“I was. He was a curious chap. A thoroughbred gentleman, you’d have said, to look at him, and as cool as a cucumber. When he was found guilty and he was asked whether he had anything to say before sentence, he simply stuck his chin in the air and said: ‘My lord, I only desire to state that if when I come out of prison Mr. Ballantine is still unhanged, I shall be happy to rectify the omission.’ I can hear him now.”

“And he did come out of prison,” put in Frant eagerly, “and within a day Ballantine is dead.”

“And we are looking for Mr. Colin James, who took a furnished house in Kensington while Fanshawe was in Maidstone Gaol,” rejoined Mallett drily.

“Still, he had the opportunity to do it,” put in Frant, “he may have been in touch with James. After all, two people were seen to go into the house.”

“And only James came out, leaving a dead man behind. No, no, Frant, that cock won’t fight. Still, it will be worth while to have a chat with Fanshawe some time soon. I suppose he is being kept under observation?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And in the meantime we shall have an opportunity of finding out just what was Ballantine’s part in the Fanshawe Bank affair when we go through his papers.”

“That reminds me of the other thing I was to tell you,” said the sergeant. “The London and Imperial Estates and its associated companies all filed their voluntary petitions in winding-up this morning.”

“I’m not surprised. That place was simply a glorified bucket-shop. I suppose there will be the usual crop of prosecutions—false prospectuses and so on?”

“I’ve been talking to Renshaw, who’s in charge of that investigation,” said Frant, “and I gather that there won’t be many directors left to prosecute, now that Ballantine is dead. Hartigan and Aliss, his two jackals, skipped the country a week ago, and Melbury, who has been ill in a nursing home for a month, only came up to business today to arrange about the petition and collapsed in the street and isn’t expected to recover. That only leaves Du Pine, the secretary, and one director—Lord Henry Gaveston.”

“Poor little guinea-pig,” commented Mallett. “Well, thank goodness that isn’t my pigeon. But tell Renshaw I want all Ballantine’s private papers. This is murder, and it’s got to come first. I’m not going to let any potty little Companies Acts affair stand in my way. Now off with you to the bank, and don’t make a silly mistake like that again. And tell them to send up Crabtree. Lord, lord, when do I get my lunch?”