"A pipe, my friend, will please me better," replied Bocaros, and filled a large china pipe, which he must have obtained when he was a German student. He then took a seat with his back towards the window, and intimated that he was ready. "See here!" said Tracey, opening the newspaper and pointing to a paragraph; "read that!" "Is it about the murder?" asked Bocaros, puffing gently at his pipe. "Yes. That fool of a Derrick has made a discovery of some value." "In that case he cannot be a fool, my friend," replied Bocaros, leaning back his head and inhaling the smoke luxuriously. "Tell me what the paper says. I can't read while you talk, and I am sure you will not be silent for five minutes." "That's a fact," said Tracey coolly. "I've got a long tongue and an inquiring mind. I shan't read the paragraph. But it seems that he--Derrick, I mean--has found out the woman's name." "How interesting!" said Bocaros, unmoved and in rather a bored tone. "How did he find it out?" "Well, some one wrote from Hampstead," said Tracey, throwing the paper aside, and giving the gist of his information, "and let out there was a woman who lived in Coleridge Lane who had a white room, same as that she was murdered in." "Coleridge Lane!" repeated Bocaros, opening his eyes. "I know some one living there. What is this woman's name?" "The inspector," continued Tracey, taking no notice of this direct question, "went to see this room. He found the house shut up. The landlord had the key, and with the landlord he entered. He found, as was stated, a room similar in all respects to the one in Ajax Villa, though the furniture was poor. More than that, there was a portrait on the mantel-piece of the woman who was murdered." "You can give me the details afterwards," said Bocaros hastily. "At present I want to know the woman's name." "Keep your hair on, professor. Her name is Brand." Bocaros rose from his chair and, dropping his pipe, threw up his hands with a foreign ejaculation. "Brand! Flora Brand?" "Yes. How do you come to know her front name?" "She is my cousin," said the professor, and sat down to cover his face with his hands. Tracey whistled, and stared. In making the communication to the man, he was far from expecting that this announcement would be made. "I guess you know who killed her then?" he observed coolly. Bocaros leaped to his feet. "Man," he cried fiercely, "what is that you say? How should I know who killed her?" "You're her cousin, and Derrick says in the woman's past life will be found the motive for the crime." "I know very little of my cousin's past life," said Bocaros, walking rapidly to and fro, and apparently much moved. "What I do know I shall tell to the police." "Tell it to me now," suggested the American. The professor looked at him mistrustfully. "I don't know if you are a good person to make a confidant of."