I am feeling much better, so you need not put on your scolding air over my police activities. It is so amusing to be unofficial and yet in the game. I feel I may give surmise and conjecture free rein.

Do write me a line when you’ve time.

Yours ever,

RODERICK ALLEYN.

Alleyn sealed and addressed his letter and glanced at the lounge clock. Ten o’clock. Perhaps he had better take another look at Master Gordon Palmer who, at nine o’clock, appeared to be sunk in the very depths of sottish slumber. Alleyn took the lift to the second floor. The unwavering stare of the lift-boy told him that his identity was no longer a secret. He went to Gordon’s room, tapped on the door and walked in.

Gordon was awake but in bed. He looked very unattractive and rather ill.

“Good morning,” said Alleyn. ‘Feeling poorly?”

“I feel like death,” said Gordon. He glanced nervously at the chief inspector, moistened his lips and then said rather sheepishly: “I say, I’m sorry about last night. Can I have my key back? I want to get up.”

“I unlocked your door an hour ago,” said Alleyn. “Haven’t you noticed?”

“As a matter of fact my head is so frightful I haven’t moved yet.”

“I suppose you drank yourself to sleep?”

Gordon was silent.

“How old are you?” asked Alleyn.

“Seventeen.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Alleyn involuntarily. “What do you suppose you’ll look like when you’ve grown up? An enfeebled old dotard. However, it’s your affair.”

Gordon attempted to smile.

“And yet,” continued Alleyn, raising one eyebrow and screwing up his face, “you don’t look altogether vicious. You’re pimply, of course, and your skin’s a nauseating colour—that’s late hours and alcohol—but if you gave your stomach and your lungs and your nerves a sporting chance you might improve enormously.”

“Thanks, very much.”

“Rude, you think? I’m twenty-five years older than you. Old gentlemen of forty-two are allowed to be impertinent. Especially when they are policemen. Do you want to get into trouble with the police, by the way?”

“I’m not longing to,” said Gordon, with a faint suggestion of humour.

“Then why, in Heaven’s name, did you bolt? You have permanently changed the silhouette of Detective-Sergeant Cass. He now presents the contour of a pouter-pigeon.”

“Oh no, does he? How superb!”

“How superb!” imitated Alleyn. “The new inflexion. How superb for you, my lad, if you’re clapped into durance vile.”

Gordon looked nervous.

“Come on,” continued Alleyn. “Why did you bolt. Was it funk?”

“Oh, rather. I was terrified,” said Gordon lightly.

“Of what? Of your position in regard to Courtney Broadhead? Were you afraid the police would press you to re-state your theory?”

“It’s not my theory.”