“But you thought you’d like to come as far as London to make sure,” put in Mallett drily. Any hopes he had of hearing anything useful from the new arrival began to disappear. It seemed that Colin James in the flesh would prove to be no more value than the unsubstantial rumours which filled his files.

Mr. James blew his nose with a trumpet-like blast.

“I’m sorry if I’ve troubled you,” he said sorrowfully. “I thought it right to come as soon as I could. My daughter told me it wouldn’t be any good to anyone, but it seemed wrong not to. So as soon as my cold would let me get out of the house, I did”—he sniffed—“though I was hardly fit to travel as it was.”

The inspector was touched in spite of himself.

“I’m afraid it is you who have been troubled, Mr. James,” he said.

“I wouldn’t mind that, sir,” answered James, “if I thought I’d been of any use. But I can tell you, it takes a good deal to get me out of my home nowadays—quite apart from this cold of mine, I mean. My health isn’t what it was, you know. I suffer a good deal——”

“From your digestion?” enquired Mallett.

“My digestion, just so. I wonder how you guessed that, sir. It’s easy to see you’re not a detective for nothing.”

“Well, we’re trained to notice things, you know,” said the inspector pleasantly, rising as he spoke. “Thank you for coming, Mr. James. I think it’s clear you’re not the man we are looking for.”

“Oh, you can be sure of that, sir,” the corn merchant assured him earnestly. “But it was a funny coincidence, wasn’t it? My name and beard and figure and all, my digestion, too, for all I knew, though you didn’t put that in the description.”

“I think I can promise you that your digestion alone would acquit you,” said Mallett gravely.

“Would it really, now? That is most interesting—most interesting. I should never have thought of that. It just shows the way you gentlemen of Scotland Yard work. Well, all I can say is, in that case, I ought to have a good alibi—if that’s the word—for any crimes. That’s the first good thing I’ve known come of my wretched stomach. It spoils all pleasure in life”—he contemplated his great paunch gravely—“it does indeed. The least little thing upsets it. You ask my daughter what happened when she took me to France.”

“Oh, you went to France?” asked Mallett, “When was that?”