Frant read as follows:

“Identity of Colin James.

“The following are the names of the chief suspects in the case of Lionel Ballantine:

Eales

Du Pine

Fanshawe

Harper

Crabtree.”

“Do you mean”, he asked, “that James is one of the people on this list?”

“Certainly.”

Frant shook his head slowly, as he read once more the list of names he knew so well. Then Mallett’s hand reached over towards him and the pencil made a cross against one of them. He stared at it, then looked up again, his face still clouded with perplexity.

“But I don’t understand,” he muttered. “How——”

“It is a bit difficult at first sight,” Mallett admitted, “like most very simple things. Let me see if I can make it a little clearer.”

He took the paper back again, and wrote a few further words at the foot.

“Now do you see?” he asked, handing the sheet across once more.

There was a strained silence while the sergeant slowly spelled out the significance of what Mallett had just written. Then his face suddenly cleared, and he burst into a peal of laughter.

“Good lord!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t we think of that before? It explains everything!”

“Everything?” said Mallett reflectively. “I’m not so sure. The murder—yes. That is after all the essential question. But I am still troubled in my mind about these fellows”—his pencil stabbed the page once and again. “How do they fit into the story? I shan’t be satisfied until I know. And now would you mind sending out for some sandwiches for me—beef ones, with plenty of mustard? There’s a lot to discuss still, and I should hate to die of starvation in the very moment of success.”

Frant went to the door, and then turned and picked up the slip of paper.

“In case you don’t survive until I get back,” he remarked as he pocketed it, “I should like to keep this as a memento.”

Mallett leaned back in his chair with a smile. “The last will and testament of John Mallett,” he murmured.

He was already asleep by the time the sound of Frant’s feet had ceased to echo down the corridor.

20
LORD BERNARD REMEMBERS

Tuesday, November 24th

“I’m not sure whether his lordship can see you now, sir,” said the butler, doubtfully. “Is it anything very important?”

“Yes,” said Mallett. “It is—very important. Just tell him that Inspector Mallett wants to see him, will you? I shan’t keep him for more than a few moments.”

It was a quarter to eleven in the morning. Outside the door of Lord Bernard Gaveston’s elegant little house in Hertford Street the Visconti-Sforza, awaiting her master’s pleasure, was undeniable evidence that he had not yet gone out. But the man still seemed to hesitate.

“If you will wait a minute, I will enquire,” he said severely.