“Mr. Robert Hume-Frazer, residing in one of the great hotels in Northumberland Avenue, was knocked down and nearly run over by an omnibus in Whitehall this morning.  The skill of the driver averted a very serious accident.  It is supposed that Mr. Hume-Frazer slipped whilst attempting to cross before the policeman on duty at that point stopped the traffic.

“The injured gentleman was carried to his hotel, where he is staying with his cousin, Mr. David Hume-Frazer, whose name will be recalled in connection with the famous ‘Stowmarket Mystery’ of last year.”

“What does it all mean?” inquired Winter.

“It means that you must listen carefully to what I am going to tell you.  Here is my cab.  Jump in.  Driver, I am surprised that a man of your intelligence should waste your money on a public-house cigar.  Throw it away.  Here is a better one.  And now, Victoria Street, sharp.”

Winter’s ears were pricked to receive Brett’s intelligence.  Beyond a sigh of professional admiration at the result of Brett’s pertinacity with regard to the omnibuses passing through Whitehall at 10.45, he did not interrupt until the barrister had ended.

Even then he was silent, so Brett looked at him in surprise,

“Well, Winter, what do you think of it?” he said.

“Think!  I wish I had half your luck, Mr. Brett,” he answered sadly.

“How now, you green-eyed monster?”

“No.  I’m not jealous.  You beat me at my own game; I admit it.  I would never have thought of going for the ’buses.  I suppose you would have interviewed the driver and conductor of every vehicle on that route before you gave in.  You didn’t trouble about the hansoms.  Hailing a cab was a slow business, and risked subsequent identification.  To jump on to a moving ’bus was just the thing.  Yes, there is no denying that you are d—­d smart.”

“Winter, your unreasonable jealousy is making you vulgar.”

“Wouldn’t any man swear, sir?  Why did I let such a handful as Mrs. Jiro slip through my fingers the other day?  Clue!  Why, it was a perfect bale of cotton.  If I had only followed her instead of that little rat, her husband, we would now know where the third man lives, and have the murderer of Sir Alan under our thumb.  It is all my fault, though sometimes I feel inclined to blame the police system—­a system that won’t even give us telephones between one station and another.  Never mind.  Wait till I tackle the next job for the Yard.  I’ll show ’em a trick or two.”

CHAPTER XXI

CONCERNING CHICKENS, AND MOTIVES

The detective cooled off by the time they reached Brett’s flat.  On the dining-room tables they found two telegrams and a Remington type-writer.

The messages were from Holden, Naples.

The first:  “Johnson arrived here this morning.”

The second:  “Johnson’s proceedings refer to poorhouse and church registers.”