"Here's the inspector," chipped in Mulligan, recognising with relief the rigid form of his superior. "You can tell him, and if you're the man, anything you may say will be used in evidence against you. That's the law. Augh!" The man stared at this speech, but Mulligan wiped his heated brow and glared at him in a resentful manner, not at all sure but what this might be the criminal. There was no ground for such a supposition, especially as the key belonged to another man. But Mulligan was not in a position to weigh his words, and therefore said the first thing that came into his mind. So the man stared, Mulligan scowled, and the inspector drew near. "You've been drinking, bobby," said the man at length. "My name is Luther Tracey. I manufacture motor-cars, and some beast has bolted with one of the best I've ever turned out. Such a flier. I guess you police hereabouts ain't worth a cent." "You're American," said Mulligan. "And you're several kinds of ass, I reckon. See here, about this car of mine." Mr. Tracey would have gone on to explain at length, but that he was interrupted by the arrival of the inspector, who was tall and thin, military and sharp. He glanced keenly at Tracey, and inquiringly at Mulligan. The engineer would have begun talking at once, as he appeared to have a considerable fund of what his countrymen call "chin-music"; but Mulligan waved him aside, and reported hurriedly to Inspector Derrick what he had discovered. Although Derrick was manifestly surprised and excited by the strange recital, he made no remark; but when in possession of Mulligan's facts--which ranged from his meeting with the young gentleman to his leaving the dead body in the house--he turned to Tracey. That man was listening eagerly, and seemed quite interested. "Well, I surmise that's a queer case," said he, smacking his leg. "What do you make of it, inspector? If you want to know my opinion, the man as laid out that lady corpse has bolted with my motor-car." "No," said Mulligan; "he walked with me for a---- When did you miss your car, sir?" "You might call it a few minutes after eleven." "He was with me then," said the policeman; "'twasn't him. No!" Derrick, who had preserved silence, chimed in "Who are you, sir?" "My name's Tracey," replied the American smartly; "here's my card. I manufacture motor-cars, and came to see some friends of mine this night in one of my latest. I left her humming at the gate, and at ten minutes after eleven I went out to start her for the factory. Nary a sign of the car, sir, and I've been chasing round these lanes for the last hour. This lunatic"--he pointed to Mulligan--"seems to think I have to do with the murder. Don't you think you'd better run me in? It 'ull be an advertisement and a smart action for false imprisonment."