ll, I was in Manchester, but it's a
bit rough on these other chaps, Victor's pals."

"I was dining at the Cafe Royal," Jacks declared, loudly.

Morse drew a little breath.

"Every one knows that I was at Brighton," he muttered.

"I went home directly the bar here closed," Jimmy said, in a still dazed
tone. "I heard nothing about it till the next morning."

"Alibis by the bushel," Fairfax laughed harshly. "As for me, I was doing
my show--every one knows that. I was never in the place at all."

"The murder was not committed in the place," Francis commented calmly.

Fairfax slid off his stool. A spot of colour blazed in his pale cheeks,
the glass which he was holding snapped in his fingers. He seemed
suddenly possessed.

"I say, what the hell are you getting at?" he cried. "Are you accusing
me--or any of us Victor's pals?"

"I accuse no one," Francis replied, unperturbed. "You invited a
statement from me and I made it."

Sir Timothy Brast rose from his place and made his way to the end of the
counter, next to Fairfax and nearest Francis. He addressed the former.
There was an inscrutable smile upon his lips, his manner was reassuring.

"Young gentleman," he begged, "pray do not disturb yourself. I will
answer for it that neither you nor any of your friends are the objects
of Mr. Leadsam's suspicion. Without a doubt, it is I to whom his
somewhat bold statement refers."

They all stared at him, immersed in another crisis, bereft of speech. He
tapped a cigarette upon the counter and lit it. Fairfax, whose glass
had just been refilled by the bartender, was still ghastly pale, shaking
with nervousness and breathing hoarsely. Francis, tense and alert in his
chair, watched the speaker but said nothing.

"You see," Sir Timothy continued, addressing himself to the four young
men at the bar, "I happen to have two special aversions in life. One is
sweet champagne and the other amateur detectives--their stories, their
methods and everything about them. I chanced to sit upstairs in the
restaurant, within hearing of Mr. Ledsam and his friend Mr. Wilmore,
the novelist, the other night, and I heard Mr. Ledsam, very much to my
chagrin, announce his intention of abandoning a career in which he
has, if he will allow me to say so,"--with a courteous bow to
Francis--"attained considerable distinction, to indulge in the
moth-eaten, flamboyant and melodramatic antics of the lesser Sherlock
Holmes. I fear that I could not resist the