“Perhaps I can go into Mr. Lloyd’s room for half an hour or so; I don’t think he’ll mind, and it’s pretty comfortable.”

“Certainly, if you’d like.  I’ll tell them to send you whatever they’ve got.”

“Thank you very much.  Perhaps they’ll also send me a lump of sugar and a walnut; it’s—­it’s a little fad of mine.”

“A—­what?  A lump of sugar and a walnut?” Sir James stopped for a moment, with his hand on the bell-rope.  “Oh, certainly, if you’d like it; certainly,” he added, and stared after this detective with curious tastes as he left the room.

When the vehicle, bringing back the secretary and the policeman, drew up on the drive, Martin Hewitt left the room on the first floor and proceeded down-stairs.  On the landing he met Sir James Norris and Mrs. Cazenove, who stared with astonishment on perceiving that the detective carried in his hand the parrot-cage.

“I think our business is about brought to a head now,” Hewitt remarked, on the stairs.  “Here are the police officers from Twyford.”  The men were standing in the hall with Mr. Lloyd, who, on catching sight of the cage in Hewitt’s hand, paled suddenly.

“This is the person who will be charged, I think,” Hewitt pursued, addressing the officers, and indicating Lloyd with his finger.

“What, Lloyd?” gasped Sir James, aghast.  “No—­not Lloyd—­nonsense!”

“He doesn’t seem to think it nonsense himself, does he?” Hewitt placidly observed.  Lloyd had sank on a chair, and, gray of face, was staring blindly at the man he had run against at the office door that morning.  His lips moved in spasms, but there was no sound.  The wilted flower fell from his button-hole to the floor, but he did not move.

“This is his accomplice,” Hewitt went on, placing the parrot and cage on the hall table, “though I doubt whether there will be any use in charging him.  Eh, Polly?”

The parrot put his head aside and chuckled.  “Hullo, Polly!” it quietly gurgled.  “Come along!”

Sir James Norris was hopelessly bewildered.  “Lloyd—­Lloyd,” he said, under his breath.  “Lloyd—­and that!”

“This was his little messenger, his useful Mercury,” Hewitt explained, tapping the cage complacently; “in fact, the actual lifter.  Hold him up!”

The last remark referred to the wretched Lloyd, who had fallen forward with something between a sob and a loud sigh.  The policemen took him by the arms and propped him in his chair.

* * * * *

“System?” said Hewitt, with a shrug of the shoulders, an hour or two after in Sir James’ study.  “I can’t say I have a system.  I call it nothing but common-sense and a sharp pair of eyes.  Nobody using these could help taking the right road in this case.  I began at the match, just as the Scotland Yard man did, but I had the advantage of taking a line through three cases.  To begin with, it was plain that that match, being left there