“The only unusual aspect of the circumstances, as I understand them,” answered Fanshawe, “is that on leaving prison I was expressly exempted from the ordinary regulations about reporting to the police and so forth. I presume that you are aware of that?”

“Certainly. I am given to understand that the order was made on the direct instructions of the Home Secretary. It was most exceptional.”

“Personally, I think it is the least he could have done,” said Fanshawe with a touch of hauteur. “I always treated him very decently when he was my fag at school.”

“You must know perfectly well”, said Mallett impatiently, “that the supervision you are complaining of has nothing whatever to do with anything that happened before you were released from prison.”

“I understand you. I read the papers, like everyone else. I am to gather, then, that this inquisition has to do with the events of last week-end?”

“If you read the papers,” answered the inspector, “you will have seen your own name mentioned in the reports of the inquest on Lionel Ballantine.”

A strange smile lit up Fanshawe’s lean face. “In that little rat Du Pine’s evidence? I did indeed.” He turned suddenly and looked the inspector full in the eyes. “May I ask whether you suspect me of this crime?” he asked.

“Nobody is free from suspicion in a case of this kind,” replied Mallett gravely. “Now, Mr. Fanshawe, don’t you think you could assist us by answering a few questions?”

“And if I refuse, as I have a perfect right to do?”

“Then I am afraid you will have to go to the Home Secretary and ask him to relieve you of police supervision, for I shall not take the responsibility myself.”

Fanshawe blew a long jet of smoke from his mouth and very deliberately crushed the stub of his cigarette in an ashtray.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I have no objection to telling you. Du Pine’s statement is substantially true. I did call on Ballantine”—an involuntary spasm contracted his features as he pronounced the name—“last Friday morning. I contrived to get in by using a false name, and as soon as he saw who I was he had me turned out of the office. Not before I had told him just a little of what I thought of him, though.”

“Yes?”

Fanshawe smiled. He had a delightful, even brilliant smile, though now it seemed to hold a hint of malice. “My dear Inspector,” he said, “that was what you wished to know, was it not? I really don’t see how I can help you any further.”

Mallett folded his large hands and put them squarely on the desk in front of him. Looming over the figure that reclined in the easy chair he seemed strangely impressive, and his voice when it came had an urgency, a vibrant appeal that was rare in it.