“I’m afraid there are no ‘but’s’ about it. I’ll explain to the Trade and the reviewers, you hustle up and get the books back; there aren’t many out yet, and reviewers don’t hurry over poetry.” * * * * * Some people may remember a curious little mystery about a book of poems--it had another title--which was reviewed enthusiastically in one or two papers, but apparently never published. A few copies are in existence, and sell for good sums when a collector consents to part. Mr. Cheltenham destroyed every copy he could get hold of. Perhaps an impulsive and unnecessary performance, but he felt he could do no other. Having completed his plans for the withdrawal of the book he turned to the inspector’s bag and its contents. They were “poems,” as he had said, the feeblest, most bathetic, utterly commonplace rubbish on which Mr. Cheltenham in a long and bitter experience had ever cast his eyes. “It is the poetic fame which I desire,” these words came back to his mind as he thrust the heap back into the bag. Perhaps he understood; and “F. Gonesara”? He shrugged his shoulders and took a taxi to Mr. Kato’s flat in a typical Bloomsbury street. The Inspector was waiting for him. “Well?” he said. “Mr. Walsh,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, “when you have time I have a story to tell you, one you may not believe, but I think if you _could_ believe it you would be saved a lot of useless work on this case. And now let’s get the beastly ordeal over.” “Any time you like, sir. Come with me.” He led the publisher along a passage and opened a door, and they entered a room. Mr. Cheltenham recognised it, as he had expected, and when he saw the bed and a red-stained sheet upon it, he trembled again--and then the Inspector went forward and drew back the sheet. THE SEVENTEENTH HOLE AT DUNCASTER THE SEVENTEENTH HOLE AT DUNCASTER