l the time he is thinking of something else? I know you're
dying to talk about the Hilditch case, aren't you? Well, go ahead."

"I'm only interested in this last development," Wilmore confessed.
"Of course, I read the newspaper reports. To tell you the truth, for a
murder trial it seemed to me to rather lack colour."

"It was a very simple and straightforward case," Francis said slowly.
"Oliver Hilditch is the principal partner in an American financial
company which has recently opened offices in the West End. He seems to
have arrived in England about two years ago, to have taken a house in
Hill Street, and to have spent a great deal of money. A month or so ago,
his partner from New York arrived in London, a man named Jordan of whom
nothing was known. It has since transpired, however, that his journey
to Europe was undertaken because he was unable to obtain certain figures
relating to the business, from Hilditch. Oliver Hilditch met him at
Southampton, travelled with him to London and found him a room at the
Savoy. The next day, the whole of the time seems to have been spent in
the office, and it is certain, from the evidence of the clerk, that
some disagreement took place between the two men. They dined together,
however, apparently on good terms, at the Cafe Royal, and parted in
Regent Street soon after ten. At twelve o'clock, Jordan's body was
picked up on the pavement in Hill Street, within a few paces of
Heidrich's door. He had been stabbed through the heart with some
needle-like weapon, and was quite dead."

"Was there any vital cause of quarrel between them?" Wilmore enquired.

"Impossible to say," Francis replied. "The financial position of
the company depends entirely upon the value of a large quantity of
speculative bonds, but as there was only one clerk employed, it was
impossible to get at any figures. Hilditch declared that Jordan had only
a small share in the business, from which he had drawn a considerable
income for years, and that he had not the slightest cause for
complaint."

"What were Hilditch's movements that evening?" Wilmore asked.

"Not a soul seems to have seen him after he left Regent Street," was the
somewhat puzzled answer. "His own story was quite straightforward
and has never been contradicted. He let himself into his house with a
latch-key after his return from the Cafe Royal, drank a whisky and
soda in the library, and went to bed before half-past eleven. The whole
affair--"

Fra