“He was ill. It was his illness. If only he had followed my advice! Mr. Alleyn, I have a friend, a brilliant young chemist, a rising man. I consulted him about my brother and he—generously and nobly—gave me a wonderful remedy, ‘Fulvitavolts,’ that would have cured my brother. I begged him to take it. It would have cured him; I know it would. My friend assured me of it and he knows. He said—” She broke off abruptly and darted a curiously frightened glance at Alleyn. “My brother always laughed at me,” she added quickly.

“And he refused to try this ‘Fulvitavolts’?”

“Yes—at least—yes, he did. I left the tablets there but, of course—he just laughed. My sister-in-law is not very—” Here Ruth floundered unhappily. “I’m sure he didn’t take them.”

“I see. People are generally very conservative about medicine.”

“Yes, aren’t they?” agreed Ruth eagerly and then stopped again and blew her nose.

“The lack of interest shown in chemical research must be very discouraging to a young man like your friend,” Alleyn went on. “I know a brilliant fellow—only twenty-five—who has already—” He stopped and bent towards her. “I suppose we can’t possibly be speaking of the same person?”

Ruth beamed at him through her tears.

“Oh no,” she assured him.

“Now, how do you know, Miss O’Callaghan?” said Alleyn gaily. “I’m a very great believer in coincidence. My man is James Graham.”

“No, no.” She hesitated again, oddly, and then in another burst of confidence: “I’m talking about Harold Sage. Perhaps you’ve heard of him too? He’s getting quite famous. He’s—he’s practically thirty.”

“The name seems to strike a chord,” lied Alleyn thoughtfully. The desk telephone rang.

“Will you excuse me?” he asked her, and took off the receiver.

“Hullo? Yes, speaking. Yes. Yes. I see. Thank you very much. I’m engaged at the moment, but if I may I’ll come round and see you to-morrow? Right.” He hung up the receiver. Ruth had just got to her feet.

“I mustn’t keep you, Mr. Alleyn. Only before I go—please, please let me beg you to go no further with these investigations. I’ve—I’ve got a reason—I mean I’m so sure Derry died naturally. It is all so dreadful. If I could be sure you were satisfied—” She made an ineffectual movement with her hands, a clumsy gesture of entreaty. “Tell me you’ll go no further!” begged Ruth.

“I am extremely sorry,” said Alleyn formally, “but that would be impossible. The post-mortem has already been held. That message gave me the result.”

She stood gaping at him, her mouth half open, her big hands clutching at her bag.

“But what—what is it? What do they say?”

“Your brother died of an overdose of a dangerous drug,” said Alleyn.