t suppose you remember me," said my friend, as soon as the door
was closed. "I fancy that, until last night, you never saw me without
my wig and gown. It makes a difference. I was Mrs. Hepworth's senior
counsel."

It was unmistakable, the look of relief that came into the old, dim
eyes. Evidently the incident of the previous evening had suggested to
him an enemy.

"You were very good," he murmured. "Mrs. Hepworth was overwrought at
the time, but she was very grateful, I know, for all your efforts."

I thought I detected a faint smile on my friend's lips.

"I must apologise for my rudeness to you of last night," he continued.
"I expected, when I took the liberty of turning you round, that I was
going to find myself face to face with a much younger man."

"I took you to be a detective," answered Ellenby, in his soft, gentle
voice. "You will forgive me, I'm sure. I am rather short-sighted. Of
course, I can only conjecture, but if you will take my word, I can
assure you that Mrs. Hepworth has never seen or heard from the man
Charlie Martin since the date of"--he hesitated a moment--"of the
murder."

"It would have been difficult," agreed my friend, "seeing that Charlie
Martin lies buried in Highgate Cemetery."

Old as he was, he sprang from his chair, white and trembling.

"What have you come here for?" he demanded.

"I took more than a professional interest in the case," answered my
friend. "Ten years ago I was younger than I am now. It may have been
her youth--her extreme beauty. I think Mrs. Hepworth, in allowing her
husband to visit her--here where her address is known to the police,
and watch at any moment may be set upon her--is placing him in a
position of grave danger. If you care to lay before me any facts that
will allow me to judge of the case, I am prepared to put my experience,
and, if need be, my assistance, at her service."

His self-possession had returned to him.

"If you will excuse me," he said, "I will tell the boy that he can go."

We heard him, a moment later, turn the key in the outer door; and when
he came back and had made up the fire, he told us the beginning of the
story.

The name of the man buried in Highgate Cemetery was Hepworth, after
all. Not Michael, but Alex, the elder brother.

From boyhood he had been violent, brutal, unscrupulous. Judging from
Ellenby's story, it was difficult to accept him as a product of modern
civilisation. Rather he would seem to have