Detective-Sergeant Mullins inspected the bottom button of his waistcoat intently.
"Sir Harris was a bit of a criminologist in his way, as perhaps you've heard, sir?" he said.
"Yes, I believe I have heard it said that was a hobby of his," nodded Captain Francis Newcombe. "But I wouldn't have known it from anything Sir Harris said last night, if that's what you mean. The subject wasn't mentioned."
"Nor any crime? And particularly any particular criminal?" prodded the Scotland Yard man.
Captain Francis Newcombe shook his head.
"Not a word," he said.
Detective-Sergeant Mullins looked up a little gloomily from his waistcoat button.
"I'm sorry for that," he said.
"So am I, if it would have helped any," said the ex-captain of territorials heartily. "But what's the point, sergeant?"
"Well, you see, sir," said the Scotland Yard man, "with all due respect to the dead, Sir Harris fancied himself a bit, he did, along those lines. Some queer notions he had, sir—and stubborn, as you might say. He's got himself into trouble more than once, and the Yard's had its own time with him. He's been warned, sir, often enough—and if he was alive, he wouldn't say he hadn't. It's what he's been told might happen. There's no other reason, as far as we've gone, why he should have been murdered. It looks the likely thing that he went too far this time, and got to know more than some crook took a notion it was safe to have him know."
Paul Cremarre smiled inscrutably at the Scotland Yard man.
"I take back what I said about it being a purposeless murder, sergeant," he murmured.
"Yes, sir," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins. "Well, I fancy that's all, gentlemen. We were hoping that if matters had reached as grave a state as that—that is, if Sir Harris ever realised how deep he'd got in—it would have been a bit on his mind, as you might say, and in the course of a long conversation with a friend, sir, a hint of it, even if he didn't go any further, might have cropped up." He buttoned his coat. "You're quite sure, Captain Newcombe, thinking it over, that there wasn't anything mentioned, even casually like, that would give us a clue?"
"Quite, sergeant!" said the ex-captain of territorials emphatically.
"Well, I'll be going, then," said the Scotland Yard man. "And sorry to have taken up your time, sir."
"You've done nothing but your duty," said Captain Francis Newcombe pleasantly. He rang the bell. "Runnells, bring Sergeant Mullins a drink!" And with a smile to the Scotland Yard man: "Will it be Scotch, sergeant?"
"Why, thank you very much, sir," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins. He took the glass from Runnells. "Here's how, sir!" He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Good-night, gentlemen!"
"Good-night, sergeant," said the ex-captain of territorials.
"Good-night, sergeant," said the Frenchman.
Detective-Sergeant Mullins' footsteps died away in the hall.
Captain Francis Newcombe's dark eyes rested unemotionally upon the Frenchman.
The Frenchman leaned against the mantel and stared at the end of his cigarette.
The front door closed, and Runnells came back into the room.
"Now, Runnells," said Captain Francis Newcombe blandly, "bring us all a drink, and we will talk about—to-morrow night."
IV.
Gold Plate
A motor ran swiftly along a country road.
Two men sat in the front seat.
"My friend, Runnells," said one of the two quizzically, after a silence that had endured for miles, "what in hell is the matter with you to-night?"
"I don't know," said Runnells, who drove the car. "What the captain was talking about last night, maybe—the things you feel in the air."
"Bah!" said Paul Cremarre composedly. "If it is only the air! For three years we have found nothing in the air but good fortune."
"That's all right," Runnells returned sullenly. "But just the same that's the way I feel, and I can't help it. We're going to lay low for a spell after to-night, and maybe that's what's wrong too—kind of as though we were pushing our luck over the edge by sticking it just one night too many."
The Frenchman whistled a bar lightly under his breath.
"I should be delighted—delighted," he said, "to leave to-night alone—but not the Earl of Cloverley's gold plate! Have you forgotten that I told you I had made a promise to our little Père Mouche—to eat ragoût from a gold plate? I have never eaten from a gold plate. It is a dream!"
"You're bloody well right, it is!" said Runnells gruffly. "And I only hope it ain't going to be anything worse'n a dream to-night."
"It is evident," said Paul Cremarre, with a low laugh, "that, whatever you have eaten from, and whatever you have eaten of, to-night, my Runnells, it has not agreed with you! Is it not so?"
"Look here!" said Runnells suddenly. "If you want to know, I'll tell you. I know everything's fixed for to-night, maybe better than it's ever been fixed before—it ain't that. It's last night. It's damned queer, that bloke from Scotland Yard showing up in our rooms!"
"Ah!" murmured Paul Cremarre. "Yes, my Runnells, I too have thought of that. But you were at home the night before, when Sir Harris Greaves was murdered, you and the captain, were you not? It is nothing, is it? A mere little coincidence—yes? You should know better than I do."
"There's nothing to know," said Runnells shortly. "It's just the idea of a Scotland Yard man coming to our diggings. Like a warning, somehow, it looks."
"Yes," said Paul Cremarre. "Quite so! And the headlights now—hadn't you better switch them off? And run a little slower, Runnells. It is not far now, if I have made no mistake in my bearings."
Darkness fell upon the road; the motor slackened its speed.
"You were speaking of the visit from Scotland Yard," resumed the Frenchman calmly. "You were at home, of course, when Captain Newcombe returned from the club the night before last at—what time was it, he said?"
"Oh, that's straight enough!" grunted Runnells. "He came in about half past eleven, and we were both in bed by twelve. I've told you it ain't that. What would he have to do with sticking an old toff like Sir Harris that never done him any harm?"
"Nothing," said Paul Cremarre. "I was simply thinking that Sergeant Mullins' theory reminded me of something that you, too, may perhaps remember."
"What's that?" inquired Runnells.
"A rifle shot that was fired one night in a thicket when the Boche had us on the run," said Paul Cremarre.
Runnells swung sharply in his seat.
"Gawd!" he said hoarsely. "What d'you want to bring that up for to-night? I—damn it—I can see it out there in the black of the road now!"
The Frenchman remained silent.
Runnells spoke again after a moment.
"He's a rare 'un, all right, he is, is the captain," he said slowly; "but it wasn't him that did in Sir Harris Greaves. I'd take my oath on that. We was both in bed by twelve, as I told you, and he was still sleeping like a babe when I got up in the morning."
"And you, Runnells," inquired the Frenchman softly, "you too slept well?"
"You