orrected the other; "a Swede, Jonsen."

Crawley nodded.

"I thought he was a Swede."

"Have you seen him?" asked the other quickly.

"He came down to make some inquiries in Eastbourne," said Crawley, "and
I happened to meet him. One of those talkative fellows who opens his
heart to a uniform. I stopped him from going to the house, so I saved
you a shock--if John Minute had been there, I mean."

The other bit his lips, and his face showed his concern.

"That's bad," he said. "He has been very restless and rather impertinent
lately, and has been looking for another job. What did you tell him?"

"I told him to come down next Wednesday," said Crawley. "I thought you'd
like to make a few arrangements in the meantime."

He held out his hand, and the young man, who did not mistake the
gesture, dived into his pockets with a scowl and handed four five-pound
notes into the outstretched palm.

"It will just pay my taxi," said Crawley light-heartedly.

The other went upstairs. He found the girl sitting where he had left her
in her bedroom.

"Clear out of here," he said roughly. "I want the room."

Meekly she obeyed. He locked the door behind her, lifted a suitcase on
to the bed, and, opening it, took out a small Japanese box. From this he
removed a tiny glass pestle and mortar, six little vials, a hypodermic
syringe, and a small spirit lamp. Then from his pocket he took a
cigarette case and removed two cigarettes which he laid carefully on the
dressing table. He was busy for the greater part of the hour.

As for the girl, she spent that time in the cold dining room huddled up
in a chair, weeping softly to herself.

CHAPTER III

FOUR IMPORTANT CHARACTERS

The writer pauses here to say that the story of "The Man Who Knew" is an
unusual one. It is reconstructed partly from the reports of a certain
trial, partly from the confidential matter which has come into the
writer's hands from Saul Arthur Mann and his extraordinary bureau, and
partly from the private diary which May Nuttall put at the writer's
disposal.

Those practiced readers who begin this narrative with the weary
conviction that they are merely to see the workings out of a
conventional record of crime, of love, and of mystery may be urged to
pursue their investigations to the end. Truth is stranger than fiction,
and has need to be, since most fiction is founded on truth. There is a
strangeness in the story of "The Man Who Knew" which brings it in