d you know the man Guest--Douglas Guest?"

Douglas shook his head.

"Very slightly," he said. "I lived some distance away, and they were
not sociable people."

"Murders as a rule," Rice continued, leaning back in his chair, "do not
interest me. This one did. Why? I don't know. I hate to have reasons
for everything. But to me there were many interesting points about this
one. First, now--"

He rattled on until his voice seemed like a far distant echo to Douglas,
who sat with white face and averted eyes, struggling hard for composure.
From the murder he passed on to the tragedy on the railway train.

"You know," he said, "I cannot help thinking that the police were a
little hasty in assuming that the man was Douglas Guest."

"An envelope was found upon him and a handkerchief with his initials,"
Douglas said, looking up, "besides the card. He was known too to have
taken that train. Surely that was evidence enough?"

"It seems so," Rice answered, "and yet--But never mind. I see that I am
boring you. We will talk of something else, or rather I must talk of
nothing else, for my time is up," he added, glancing at the clock.
"When are you going to look up Drexley?"

"When is the best time to catch him?" Douglas asked.

"Now, as easily as any," Rice answered. "Come along with me, and I will
show you the way and arrange that he sees you."

Douglas stood up and ground his heel into the floor. Perish those
hateful fears--that fainting sense of terror! Douglas Guest was dead.
For Douglas Jesson there was a future never more bright than now.

"Come," he said. "You must drink with me once. Waiter, two more
liqueurs."

"Success," Rice cried, lifting his glass, "to your interview with
Drexley! He's not a bad chap, although he has his humours."

Douglas drained his glass to the dregs--but he drank to a different
toast. The two men left the place together.

CHAPTER IX

THE EDITOR OF THE _IBEX_ RECEIVES A STRANGE LETTER

The editor of the _Ibex_ sat at a long table in his sanctum paying some
perfunctory attentions to a huge pile of letters which had come in by
the afternoon mail. Most of them he threw on one side for his "sub," a
few he opened himself and tossed into a basket for further attention
later on. It was a task which he never entered upon with much
enthusiasm, for he was a man who hated detail. His room itself
disclosed the man. It was a triumph of disorder. Books and magazines
were scattered all over the