"Of what?"

"He will tell us himself. He is preparing a bombshell of sorts. It will
explode here. Goodness only knows who will be blown up by it."

He took the cover off the type-writer, seized a sheet of paper, and began
to manipulate the keyboard with the methodical carefulness of one
unaccustomed to its use.

He wrote:

"About Stowmarket. David Hume Frazer
killed cousin. Cousin talked girl in road.
Girl waited wood. David Hume Frazer met
girl in wood after 1 a.m."

"Do you mean to say," cried the detective, "that you can remember the
anonymous letter word for word? You have only seen it once, and that was
several days ago."

"Not only word for word, but the spacing, the number of words in a line,
the lines between which creases appear. Look, Winter. Here is the small
broken 'c,' the bent capital 'D,' the letter 'a' out of register. Where is
the original?"

"Here, in my pocket-book."

They silently compared the two typed sheets. It needed no expert to note
that they had been written by the same machine.

"It would take a clever counsel to upset that piece of evidence," said
Winter. "I wish I had hold of the writer."

"You have spoken to him several times."

"Surely you cannot mean Jiro!"

"Who else? Jiro is but the tool of a superior scoundrel. He is just
beginning to suspect the fact, and trying to use it for his own benefit. I
wish I was in Naples with your friend Holden."

"But, Mr. Brett, the murderer is in London! What about this morning's
attempt--"

"My dear fellow, you are already constructing the gallows. Leave that to
the gaol officials. What we do not yet know is the motive. The key to the
mystery is in Naples, probably in Capella's hands at this moment. If I
were there it would be in mine, too. Do not question me, Winter. I am not
inspired. I can only indulge in vague imaginings. Capella will bring the
reality to London."

"Then what are we to do meanwhile?"

"Await events patiently. Watch Jiro with the calm persistence of a cat
watching a hole into which a mouse has disappeared. At this moment, eat
something."

He rang for Smith, and told him to attend to the wants of the waiting
cabman, whilst Mrs. Smith made the speediest arrangements for an immediate
dinner.

The two men sat down, and Winter could not help asking another question.

"Why are you keeping the cab, Mr. Brett?"

"Because I am superstitious."

The detective opened wide his eyes at this unlooked