“Number one,” said Baker; “if I were in your shoes I should interview a young man called Moses Moss. He is, as his name should indicate, a Jew. He is also a nephew of Professor Arnell. He is also, if I am not mistaken, Professor Arnell’s principal heir.”

“Why,” exclaimed Cunningham in surprise, “won’t the professor have left all his money to his daughter?”

“I think not,” answered the young man. “You see, the professor was always threatening to cut her off with a farthing if she didn’t give up her penniless suitor. And she was always asserting her right to marry whoever she damned well liked. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the professor, in a fit of temper, had left all his money to Mr. Moss. Mind you, I may be quite wrong. But I have my suspicions. Anyhow, that’s a little hint.”

“Where can I find this Mr. Moss, sir?” asked Cunningham, producing his note book for the first time during this interview.

“I don’t quite know where he hangs out—somewhere in Bloomsbury, I fancy,” answered Baker. “But you can find him any afternoon in Sally’s Club, in St. Martin’s Lane.”

“Sally’s Club, St. Martin’s Lane,” murmured Cunningham. “What sort of club is that, sir?” he asked. “Social, literary, what?”

“Just a place where one can drink when the pubs are shut,” said Baker. “I’ve only been there once in my life. My screw doesn’t run to gin—good old beer is about all that I can manage, and the beer there is awful stuff.”

“I see,” said Cunningham. “Sally’s Club. Right. We will see Mr. Moss tomorrow. What sort of terms was he on with the professor?”

“Outwardly friendly,” said Baker. “In fact, he was always ‘sucking up,’ as my boys would elegantly express it. But I have long had a suspicion that he was not so fond of the old man as he so often pretended. Personally, I think that he was just eagerly anticipating the future, if you follow me.”

“Did he know that the professor had rather strong feelings about his daughter’s fiancé?” asked Cunningham.

“Yes,” answered Baker with a cheery grin. “Everyone who came into contact with the old man knew all about that. After all, when one feels something as strongly as he felt my ineligibility, one is apt to let the feeling come to the surface at any time.”

“I see.” Cunningham paused, and racked his brains for the next question, which he knew must be hiding its gentle head somewhere. “But,” he added, suddenly remembering a previous remark, “I think you said that he was suspect number one, didn’t you, sir?”

“I did,” answered Baker rather grimly. “Suspect number two is Dr. Crocker, an old snob from Oxford.”

“Why do you think he is a suspect, sir?”