"I shouldn't wonder if he was a vampire of sorts," said Tracey. "He don't live on air, and the food in that Mother Hubbard's cupboard of his wouldn't keep a flea in condition." "I don't believe in much eating myself," Mrs. Baldwin responded, although she never gave her inside a rest, and was always-chewing like a cow. "Abstinence keeps the brain clear." "And over-abstinence kills the body," retorted Tracey. Whatever Bocaros may have thought of the murder, he said very little about it. He never took in a paper himself, but was accustomed to borrow the _Daily Budget_ from Mrs. Baldwin when that lady had finished the court news, the only part of the paper she took any interest in. Usually after his return from the school where he taught, Bocaros came across the meadows by a well-defined path, and asked for the journal. This was usually between four and five o'clock, and then he would have a chat with Mrs. Baldwin. But two or three weeks after the Ajax Villa tragedy, when the professor tore along the path--he always walked as though he were hurrying for a doctor--he met Tracey half-way. The American had the newspaper in his hand. "Coming for this, I guess," said Tracey, handing over the journal. "I was just bringing it to you. There's a question or two I wish to ask. You don't mind, do you?" Bocaros fixed his brilliant eyes on the other. "What is the question, my friend?" he demanded in English, which hardly bore a trace of foreign accent. The American did not reply directly. "You're a clever sort of smart all-round go-ahead colleger," said Tracey, taking the thin arm of the man, an attention which Bocaros did not appreciate, "and I want to ask your opinion about this murder." "I know nothing about murders, my friend. Why not go to the police?" "The police!" Tracey made a gesture of disgust. "They ain't worth a cent. Why, about three weeks have gone by since that poor girl was stabbed, and they don't seem any nearer the truth than they were." "We discussed this before," said Bocaros, as they approached the belt of pines, "and I told you that I could form no theory. My work lies amidst languages. I am a philologist, my friend, and no detective." "I guess you'd pan out better than the rest of them if you were." "You flatter me." Bocaros removed his arm, and inserted a large key into the lock of his door. "Will you come in?" "You don't seem very set on chin-music, but I'll come," said Tracey, who, when bent on obtaining anything, never rested till he achieved his purpose. Bocaros gave a gentle sigh, which a more sensitive man might have taken as a sign that his company was not wanted at that precise moment. But Tracey would not go, so he had to be admitted. He entered the room, which was lined with books, and furnished otherwise in a poor manner, and threw himself into the one armchair. Then he took out a cigarette-case. "Have one," he said, extending this.