how she came to die in a room similar to this," and he glanced around again. "The mystery is growing deeper every discovery I make. What of the other silver frame?" "It's got the photograph of a man--the husband, I suppose." "No." Derrick took down the frame. "The photograph has been removed." "Lord!" said Webb, when a close examination assured him of this fact. "Why, so it has. But she showed it to me one day when I asked about Mr. Brand, and said it was his picture."