d home has for me,
this hot afternoon in London, about the sweetest sound word ever had. I
can see, when I close my eyes, Broadway at midday; Fifth Avenue, gay and
colorful, even with all the best people away; Washington Square, cool
under the trees, lovely and desirable despite the presence everywhere of
alien neighbors from the district to the South. I long for home with an
ardent longing; never was London so cruel, so hopeless, so drab, in my
eyes. For, as I write this, a constable sits at my elbow, and he and
I are shortly to start for Scotland Yard. I have been arrested as a
suspect in the case of Captain Fraser-Freer's murder!

I predicted last night that this was to be a red-letter day in the
history of that case, and I also saw myself an unwilling actor in the
drama. But little did I suspect the series of astonishing events that
was to come with the morning; little did I dream that the net I have
been dreading would to-day engulf me. I can scarcely blame Inspector
Bray for holding me; what I can not understand is why Colonel Hughes--

But you want, of course, the whole story from the beginning; and I shall
give it to you. At eleven o'clock this morning a constable called on
me at my rooms and informed me that I was wanted at once by the Chief
Inspector at the Yard.

We climbed--the constable and I--a narrow stone stairway somewhere at
the back of New Scotland Yard, and so came to the inspector's room.
Bray was waiting for us, smiling and confident. I remember--silly as the
detail is--that he wore in his buttonhole a white rose. His manner of
greeting me was more genial than usual. He began by informing me that
the police had apprehended the man who, they believed, was guilty of the
captain's murder.

"There is one detail to be cleared up," he said. "You told me the other
night that it was shortly after seven o'clock when you heard the sounds
of struggle in the room above you. You were somewhat excited at the
time, and under similar circumstances men have been known to make
mistakes. Have you considered the matter since? Is it not possible that
you were in error in regard to the hour?"

I recalled Hughes' advice to humor the inspector; and I said that,
having thought it over, I was not quite sure. It might have been earlier
than seven--say six-thirty.

"Exactly," said Bray. He seemed rather pleased. "The natural stress
of the moment--I understand. Wilkinson, bring in your prisoner. The
constable addressed