“I shan’t want you any more,” he said sharply. “And if this gentleman has to come here again, he’s to be treated properly, see?”

The officer knew his Mallett. He clicked his heels together with exaggerated respect, boomed “Very good, sir,” and departed well content with the part he had played in the little comedy.

Crabtree’s respect for the inspector began to grow. It increased still further when this Olympian man, after so grand a display of authority, began immediately to discuss a subject next his heart.

“So you were at Spellsborough races?” he began. “Were you on Fidgety Lass for the Cup?”

“You bet your life I was,” said Crabtree, now completely at his ease. “I’d got the straight tip from the stable on the Thursday, so down I went on Friday morning with every blinking bob I had. I didn’t try a thing till the big race come along. Then I punted the lot on Fidgety Lass—I got eights about her, too. Lord, guv’nor, but she didn’t ’alf give me the fidgets afore it was over! First time round she pecked at the water, and I thought she was down. She was near a length behind at the last fence, but in the run in ’er jock just showed ’er the whip, and she sailed ’ome. Coo, I cheered, I can tell you!”

“And what happened then?” asked Mallett with a grin.

“Blowed if I can tell you, guv’nor. Next thing I knew I was in the cells with a splitting ’ead and a mouth like the bottom of a parrot’s cage. I ’eard all about it Monday morning, though. They didn’t ’alf tell the tale. Five days the blighters gave me, without the option. I ’adn’t no option, anyway. I was cleaned out.”

“When did they let you out?”

“Tuesday morning, sir.”

“You’ve taken your time getting home, then.”

Crabtree swore at the recollection, and then described with picturesque violence his attempt to get a lift back to London.

“I sold the tin can for the price of a bite of food, sir,” he concluded, “and footed it every step of the way back. I slept under a hedge on Tuesday night.”

Mallett stroked his chin-and pursed his lips. When he spoke again he was a good deal more like a police officer and less like a boon companion.

“At all events,” he said, “you knew then that the police were anxious to interview you.”

“I’d only read it in The Daily Toiler, sir,” Crabtree protested. “You can’t tell what to believe in that sort of paper, can you? Just Communist propaganda, ain’t it?”

“And that a dead man has been found in Daylesford Gardens—that isn’t Communist propaganda, you know.”

“It wasn’t there when I left, sir,” said Crabtree in some agitation, “straight it wasn’t.”

“What time did you leave?” asked the inspector.