With a tidy gesture which I liked in him he began to kick the glass fragments into the gutter, away from danger to passing traffic. I joined him in this usefulness, and while we were both busy I said: “I don’t know what sort of treasure you’ve got, but I suppose you know who used to live in that house they’re pulling down.”

“Oh, yes,” he answered. “The little doctor. Did you know him?”

“Fairly well. I liked him. He cured me of asthma.”

He laughed. “Well, that’s certainly a good reason for liking him. I wonder if mine is as good. He brought me into the world.”

We walked along some way in silence, wondering perhaps whether each was inclined for the other’s company. Presently he said: “I suppose you remember the case?”

“You mean the — the Calderbury case?”

“Is that what you call it? I didn’t realize it was quite so famous. I’ve been abroad a long time.”

“But you’re a native of Calderbury?”

“I left when I was nine. America — journalism — various things. I write poems — occasionally.”

He said that in a nervous and rather truculent way.

“It’s a pleasant diversion,” I replied, “apart from any value in the poems.”

He laughed enough for me to realize that I had said the right thing. “Come into my hotel and have a drink,” he invited.

We went in and stood by the counter in the cool bar of the “Greyhound.” There was no one about except Brierley, the landlord. He served our drinks and disappeared behind the glass screen. “Now that’s the fellow,” I said, “who really could tell you something about the Calderbury case. He was foreman of the jury.”

“Don’t ask him, please. I’ve read all the newspaper reports — I’m not specially interested in the police-court angle. I suppose it was a fair trial as trials go.”

“Maybe,” I answered. “There was a lot of circumstantial evidence, and I daresay many men have been hanged on less. And then, of course, there was a certain amount of political feeling about the girl, — German, you remember, — and it was the first autumn of the War. We all believed she was a spy. That didn’t come up at the trial, — naturally, — but people like Brierley couldn’t help but be affected by it. The judge, I thought, was a shade too severe in his summing up — maybe he was affected too. War fever is an insidious disease.”

“You take an interest in the case?”

“I suppose I do — though only in a non-technical way. I gather that you’re interested too?”

He smiled. “Didn’t I tell you he brought me into the world?”

“He did that to a good many young people you can see around the streets of Calderbury.”

“Yes, of course. But I didn’t mean it in quite that sense. You see … I’m his son.”

I looked at him then, incredulous for the moment, then in sudden silence as I remembered Gerald. The little boy who cried and screamed and told lies and had nervous fits and whom nobody could control. He seemed embarrassed at having had to explain his identity and went on: —