“You see,” Sir Timothy continued, addressing himself to the four young men at the bar, “I happen to have two special aversions in life.  One is sweet champagne and the other amateur detectives —­their stories, their methods and everything about them.  I chanced to sit upstairs in the restaurant, within hearing of Mr. Ledsam and his friend Mr. Wilmore, the novelist, the other night, and I heard Mr. Ledsam, very much to my chagrin, announce his intention of abandoning a career in which he has, if he will allow me to say so,”—­with a courteous bow to Francis—­“attained considerable distinction, to indulge in the moth-eaten, flamboyant and melodramatic antics of the lesser Sherlock Holmes.  I fear that I could not resist the opportunity of—­I think you young men call it—­pulling his leg.”

Every one was listening intently, including Shopland, who had just drifted into the room and subsided into a chair near Francis.

“I moved my place, therefore,” Sir Timothy continued, “and I whispered in Mr. Ledsam’s ear some rodomontade to the effect that if he were planning to be the giant crime-detector of the world, I was by ambition the arch-criminal—­or words to that effect.  And to give emphasis to my words, I wound up by prophesying a crime in the immediate vicinity of the place within a few hours.”

“A somewhat significant prophecy, under the circumstances,” Francis remarked, reaching out for a dish of salted almonds and drawing them towards him.

Sir Timothy shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.

“I will confess,” he admitted, “that I had not in my mind an affair of such dimensions.  My harmless remark, however, has produced cataclysmic effects.  The conversation to which I refer took place on the night of young Bidlake’s murder, and Mr. Ledsam, with my somewhat, I confess, bombastic words in his memory, has pitched upon me as the bloodthirsty murderer.”

“Hold on for a moment, sir,” Peter Jacks begged, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.  “We’ve got to have another drink quick.  Poor old Bobby here looks knocked all of a heap, and I’m kind of jumpy myself.  You’ll join us, sir?”

“I thank you,” was the courteous reply.  “I do not as a rule indulge to the extent of more than one cocktail, but I will recognise the present as an exceptional occasion.  To continue, then,” he went on, after the glasses had been filled, “I have during the last few weeks experienced the ceaseless and lynx-eyed watch of Mr. Ledsam and presumably his myrmidons.  I do not know whether you are all acquainted with my name, but in case you are not, let me introduce myself.  I am Sir Timothy Brast, Chairman, as I dare say you know, of the United Transvaal Gold Mines, Chairman, also, of two of the principal hospitals in London, Vice President of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, a patron of sport in many forms, a traveller in many countries, and a recipient of the honour of knighthood from His