Twenty-five minutes later, Captain Francis Newcombe stood at the door of his apartment. Runnells admitted him.  
"Paul Cremarre here yet?" demanded the ex-captain of territorials briskly.
 
"Yes," said Runnells. "Been here half an hour."
 
With Runnells behind him, Captain Francis Newcombe entered the living room of the apartment. A tall man, immaculately dressed, with a small, very carefully trimmed black moustache, with eyes that were equally black but whose pupils were curiously minute, stood by the mantel.
 
"Ah, monsieur!" He waved his arm in greeting. "Salut!"
 
"Back, eh, Paul?" nodded Captain Francis Newcombe, flinging himself into a lounge chair. "Expected you, of course, to-night. Well, what's the news? How's the fishing smack?"
 
Paul Cremarre smiled faintly.
 
"Ah, the poor Marianne!" he said. "Such bad weather! It is always the bilge. If it did not leak so furiously!" He lifted his shoulders, and blew a wreath of cigarette smoke languidly ceilingward.
 
"So!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "Been searched again, eh?"
 
The Frenchman laughed softly.
 
"Two very charming old gentlemen who were summering on the French coast, and were so interested in everything. Could they come aboard? But, why not? It was a pleasure! Such harmless old children they looked—not at all like Leduc and Colferre of the Préfecture!"
 
"One more sign of the times!" commented Captain Francis Newcombe a little shortly. "And Père Mouche?"
 
"Ah!" murmured the Frenchman. "That is another story! I am afraid it is true that his back is really bending under the load. He has done amazingly, but though the continent is wide, it can only absorb so much, and there are always difficulties. He says himself that we feed him too well."
 
Captain Francis Newcombe frowned.
 
"Well, he's right, of course! Leduc and Colferre, eh? I don't like it! If we needed anything further to back us up in our decision lately that it was about time to lay low for a while, we've got it here. There is to-morrow night's affair, of course, that naturally we will carry through, but after that I think we should come to a full stop for, say—a six months' holiday. Personally, as you know, I'm rather anxious to make a little trip to America. I'll take Runnells along as my man for the looks of it. He can play at valeting and still enjoy himself if he keeps out of mischief—which I will see to it"—Captain Francis Newcombe's lips thinned—"that he does! That will account for the temporary closing up of this apartment here. And you, Paul—I suppose it will be the Riviera for you?"
 
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
 
"Ah!" he said. "As to that I do not know, but what does it matter?" He laughed good-humouredly. "I have no attraction such as monsieur with a charming ward in America. I am of the desolate, one of the forlorn of the earth in whom no one has more than a passing interest."
 
"Except Scotland Yard and the Préfecture," said the ex-captain of territorials with a grim smile. He rose suddenly from his chair and paced once or twice the length of the room. "Yes," he said decisively, "we'd be fools to do anything else. It will give Père Mouche a chance to work down his surplus stock, and the police to lose a little of their ardour. It's getting a bit hot. Scotland Yard is badly flicked on the raw. London is becoming unhealthy. Even Runnells here, whom I would never accuse of having any delicate sense of prescience, has been uneasy of late as though he felt the net drawing in."
 
"You're bloody well right!" said Runnells gruffly. "I don't know how, but it's true. Let the coppers nose a cold scent for a while, I says. I can do with a bit of America whenever you're ready!"
 
"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "It's in the air. Like Runnells, I do not know exactly where it comes from, but I know it's there."
 
"Monsieur," said the Frenchman, "I have often wondered about the fourth—stragglers, I think you called us that night—about the fourth straggler."
 
"You mean?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe sharply.
 
"Nothing!" said the Frenchman. "One sometimes wonders, that is all. The thought flashed through my mind as you spoke. But it means nothing. How could it? More than three years have gone. Let us forget my remark." He flicked the ash from his cigarette. "Well, then, as I am the only one left to speak, I will say that I too agree. For six months we do not exist so far as business is concerned—after to-morrow night." He made a wry face, and laughed. "Well, it will be dull! I fear it will be dull, and one will become ennuyé, but it is wise. So! It is decided. And so there remains only to-morrow night. I was to be here this evening to discuss the details—and here I am. Shall we proceed to discuss them? I have made a promise to the little Père Mouche that when I return he shall eat a rago?t from a veritable gold plate, and that Scotland Yard—"
 
The doorbell interrupted the Frenchman's words.
 
Runnells left the room to answer the summons. He was back in a moment with a card on a silver tray, which he handed to the ex-captain of territorials.
 
The card tray was significant. Captain Francis Newcombe glanced first at Runnell's face, frowned—then picked up the card. His eyes narrowed as he read it. On the card was written:
 
DETECTIVE-SERGEANT MULLINS
NEW SCOTLAND YARD
 
He handed the card coolly to Paul Cremarre.
 
