Then he burst out aloud, angrily.

“She went to Hume’s last night because she had reason to think Morris would be there.  And if the truth were known, Morris was there.”

“My dear fellow,” said the voice of Ashton-Kirk, “the truth, upon that particular point, at least, is known.  Allan Morris was at Hume’s last night.  He was the man whom Berg saw enter after the musician.”

“How do you know?” asked Pendleton, astonished.

“Fuller, with a report which he recently made upon Morris, handed me a photograph of that gentleman.  While we were at dinner, Berg identified the portrait as being that of Hume’s secret visitor.”

“I was right, then.  Edyth did go there expecting to meet him—­to protect him, perhaps.  If you knew her as well as I do, Kirk, you’d realize that it’s just the sort of thing she’d do.  But,” positively, “she did not find him there.”

“What makes you think that?  There was still one of Hume’s visitors left, when she got there.  It may have been Morris.”

“It was Spatola,” answered Pendleton, with conviction.  “The scream of the cockatoo which came from Hume’s rooms when the pistol was discharged proves it.  When Spatola went in, Berg said he was carrying something under his coat.  Brolatsky told the coroner this morning that the Italian sometimes brought his trained birds with him when he called at Hume’s.  That’s what he had last night.”

But Ashton-Kirk shook his head.

“At this time,” he said, “it will scarcely do to be positive on some things.  Indications are plenty, but they must be worked out.  I have some theories of my own upon the very point that you have just covered, but I will not venture a decided statement until I have proven them to the limit.  It’s the only safe way.”

Pendleton discontentedly hitched forward in his chair.

“I thought,” said he, “that you worked entirely by putting this and that together.”

“That is precisely what I do,” returned Ashton-Kirk.  “But I have found, through experience, that there must be no loose ends left to hang.  Such things are treacherous; you never know when they’ll trip you up and upset all your calculations.”  He paused a moment and regarded his friend steadfastly.  Then he continued.  “But, just now, I think we had better not trouble ourselves about Edyth Vale and Allan Morris.  To be sure, the latter’s connection with the affair is peculiar; Miss Vale’s visit to Hume’s last night, the sounds which Sams heard immediately after she had gone in—­her turning out of the gas and hurried flight, are also strange and significant enough.  But they are perhaps the very end of the story; and it is best never to begin at the end.”

“Is there any way by which you can begin at what you think is the beginning?” asked the other.

Ashton-Kirk took up the parcel which Fuller had laid at his elbow.

“Here is one way,” he answered.  “Let us see where it leads us.”