“Hume has been under suspicion upon several occasions.  But the police could gather no positive evidence against him, at any time.  The robbery of the Hailesbury gallery at London, when the famous Whistler portrait of the Duchess of Winterton was cut from its frame, was traced almost to his door.  But the scent died out before they could clinch the matter, and he escaped.  It was believed that the thing was planned by him and executed by a confederate.  Several other occurrences of like nature, but of less importance, have been laid against him.  But, if he was concerned in them, he was always cunning enough to hide his tracks.

“He is an habitual drinker, of violent temper, and is reputed to have a positive genius for discovering raw spots in an acquaintance and goading him for the sheer joy of seeing him writhe.  It is this trait that causes the general dislike for him in the Christie Place section.

“He is a free liver, spends much money and has a passion for music.”

Ashton-Kirk laid down the sheets and threw away his cigar.

“As Fuller remarked, Mr. Hume seems to be a colorful character.  And apparently one that would be likely to lead Mr. Allan Morris a very lively dance if he had a hold of any sort upon him.”

He arose to his feet, a pleased light in his eye, and began walking up and down the floor.

“It is more than likely that it will prove some trifle that Morris’ fears have lifted to the plane of a tragedy.  But, somehow, the parts of the case seem to fall in a promising manner.  I get a sort of pleasure in anticipating a possible grapple with Mr. David Purtell Hume.”

For a full hour, Ashton-Kirk moved up and down the library, his eyes half closed, varying expressions appearing and disappearing upon his face.  At length there came a smile of satisfaction and he paused in his pacing.

“That is probably it,” said he.  “At any rate it is a very favorable coincidence.  However, I must have more information than the hurried reports of Burgess and Fuller to be certain.  Yes, this promises to be interesting.”

With that he went to his room and to bed.

The dull gray of a damp spring morning was peering in at his window when he awoke.  By the light he knew that it was hours before his usual time.  Something had aroused him; but he could not say what.  He sat up in bed, and as he did so there came the long continued and smothered ringing of a bell.

“The telephone,” said he.

“R-r-r-r-ring-g!” it persisted.  And then again: 
“R-r-r-r-ring-ing-ing!  R-r-r-ring!”

Ashton-Kirk heard a door open and close softly on the floor above; then slippered feet came pat-patting down the stairs.  The wild rattle of the bell suddenly stopped; a muffled voice could be heard protesting dismally against the din.  But suddenly the vague complaint gave way to a higher note.

“Alarm,” said Ashton-Kirk.  “Something has happened.”