"Everything all right so far as you are concerned?" he demanded in a low, quick tone.
 
The Frenchman smiled at the card in a curious way, handed it back, and lighted a fresh cigarette.
 
"Yes," he said.
 
"Sure?" said Captain Francis Newcombe.
 
"Absolutely!" replied the Frenchman in the same low tone.
 
"Very good!" said the ex-captain of territorials. "Don't look so damned white around the gills, Runnells. And watch yourself!" He raised his voice. "Show the sergeant in, Runnells!" he said.
 
A minute later, Runnells ushered in a thick-set, florid-faced man.
 
"Sergeant Mullins, sir!" he announced, and withdrew from the room.
 
The sergeant looked inquiringly from one to the other of the two men.
 
"I'm sorry to intrude, gentlemen," he said. "It's Captain Newcombe, I—"
 
Captain Francis Newcombe waved his hand pleasantly.
 
"Not at all, sergeant!" he said. "I am Captain Newcombe. What can I do for you?"
 
"Well, sir," said the man from Scotland Yard, "I'm not saying you can do anything, and then again maybe you can." He glanced at the Frenchman, and coughed slightly.
 
"Mr. Cremarre is a close friend of mine," said Captain Francis Newcombe quietly. "You may speak quite freely before him, so far as I am concerned."
 
"Very good, sir!" said Sergeant Mullins. "Well, then, even if the papers hadn't been full of it all day, you'd probably know about it anyway, being as how you were a friend of his. It's Sir Harris Greaves, sir—Sir Harris' murder."
 
Captain Francis Newcombe, as though instinctively, turned toward an evening paper that lay upon the table, its great headlines screaming the murder across the front page.
 
"Good God, sergeant—yes!" he exclaimed. "It's a shocking thing! Shocking!" He jerked his head toward the paper, and glanced at Paul Cremarre. "You've read it, of course, Paul?"
 
"I've never read anything like it before," said the Frenchman grimly. "The most wanton thing I ever heard of! Absolutely purposeless!"
 
"Don't you be too sure about that, sir," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins crisply. "Things aren't done purposelessly—leastways, not them kind of things."
 
"Exactly!" agreed Captain Francis Newcombe. "Right you are, sergeant! But you'll pardon me if I appear a bit curious as to why you should have come to me about it."
 
"Well, sir," said Sergeant Mullins, "that's simple enough. You are the last one as had any conversation with Sir Harris before he was murdered."
 
Captain Francis Newcombe stared at the Scotland Yard man in a puzzled way.
 
"I am afraid I don't quite understand, sergeant," he said a little helplessly. "According to the published accounts, Sir Harris was stabbed in his bed, presumably during the early morning hours, though no sound was heard, and the crime wasn't discovered until his man went to take Sir Harris his tea at the usual hour this morning. But perhaps the accounts are inaccurate?"
 
"No, sir," said Sergeant Mullins; "as far as that goes, they're accurate enough. The doctors say it must have been somewhere between two and three o'clock in the morning."
 
"Quite so!" said Captain Francis Newcombe. "That is what I had in mind. The last time I saw Sir Harris was yesterday evening at the club. Sir Harris left the club shortly before I did. I have no exact idea what the hour was, though the doorman would probably be able to say, but I am quite certain it could not have been later than half past eleven."
 
"It wasn't even as late as that, sir," said the man from Scotland Yard seriously. "Ten after eleven, it was, when Sir Harris left; and you, sir, at a quarter past. But I didn't say, sir, that you were the last one as spoke to Sir Harris alive. Conversation was what I said, sir—and a lengthy one too. One says a lot in an hour or so, sir."
 
"Oh, I see!" said Captain Francis Newcombe, with a smile. "Or, rather—I don't! What about this conversation, sergeant?"
 
"Well, sir, if you don't mind," said Detective-Sergeant Mullins, "that's what I'd like to know—what it was about?"
 
"Good Lord!" gasped the ex-captain of territorials feebly. "I'm not sure I know myself—now. What do men generally talk about over a Scotch and soda? I believe we started with the subject of democracy, and I'm afraid, in fact I'm certain, I talked a good bit of drivel, and incidentally settled several of the world questions and so on, and then we drifted from one thing to another in a desultory fashion."
 
"Yes, sir," said Sergeant Mullins. "And the things you drifted to—could you remember them, sir? It's very important, sir, that you should."
 
"Well, if it's important, I'll try," said Captain Francis Newcombe gravely. "The shows, of course, and the American Yacht race, horses, a hunting lodge Sir Harris had in Scotland, and—yes, I believe that's all, sergeant. But it's quite a range, at that."
 
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."