"He means to hang you," said Jarman, promptly. "But he's my friend." "H'm! He--as you told me--has said that so often that I begin to think he is your enemy." "Why? I have given him no cause to hate me." "H'm! Who knows? He was a friend of Starth's." "That didn't matter," said Lancaster. "Starth himself hinted that Berry wished me to marry his niece. If I was undesirable as her husband before, I am still more undesirable as an outlaw." Jarman thought, then asked questions. "How did you meet Berry?" "He called to ask me to write some songs for Fairy Fan, having seen my poetry in the magazines." "I see. Observe, Frank. Berry sought your acquaintance--you did not seek his. He brought you and Starth together again?" "Well, he did. I dropped Starth's acquaintance, as you know, because we didn't get on well. He came to know Fairy Fan somehow, and I was constantly meeting him there." "And this woman made running with you both?" "Well, she was capricious. Some days she would snub me and flirt with Starth; on other days she would give him the go-by and stick to me." "Quite so. She divided her favours to arouse jealousy between you." Frank coloured and looked uneasy. "If you put it that way, she did." "What was Berry's attitude" "I can hardly say, save that whenever he was present Starth and I always had a row." "H'm! A kind of male Ate," said Jarman, musingly. "Berry was speaking to Starth last night, before Starth insulted you?" "Yes. But what has that got to do with it." "Everything! Frank, I tell you this man Berry is at the bottom of the whole mystery. He got you into the trouble, now he means to hang you!" Lancaster stared. "But his reason?" he asked. Jarman made an extraordinary reply. "Because of the Scarlet Bat." CHAPTER V THE INQUEST There was considerable excitement over the murder in Sand Lane, especially in theatrical and journalistic circles. The deceased was a well-known figure in Bohemia, as for years he had consorted with actors, with reporters, and with sundry idle men, who, doing nothing themselves, sought the company of those gifted with creative and mimetic powers. Walter Starth, being cursed with enough to live on, had developed into a thorough loafer, and chose Bohemia to dwell in, because its gaslight attractions were congenial to his mind. Occasionally he wrote an article or short story himself, and sometimes walked on in a melodrama as a guest; but he never did any real work, preferring idle talk and constant drinking. He was not a favourite with the Slaves of the Lamp, but his burly figure and red head were excessively familiar. Consequently there was immense curiosity manifested regarding his untimely and terrible death.