dale!" and the second when I said that the police inspector had addressed White Whiskers as Sir Charles. He laughed outright at that.
"Aye, likely enough," he muttered. "He's the sort that would turn out Sir Charles, for sure! But I hadn't heard of it."
"That's the lot, Mr. Parslewe," I concluded. "I left Sir Charles and the police inspector smoking their cigars and drinking their whisky. I saw them through the open door of the smoking-room, and they were hobnobbing comfortably enough. And then I raced through the night—to tell you!"
"Aye!" he said. "But to tell me—what?"
"What I have told you," I replied.
He gave me a queer, questioning look.
"Sounds very mysterious, my lad, eh!" he said.
"To me—uncommonly so!" said I.
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and then took a pull at his glass.
"You've no doubt amused yourself with theories about it?" he suggested.
"No!" I retorted. "It's too deep for theo-
