“Oh, come now.  You are romancing.”

“Not a bit, sir.  When I went to my room I—­er—­’eard ’im.”

“Is there a wooden partition between No. 18 and your room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And cracks—­large ones?”

“Yes, sir.  But why you should—­oh, I see!  Excuse me, sir; I thought I ’eard a bell.”

The waiter hurried off, and Brett unwound himself.

“So Robert is in love with Margaret,” he said, laughing unmirthfully.  “Was there ever such a tangle!  If I indulge in a violent flirtation with Miss Layton, and I persuade Winter to ogle Mrs. Jiro, the affair should be artistically complete.”

The conceit brought Ipswich to his mind.  He was convinced that the main line of inquiry lay in the direction of Mr. Numagawa Jiro and the curious masquerading of his colossal spouse.

He had vaguely intended to visit the local police.  Now he made up his mind to go to Ipswich and thence to London.  Further delay at Stowmarket was useless.

Before his train quitted the station he made matters right with the stationmaster by explaining to him the identity of the two men who had attracted his attention the previous evening.  Somehow, the barrister imagined that the third visitant of that fateful New Year’s Eve two years ago would not trouble the neighbourhood again.  Herein he was mistaken.

At the county town he experienced little difficulty in learning the antecedents of Mrs. Numagawa Jiro.

In the first hotel he entered he found a young lady behind the bar who was not only well acquainted with Mrs. Jiro, but remembered the circumstances of the courtship.

“The fact is,” she explained, “there are a lot of silly girls about who think every man with a dark skin is a prince in his own country if only he wears a silk hat and patent leather boots.”

“Is that all?” said Brett.

“All what?” cried the girl.  “Oh, don’t be stupid!  I mean when they are well dressed.  Princess, indeed!  Catch me marrying a nigger.”

“But Japanese are not niggers.”

“Well, they’re not my sort, anyhow.  And fancy a great gawk like Flossie Bird taking on with a little man who doesn’t reach up to her elbow.  It was simply ridiculous.  What did you say her name is now?”

He gave the required information, and went on: 

“Had Mr. Jiro any other friends in Ipswich to your knowledge?”

“He didn’t know a soul.  He was here for the Assizes, about some case, I think.  Oh, I remember—­the ’Stowmarket Mystery’—­and he stayed at the hotel where Flossie was engaged.  How she ever came to take notice of him, I can’t imagine.  She was a queer sort of girl—­used to wear bloomers, and get off her bike to clout the small boys who chi-iked at her.”

“Do her people live here?”

“Yes, and a rare old row they made about her marriage—­for she is married, I will say that for her.  But why are you so interested in her?”