Nigel whistled shrilly and then became thoughtful. "I do remember vaguely," he said.

"The case was spectacular. The article hinted pretty broadly that Saint's fortune had been amassed through the rather wholesale supply of proscribed drugs. Ladies and gentlemen with unattractive portmanteaux under their yellow eyeballs were, said the writer, constantly being obliged with opium and cocaine by some agency controlled by a 'well-known theatre magnate whose recent successes in a playhouse not a thousand yards from Piccadilly…' and so on. As I have said, Saint took it to court, won hands down, and emerged a little tarnished but triumphant. One very curious fact came out. The identity of the author was unknown. A leading reporter on the Morning Express was away on holiday. The article arrived at the office purporting to have come from him. A typewritten note was signed with a clever forgery of his name. He denied any knowledge of the business and made his case good. For once in its cocksure career, the Morning Express had been had. The address on the notepaper was 'Mossburn,' a village near Cambridge, and the postmark, noticed by the secretary, bore this out. A halfhearted attempt was made to trace the authorship, but in any case the 'Mex,' as I believe your journalists call it, was responsible. Mr. Saint was dreadfully annoyed, and, oh, so virtuous."

"What's all this leading to?"

"The postmark was of a village near Cambridge."

"Are you thinking of Felix?" said Nigel hotly.

"Of Gardener? Where was he this time six years ago?"

Nigel paused. He eyed Alleyn uncomfortably. "Well, since you must know," he said at last, "he had just gone up to Cambridge. He was two years ahead of me."

"I see."

"Look here—what are you thinking?"

"I'm only wondering. That article reads like undergraduate stuff. There's an unmistakable flavour."

"Suppose there is? What are you driving at?"

"Literally only this. Gardener may possibly be able to throw some light on the matter."

"Oh, if that's all——" Nigel looked relieved. "I thought you meant he might have written it."

Alleyn looked curiously at him.

"That particular year," he said, "Surbonadier was sent down from Cambridge."

"Surbonadier?" said Nigel slowly.

"Yes," said Alleyn. "Now do you see?"

"You mean—you mean Surbonadier may have written the article and, therefore, knew too much about his uncle."

"That is possible."

"Yes."

"The catch in it is that all this happened six years ago."

"Surbonadier may have blackmailed Saint for six years."

"He may."

The telephone rang. Alleyn took off the receiver. "Yes. Who? Oh, send him up, will you?" He turned to Nigel. "This may help," he said.

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Jacob Saint's footman."

"The informer."

"Yes. I hate this sort of thing. He's going to make me feel ashamed."

"Really? You don't want me to go?"

"Stay where you are. Have a cigarette, and look as if you belonged. Have you seen Gardener this morning?"