Theydon tried to look as though Evans’s statement merely puzzled him, whereas his mind was already busy with the extraordinary coincidences which the haphazard events of a few hours had produced.  Was the Far East bound up in some mysterious way with Mrs. Lester’s death?  Did the crime possess a political significance?  If so, an explanation by Forbes was more than ever demanded.

“Your informant was not mistaken about the Chinese Embassy, I suppose?” he said.

“No, sir.  He’s always in that district.  His garage is at the back of Great Portland Street.  He knows most of them there Chinks by sight.”

“Then that gray car can hardly have been our gray car,” commented Theydon, deeming it wise to prevent the sharp-witted taxi-driver from jumping at conclusions.

“I’m afraid not, sir.  Still, I just took the liberty—­”

“I’m very much obliged to you, of course.  I said half-a-crown, didn’t I?  Here you are.  Keep an eye open for XY 1314 and let me know if you hear or see anything of it.”

“Thank you, sir.”  Then Evans lifted his eyes to the block of buildings.  “A nasty business this murder which was done ’ere the other night, sir,” he went on.  “One ’ud hardly b’lieve it possible for such things to tike plice in London nowadays.”

Much as he was disinclined for gossip of the sort at the moment, Theydon saw that he must endeavor to dissociate the gray car and the crime from their dangerous juxtaposition in the man’s mind, so he spoke about Mrs. Lester’s attractive appearance, harped on the apparent aimlessness of the deed, hinted darkly at clews in the possession of the police, and finally got rid of the well-meaning chauffeur.  Back he went to his telephone, and having ascertained that Mr. Forbes was fully expected to put in an appearance at the city office before noon, settled down to read the newspapers.

They contained sensational but fairly accurate accounts of the tragedy.  One enterprising journal had published an interview with Bates, whom the reporter described as “a typical British man-servant,” which was amusing, since Bates had “retired noncommissioned officer” written all over his square frame and soldierly features.

The same journalist spoke of Theydon himself, and had even ferreted out the fact that Mrs. Lester was the widow of an English barrister who had died at Shanghai.  On reaction, Theydon saw that there was nothing unusual in this statement.  The connection between the metropolitan press and the bar is old and intimate, and scores of junior barristers must remember Arthur Lester’s beginnings.

Resolved to possess his soul in patience till twelve o’clock, the hour being yet barely 11:30 a. m., Theydon tackled a page of reviews, since there is always consolation for a writer in learning at second hand what sheer drivel others can produce.

He was growling at the discovery that some hapless essayist had appropriated a title which he himself had marked down for his next book, when the door-bell rang.  He did not give much heed, because so many tradesmen called during the course of each morning, so he was surprised and startled when Bates announced: