Mr. Henry Fairhurst twisted himself uncomfortably in the deep leather-padded chair. The policeman at the other side of the room cast suspicious glances at the little man, as if he thought that the pince-nez hid eyes of implacable evil. Mr. Fairhurst twisted again. If this was the way Scotland Yard treated a man bringing valuable information, he told himself, he would not come near the place again. He might have been the suspect in a murder trial, for all the deference with which they dealt with him. And yet he had brought them the most important discovery which had been made in connection with the murder.

They had kept him waiting for hours, too. Since he first told his story to a grim-visaged detective he had been planted in this arm-chair, a suspicious policeman on the other side of the room, and had been bluntly requested to await further developments, to sit tight until some other unspecified individual turned up. On this mysterious gentleman’s arrival, Mr. Fairhurst had been led to suspect that he would have to tell his tale again.

Soon his unfortunate dilemma was cleared up, however, for Inspector Shelley burst into the room, rubbing his hands briskly together, and with a twinkle of pleasure in his keen grey eyes.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting so long, Mr. Fairhurst,” he said smilingly, “but the fact of the matter is that I have been out of London since you saw me last—interviewing important witnesses in this case.”

“That’s quite all right, Inspector,” Henry returned, “and I can assure you that I didn’t mind waiting.” (Politeness makes liars of us all!)

Shelley looked at the little man keenly. “I understand, Mr. Fairhurst,” he remarked, “that you have some sort of new information for us.”

Henry drew himself up to his full five feet four inches, replying with an air of great dignity: “Indeed I have, Inspector. Some most surprising new information at that. Something, if I am not mistaken, which will make you sit up and open your eyes in astonishment.”

“Takes a good deal to astonish Scotland Yard, sir,” was the reply to this. “Still, you may be right. I understand that you want to tell us something about the death of Professor Wilkinson of Northfield University.”

Henry Fairhurst nodded emphatically. “When I got home, Inspector, after I had given you what information I could about the death of Professor Arnell, I began, as you might well imagine, to think over all the details of the case.”

“Quite so,” said Shelley non-committally.

“And then it occurred to me that I had read somewhere that another man recently died in the Reading Room at the British Museum.” Henry thought that there was no especial point in speaking of his sister’s remembrance of this other death. After all, if there was any credit going in this matter, he might as well get it, and Sarah would really never be aware of what she had missed.