of logic and evidence.  Books about these formed his sole reading; for belles lettres he cared not a straw.  Wimp, with his flexible intellect, had a great contempt for Grodman and his slow, laborious, ponderous, almost Teutonic methods.  Worse, he almost threatened to eclipse the radiant tradition of Grodman by some wonderfully ingenious bits of workmanship.  Wimp was at his greatest in collecting circumstantial evidence; in putting two and two together to make five.  He would collect together a number of dark and disconnected data and flash across them the electric light of some unifying hypothesis in a way which would have done credit to a Darwin or a Faraday.  An intellect which might have served to unveil the secret workings of nature was subverted to the protection of a capitalistic civilisation.

By the assistance of a friendly policeman, whom the poet magnetised into the belief that his business was a matter of life and death, Denzil obtained the great detective’s private address.  It was near King’s Cross.  By a miracle Wimp was at home in the afternoon.  He was writing when Denzil was ushered up three pairs of stairs into his presence, but he got up and flashed the bull’s-eye of his glance upon the visitor.

“Mr. Denzil Cantercot, I believe,” said Wimp.

Denzil started.  He had not sent up his name, merely describing himself as a gentleman.

“That is my name,” he murmured.

“You were one of the witnesses at the inquest on the body of the late Arthur Constant.  I have your evidence there.”  He pointed to a file.  “Why have you come to give fresh evidence?”

Again Denzil started, flushing in addition this time.  “I want money,” he said, almost involuntarily.

“Sit down.”  Denzil sat.  Wimp stood.

Wimp was young and fresh-coloured.  He had a Roman nose, and was smartly dressed.  He had beaten Grodman by discovering the wife Heaven meant for him.  He had a bouncing boy, who stole jam out of the pantry without any one being the wiser.  Wimp did what work he could do at home in a secluded study at the top of the house.  Outside his chamber of horrors he was the ordinary husband of commerce.  He adored his wife, who thought poorly of his intellect but highly of his heart.  In domestic difficulties Wimp was helpless.  He could not tell even whether the servant’s “character” was forged or genuine.  Probably he could not level himself to such petty problems.  He was like the senior wrangler who has forgotten how to do quadratics, and has to solve equations of the second degree by the calculus.

“How much money do you want?” he asked.

“I do not make bargains,” Denzil replied, his calm come back by this time.  “I came here to tender you a suggestion.  It struck me that you might offer me a fiver for my trouble.  Should you do so, I shall not refuse it.”

“You shall not refuse it—­if you deserve it.”

“Good.  I will come to the point at once.  My suggestion concerns—­Tom Mortlake.”