“Yes, sir!” broke in Winter excitedly.  “But the motive!”

“Et tu, Brute!  Would the disciple rend his master?  Have I not told you that Capella will bring that knowledge with him from Naples?  I have hopes even of your long-nosed friend, Holden, giving us all the details we need.”

“What did the murderer steal from Sir Alan’s writing-desk, from the drawer broken open before the blow was struck?”

Smith entered, bearing a chicken.

“The motive, Winter!  The motive!” laughed Brett, and in pursuance of his invariable practice, he refused to say another word about the crime or its perpetrator during the meal.

CHAPTER XXII

THE SECOND ATTACK

Mrs. Smith was accustomed to her master’s occasional freaks in the matter of dinner.  Her husband, aided by long experience, knew whether Brett’s “immediately” meant one minute, or five, or even fifteen.

This time he gave his wife the longest limit, so, in addition to the chicken, a bird whose unhappy attribute is a facility for being devoured with the utmost speed, a mixed grill of cutlets, bacon, and French sausages appeared on the table.

The diners were hungry and the good things were appreciated.  It was well that they wasted no time on mere words.  They were still intent on the feast when a boy messenger brought a note.  It was from Helen, written in pencil: 

    “David was coming to see you when he was attacked.  Can you come to
    us at once?

    “H.L.

    “P.S.—­David is all right—­only shaken and covered with mud.  It
    occurred five minutes ago.”

“Dear me!” said Brett.  “Dear me!”

There was such a hiss of concentrated fury in his voice that Winter was puzzled to account for the harmless expression the barrister had twice used.  The detective knew that his distinguished friend never, by any chance, indulged in strong language, yet something had annoyed him so greatly that a more powerful expletive would have had a very natural sound.

Brett glared at him.

“It is evident,” he said, “that you do not know the meaning of ‘Dear me.’  It is simply the English form of the Italian ‘O Dio mio!’ and a literal translation would shock you.”

“It doesn’t appear that much damage has been done to your client,” gasped Winter, for Brett had unceremoniously dragged him from his chair with the intention of rushing downstairs forthwith.

They hurried out together, and dashed into the waiting hansom.

“Think of it, Winter,” groaned the barrister.  “Whilst we were seduced by a dorking and a French sausage—­an unholy alliance—­the very man we wanted was waiting in Northumberland Avenue.  You are avenged!  All my jibes and sneers at Scotland Yard recoil on my own head.  I might have known that such a desperate scoundrel would soon make another attempt, and next time upon the right person.  You followed Mrs. Jiro.  I am led astray by a cooked fowl.  Oh, Winter, Winter, who could suspect such depravity in a roasted chicken!”