“Don’t you forget, young Wright,” he said, jerking his chin towards the youngster in a confidential sort of way, “don’t you forget that Mr. Greve is anxious to find a plausible motive for Mr. Parrish’s suicide. People are talking, you understand! That’s all I’ve got to say! Just you think it over ...” Bruce Wright bristled up hotly at this. “I don’t see you have any reason to try and impugn Greve’s motive for wishing to get at the bottom of this mysterious affair ...” Mr. Jeekes affected to be engrossed in the manicuring of his nails. Very intently he rubbed the nails of one hand against the palm of the other. “No mystery!” he said decisively with a shake of the head: “no mystery whatsoever about it, young Wright, except what the amateur detectives will try and make it out to be. Or has Mr. Greve discovered a mystery already?” The question came out artfully. But in the quick glance which accompanied it, there was an intent watchfulness which startled Bruce accustomed as he was to the mild and unemotional ways of the little secretary. “Not that I know of,” said Bruce. “Greve is only puzzled like all of us that H.P. should have done a thing like this!” Mr. Jeekes was perfectly impassive again. “The nerves, young Wright! The nerves!” he said impressively. “Harley Street, not Mr. Greve, will supply the motive to this sad affair, believe me!” With that he accompanied the young man to the door of the club and from the vestibule watched him sally forth into the rain of Pall Mall. Then Mr. Jeekes turned to the hall porter. “Please get me Stevenish one-three-seven,” he said, “it’s a trunk call. Don’t let them put you off with ‘No reply.’ It’s Harkings, and they are expecting me to ring them. I shall be in the writing room.” When, twenty minutes later, Mr. Jeekes emerged from the trunk call telephone box in the club vestibule, his mouth was drooping at the corners and his hands trembled curiously. He stood for an instant in thought tapping his foot on the marble floor of the deserted hall dimly lit by a single electric bulb burning over the hall porter’s box. Then he went back to the writing-room and returned with a yellow telegram form. “Send a boy down to Charing Cross with that at once, please,” he said to the night porter. Fate which had brought Bruce Wright face to face with Mr. Jeekes gave the kaleidoscope another jerk that night. As Bruce Wright entered the Tube Station at Dover Street to go home to South Kensington, it occurred to him that he would ring up Robin Greve at his chambers in the Temple and give him an outline of his (Bruce’s) talk with Jeekes. Bruce went to the public callbox in the station, but the rhythmic “Zoom-er! Zoom-er! Zoom-er!” which announces that a number is engaged was all the satisfaction he got. The prospect of waiting about the draughty station exit did not appeal to him, so he decided to go home and telephone Robin, as originally arranged, in the morning.