I roused myself from my reverie with a laugh at Thorndyke’s quaint conceit and a glance at the grotesquely distorted reflection of my face in the polished silver.

“I am afraid I have been a rather dull companion this morning,” I admitted apologetically.

“By no means,” replied Thorndyke, with a grin.  “On the contrary, I have found you both amusing and instructive, and I only spoke when I had exhausted your potentialities as a silent entertainer.”

“You are pleased to be facetious at my expense,” said I.

“Well, the expense was not a very heavy one,” he retorted.  “I have been merely consuming a by-product of your mental activity—­Hallo! that’s Anstey already.”

A peculiar knock, apparently delivered with the handle of a walking-stick on the outer door, was the occasion of this exclamation, and as Thorndyke sprang up and flung the door open, a clear, musical voice was borne in, the measured cadences of which proclaimed at once the trained orator.

“Hail, learned brother!” it exclaimed.  “Do I disturb you untimely at your studies?” Here our visitor entered the room and looked round critically. “’Tis even so,” he declared.  “Physiological chemistry and its practical applications appears to be the subject.  A physico-chemical inquiry into the properties of streaky bacon and fried eggs.  Do I see another learned brother?”

He peered keenly at me through his pince-nez, and I gazed at him in some embarrassment.

“This is my friend Jervis, of whom you have heard me speak,” said Thorndyke.  “He is with us in this case, you know.”

“The echoes of your fame have reached me, sir,” said Anstey, holding out his hand.  “I am proud to know you.  I should have recognised you instantly from the portrait of your lamented uncle in Greenwich Hospital.”

“Anstey is a wag, you understand,” explained Thorndyke, “but he has lucid intervals.  He’ll have one presently if we are patient.”

“Patient!” snorted our eccentric visitor, “it is I who need to be patient when I am dragged into police courts and other sinks of iniquity to plead for common thieves and robbers like a Kennington Lane advocate.”

“You’ve been talking to Lawley, I see,” said Thorndyke.

“Yes, and he tells me that we haven’t a leg to stand upon.”

“No, we’ve got to stand on our heads, as men of intellect should.  But Lawley knows nothing about the case.”

“He thinks he knows it all,” said Anstey.

“Most fools do,” retorted Thorndyke.  “They arrive at their knowledge by intuition—­a deuced easy road and cheap travelling too.  We reserve our defence—­I suppose you agree to that?”

“I suppose so.  The magistrate is sure to commit unless you have an unquestionable alibi.”

“We shall put in an alibi, but we are not depending on it.”

“Then we had better reserve our defence,” said Anstey; “and it is time that we wended on our pilgrimage, for we are due at Lawley’s at half-past ten.  Is Jervis coming with us?”