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Duckworthy.
    “It’s the man all right,” said he. “Now, Mr. Duckworthy, you’ll excuse this late visit, but as you may have seen by the papers, we’ve been looking for a person answering your description, and there’s no time like the present. We want—”
    “I didn’t do it,” cried Mr. Duckworthy wildly. “I know nothing about it—”
    The officer pulled out his note-book and wrote: “He said before any question was asked him, ‘I didn’t do it.’”
    “You seem to know all about it,” said the sergeant.
    “Of course he does,” said Wimsey; “we’ve been having a little informal chat about it.”
    “You have, have you? And who might you be—sir?” The last word appeared to be screwed out of the sergeant forcibly by the action of the monocle.
    “I’m so sorry,” said Wimsey, “I haven’t a card on me at the moment. I am Lord Peter Wimsey.”
    “Oh, indeed,” said the sergeant. “And may I ask, my lord, what you know about this here?”
    “You may, and I may answer if I like, you know. I know nothing at all about the murder. About Mr. Duckworthy I know what he has told me and no more. I dare say he will tell you, too, if you ask him nicely. But no third degree, you know, sergeant. No Savidgery.”
    Baulked by this painful reminder, the sergeant said, in a voice of annoyance:
    “It’s my duty to ask him what he knows about this.”
    “I quite agree,” said Wimsey. “As a good citizen, it’s his duty to answer you. But it’s a gloomy time of night, don’t you think? Why not wait till the morning? Mr. Duckworthy won’t run away.”
    “I’m not so sure of that.”
    “Oh, but I am. I will undertake to produce him whenever you want him. Won’t that do? You’re not charging him with anything, I suppose?”
    “Not yet,” said the sergeant.
    “Splendid. Then it’s all quite friendly and pleasant, isn’t it? How about a drink?”
    The sergeant refused this kindly offer with some gruffness in his manner.
    “On the waggon?” inquired Wimsey sympathetically. “Bad luck. Kidneys? Or liver, eh?”
    The sergeant made no reply.
    “Well, we are charmed to have had the pleasure of seeing you,” pursued Wimsey. “You’ll look us up in the morning, won’t you? I’ve got to get back to town fairly early, but I’ll drop in at the police-station on my way. You will find Mr. Duckworthy in the lounge, here. It will be more comfortable for you than at your place. Must you be going? Well, good night, all.”
    Later, Wimsey returned to Mr. Duckworthy, after seeing the police off the premises.
    “Listen,” he said, “I’m going up to town to do what I can. I’ll send you up a solicitor first thing in the morning. Tell him what you’ve told me, and tell the police what he tells you to tell them and no more. Remember, they can’t force you to say anything or to go down to the police-station unless they charge you. If they do charge you, go quietly and say nothing. And whatever you do, don’t run away, because if you do, you’re done for.”
    Wimsey arrived in town the following afternoon, and walked down Holborn, looking for a barber’s shop. He found it without much difficulty. It lay, as Mr. Duckworthy had described it, at the end of a narrow passage, and it had a long mirror in the door, with the name Briggs scrawled across it in gold letters. Wimsey stared at his own reflection distastefully.
    “Check number one,” said he, mechanically setting his tie to rights. “Have I been led up the garden? Or is it a case of fourth dimensional mystery? ‘The animals went in four by four, vive la compagnie! The camel he got stuck in the door.’ There is something intensely unpleasant about making a camel of one’s self. It goes for days without a drink and its table-manners are objectionable. But there is no doubt that this door is made of looking-glass. Was it always so, I wonder? On, Wimsey, on. I cannot bear to be shaved again. Perhaps a hair-cut might be managed.”
    He pushed the