“And that?”

“A slight tendency towards bad company, sir.  I have heard of his being about with one or two whom we are keeping our eye upon.”

“Bobby Fairfax’s lot, by any chance?”

Shopland nodded.

“He was with Jacks and Miss Daisy Hyslop, a night or two before he disappeared.  I am not sure that a young man named Morse wasn’t of the party, too.”

“What do you make of that lot?” Francis asked curiously.  “Are they gamesters, dope fiends, or simply vicious?”

The detective was silent.  He was gazing intently at his rather square-toed shoes.

“There are rumours, sir,” he said, presently, “of things going on in the West End which want looking into very badly—­very badly indeed.  You will remember speaking to me of Sir Timothy Brast?”

“I remember quite well,” Francis acknowledged.

“I’ve nothing to go on,” the other continued.  “I am working almost on your own lines, Mr. Ledsam, groping in the dark to find a clue, as it were, but I’m beginning to have ideas about Sir Timothy Brast, just ideas.”

“As, for instance?”

“Well, he stands on rather queer terms with some of his acquaintances, sir.  Now you saw, down at Soto’s Bar, the night we arrested Mr. Fairfax, that not one of those young men there spoke to Sir Timothy as though they were acquainted, nor he to them.  Yet I happened to find out that every one of them, including Mr. Fairfax himself, was present at a party Sir Timothy Brast gave at his house down the river a week or two before.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t much in that,” Francis declared.  “Sir Timothy has the name of being an eccentric person everywhere, especially in this respect—­he never notices acquaintances.  I heard, only the other day, that while he was wonderfully hospitable and charming to all his guests, he never remembered them outside his house.”

Shopland nodded.

“A convenient eccentricity,” he remarked, a little drily.  “I have heard the same thing myself.  You spent the night at his country cottage, did you not, Mr. Ledsam?  Did he offer to show you over The Walled House?”

“How the dickens did you know I was down there?” Francis demanded, with some surprise.  “I was just thinking as I drove up that I hadn’t left my address either here or at Clarges Street.”

“Next time you visit Sir Timothy,” the detective observed, “I should advise you to do so.  I knew you were there, Mr. Ledsam, because I was in the neighbourhood myself.  I have been doing a little fishing, and keeping my eye on that wonderful estate of Sir Timothy’s.”

Francis was interested.

“Shopland,” he said, “I believe that our intelligences, such as they are, are akin.”

“What do you suspect Sir Timothy of?” the detective asked bluntly.

“I suspect him of nothing,” Francis replied.  “He is simply, to my mind, an incomprehensible, somewhat sinister figure, who might be capable of anything.  He may have very excellent qualities which he contrives to conceal, or he may be an arch-criminal.  His personality absolutely puzzles me.”