“You both have the wrong idea!” said Dunbar, deliberately; “you are all wrong! You seem to be under the impression that if we could lay our hands upon the missing staff of the so-called Nursing Home, we should find the assassin to be one of the crowd. It doesn’t follow at all. For a long time, you, Sowerby,”—he turned his tawny eyes upon the sergeant—“had the idea that Soames was the murderer, and I’m not sure that you have got rid of it yet! You, Stringer, appear to think that Nurse Proctor is responsible. Upon my word, you are a hopeless pair! Suppose Soames had nothing whatever to do with the matter, but merely realized that he could not prove an alibi? Wouldn’t you bolt? I put it to you.”
Sowerby stared hard, and Stringer scratched his chin, reflectively.
“The same reasoning applies to the Gillingham Street people,” continued Dunbar. “We haven’t the slightest idea of their whereabouts because we don’t even know who they were; but we do know something about Soames, and we’re looking for him, not because we think he did the murder, but because we think he can tell us who did.”
“Which brings us back to the old point,” interrupted Stringer, softly beating his fist upon the table at every word; “why are we looking for Soames in the east-end?”
“Because,” replied Dunbar, “we’re working on the theory that Soames, though actually not acces-
