"Can I run you back to town, Carfon?" he asked, as he walked towards
the door.

"No, thank you," said the inspector. "I must go over to Strinton and
see Brewitt. He's following up a clue he's got. Some tramp who was
seen hanging about here for a couple of days just before the
murder," he added.

"Unless he is tall and powerful, left-handed, with something more
than a layman's knowledge of surgery, you had better not trouble
about him," said Malcolm Sage quietly. "You might also note that the
murderer belongs to the upper, or middle class, has an iron nerve,
and is strongly humanitarian."

For a moment Inspector Carfon stared at Malcolm Sage with lengthened
jaw. Then suddenly he laughed, a laugh of obvious relief.

"At first I thought you were serious, Mr. Sage," he said, "till I
saw what you were up to. It's just like the story-book detectives,"
and he laughed again, this time more convincingly.

Malcolm Sage shrugged his shoulders. "Let me have a description of
the man when you get him," he said, "and some of the tobacco he
smokes. Try him with marmalade, Carfon, and plenty of it. By the way,
you make a great mistake in not reading _The Present Century_," he
added. "It can be curiously instructive," and without another word
he crossed the hall and, a moment later, entered his car.

"Swank!" murmured Inspector Carfon angrily, as he watched Tims swing
the car down the drive at a dangerous rate of speed, "pure,
unadulterated, brain-rotting swank," and he in turn passed down the
drive, determined to let Malcolm Sage see what he could do "on his
own."

II

Three weeks passed and there was no development in the McMurray
Mystery. Malcolm Sage had heard nothing from Inspector Carfon, who
was busily engaged in an endeavour to trace the tramp seen in the
neighbourhood of "The Hollows" on the day previous to the murder.

Sir John Dene had called several times upon Malcolm Sage, whom he
had come to regard as infallible, only to be told that there was no
news. He made no comment; but it was obvious that he was greatly
disappointed.

Interest began to wane, the newspapers devoted themselves to other
"stunts," and the McMurray Mystery seemed fated to swell the list of
unfathomed crimes with which, from time to time, the Press likes to
twit Scotland Yard.

Suddenly the whole affair flared up anew, and Fleet Street once more
devoted itself and its columns to the death of Professor James
McMurray.

A brief an