“There are so many threads that have to be followed up that I think we shall have to continue to work separately, and compare notes at the end of each day. How does that strike you?”

“Well,” said Cunningham doubtfully, “if you think that I can tackle things on my own…”

“Of course you can,” said Shelley, with a kindly smile. “You can question Mr. Moses Moss every bit as efficiently as I can myself.”

“You think so, sir?” Cunningham still sounded a trifle doubtful, but felt none the less grateful for this praise from a quarter where praise was rare.

“And in the meantime,” Shelley went on, considering that any reply to this question was unnecessary, “I think that I shall investigate the little question of the will of the late Professor Arnell.”

“That certainly seems to be something that demands looking into, sir,” Cunningham admitted.

“It certainly does,” said Shelley. “If I am not sadly mistaken, that is going to provide the crux of the whole matter. Money is usually at the bottom of a murder case of this sort, and, if one finds the money motive, one can tell where to look for suspects.”

“Good luck, anyhow, sir,” said Cunningham with a smile.

“Same to you, Cunningham,” said Shelley, “and I’m thinking that we shall need all the luck that’s going, if we’re to pull this thing off.”

The office of Messrs. Samuel, Grant, and Samuel was high up in an office building in Chancery Lane—only a door or two away from an office which Shelley had frequently visited in connection with another murder case that he was investigating a year or two previously.

Mr. Samuel was a pleasant-looking young man, who swivelled around his revolving chair, and held out his hand frankly to Shelley.

“What can I do for you, Inspector?” he asked, a note of curiosity creeping into his voice.

“I want some information, sir,” said Shelley, “which I think you can give me.”

“If it’s at all possible, Inspector, I will,” replied the solicitor. “Always ready to assist in the work of you limbs of the law, you know.”

He laughed, and Shelley felt more at home with him. The detective had a theory, which had up to the present invariably proved right, that a man’s laugh was the most characteristic thing about him, and that it was possible to judge, according as to whether a man frankly guffawed or secretively sniggered, whether that man was of a good, dependable character or the direct opposite. As soon as he had heard the pleasant, deep-throated laugh of Mr. Samuel, he felt dead certain that this was a man to be trusted, a man in whose word one could place the most implicit confidence. And he proceeded accordingly, being sure that his instinct in this matter could not be at fault.

“It’s about the death of Professor Arnell,” he explained.