“But it’s a lot, isn’t it?” put in Frant eagerly. “It lets us out, anyway.”

“It does not let us out,” Mallett answered emphatically. “In the first place, we’ve got to establish that James is the murderer. It looks like it, I agree, but we haven’t proved it yet. In the second place, we must find out who he is, and what is his connection with Ballantine. Luckily that letter to the bank gives us a pretty good line on that.”

“When we find Lord Henry Gaveston,” objected Frant.

“You ought to read The Times more carefully,” replied the inspector. “Especially the social columns. Look here.”

He indicated a paragraph with his finger, and Frant, following his direction, read:

“Arrivals at the Riviera Hotel, Brighton, include Sir John and Lady Bulpit, the Bishop of Foxbury and Mrs. Escott, and Lord Henry Gaveston.”

“Not much concealment there,” said Frant.

“No. Which makes me think. . . . However, it’s no use building theories until we get the facts. Where was I? Oh, yes. In the third place, we don’t know for certain whether James stopped in France or whether he doubled home again. This trip to Paris may have been simply to throw us off the scent, and I dare say he would find his markedly Britannic accent rather a handicap if he wanted to go into hiding on the Continent. In any case there’s a lot of work to be done at this end. If we can find out how Ballantine came to go to Daylesford Gardens, we shall have done something. We shall have to go pretty deep into his private life—find out where he’d been living and who with—you remember his wife’s evidence—who had a motive for killing him, and so on. Meanwhile a trip to Brighton seems indicated.”

The telephone bell rang. Mallett took off the receiver and found himself speaking to Mr. Benjamin Browne.

“It’s about that young man, Harper,” said Mr. Browne’s voice. “You asked me yesterday, Inspector, if you remember——”

“Yes, yes,” said Mallett. “Of course I remember. What about him?”

“He has just come in here,” went on Mr. Browne in deliberate tones.

“Well, ask him to be good enough to come up to Scotland Yard at once.”

“But he isn’t here now,” said Mr. Browne peevishly. “He just looked in—just poked his head into my room, Inspector, and said he was resigning his position. And then he walked out—simply walked out without any further notice. After all I had done for him, too! It’s really very——”

“Very galling, no doubt,” agreed Mallett. “Did you tell him I wanted to see him?”