“I’m only interested in this last development,” Wilmore confessed.  “Of course, I read the newspaper reports.  To tell you the truth, for a murder trial it seemed to me to rather lack colour.”

“It was a very simple and straightforward case,” Francis said slowly.  “Oliver Hilditch is the principal partner in an American financial company which has recently opened offices in the West End.  He seems to have arrived in England about two years ago, to have taken a house in Hill Street, and to have spent a great deal of money.  A month or so ago, his partner from New York arrived in London, a man named Jordan of whom nothing was known.  It has since transpired, however, that his journey to Europe was undertaken because he was unable to obtain certain figures relating to the business, from Hilditch.  Oliver Hilditch met him at Southampton, travelled with him to London and found him a room at the Savoy.  The next day, the whole of the time seems to have been spent in the office, and it is certain, from the evidence of the clerk, that some disagreement took place between the two men.  They dined together, however, apparently on good terms, at the Cafe Royal, and parted in Regent Street soon after ten.  At twelve o’clock, Jordan’s body was picked up on the pavement in Hill Street, within a few paces of Heidrich’s door.  He had been stabbed through the heart with some needle-like weapon, and was quite dead.”

“Was there any vital cause of quarrel between them?” Wilmore enquired.

“Impossible to say,” Francis replied.  “The financial position of the company depends entirely upon the value of a large quantity of speculative bonds, but as there was only one clerk employed, it was impossible to get at any figures.  Hilditch declared that Jordan had only a small share in the business, from which he had drawn a considerable income for years, and that he had not the slightest cause for complaint.”

“What were Hilditch’s movements that evening?” Wilmore asked.

“Not a soul seems to have seen him after he left Regent Street,” was the somewhat puzzled answer.  “His own story was quite straightforward and has never been contradicted.  He let himself into his house with a latch-key after his return from the Cafe Royal, drank a whisky and soda in the library, and went to bed before half-past eleven.  The whole affair—­”

Francis broke off abruptly in the middle of his sentence.  He sat with his eyes fixed upon the door, silent and speechless.

“What in Heaven’s name is the matter, old fellow?” Wilmore demanded, gazing at his companion in blank amazement.

The latter pulled himself together with an effort.  The sight of the two new arrivals talking to Louis on the threshold of the restaurant, seemed for the moment to have drawn every scrap of colour from his cheeks.  Nevertheless, his recovery was almost instantaneous.

“If you want to know any more,” he said calmly, “you had better go and ask him to tell you the whole story himself.  There he is.”