Monk had met him during a sensitive case concerning missing money. It had been solved very much to Mr. Burn-ham's satisfaction. A collection of such clients was invaluable. At first Monk had despised the smaller cases, thinking them beneath his talents and no more than a demeaning necessity in his newly reduced circumstances. Now he began to appreciate the value of the clients far beyond the nature of the problems they had presented to him. Sandeman had been one such; Mr. Burnham was another.

"What do you think of the work of Killian Melville?" he asked candidly.

Mr. Burnham cocked his head to one side, his blue eyes bright with interest.

"Sublime," he answered. "In a word—sublime! Finest architect this century." He did not ask why Monk wished to know, but he did not take his gaze from Monk's face.

"Where did he study?" Monk frowned.

"No idea," Mr. Burnham said instantly. "No one does. At least, no one I have met. Appeared in London about five years ago from God knows where. Can't place his accent. Tried to. Don't think it matters. Man is a genius. He can be a law unto himself. Although don't mistake me," he added earnestly. "He's a very pleasant fellow, no airs or graces, no filthy temper, doesn't keep a mistress or practice any excesses, so far as I know." Still he did not ask why Monk was enquiring.

"Could he have studied abroad?" Monk asked.

Florence leaped up into Mr. Burnham's lap, turned around several times and then settled.

"Of course he could!" Mr. Burnham answered. "Probably did, in fact. He is far too original to have gathered all his inspirations here. But if you doubt his technical ability, you have no need. I know Barton Lambert quite well enough to stake all I possess on his having assured himself, beyond even the slightest question, that all Melville's drawings are structurally perfect before he would put forward a halfpenny to have them built." He stroked Florence absentmindedly. "You may rely absolutely upon that as you would upon the Bank of England!

Stand as long as the Tower of London, I assure you." There was absolute conviction in his face, and he smiled as he spoke.

The door opened and a stout and very agreeable woman came in. Mr. Burnham introduced her as Mrs. Shipton, his housekeeper, and requested that supper be served for two. She seemed pleased to have a guest and disappeared briskly about her business.

"A man whose word you would trust?" Monk asked. "And his judgment?"

"Absolutely!" Mr. Burnham answered instantly. "Ask anyone."

Monk smiled. "I am not sure 'anyone' will tell me the truth, or even that they know it."

"Ah!" Mr. Burnham smiled and settled a little farther down in his chair. Florence was purring loudly. "You're a skeptic. Of course you are. It's your job. Silly of me to have forgotten it."