rt Grant sprang forward with
his incontrollable and intolerable secret.

"That is the man, constable," he shouted, pointing at the battered
lieutenant. "He is a suspicious character. He did the murder."

"There's been no murder done, sir," said the policeman, with his
automatic civility. "The poor man's only hurt. I shall only be able to
take the names and addresses of the men in the scuffle and have a good
eye kept on them."

"Have a good eye kept on that one," said Rupert, pale to the lips, and
pointing to the ragged Keith.

"All right, sir," said the policeman unemotionally, and went the round
of the people present, collecting the addresses. When he had completed
his task the dusk had fallen and most of the people not immediately
connected with the examination had gone away. He still found, however,
one eager-faced stranger lingering on the outskirts of the affair. It
was Rupert Grant.

"Constable," he said, "I have a very particular reason for asking you
a question. Would you mind telling me whether that military fellow who
dropped his sword-stick in the row gave you an address or not?"

"Yes, sir," said the policeman, after a reflective pause; "yes, he gave
me his address."

"My name is Rupert Grant," said that individual, with some pomp. "I
have assisted the police on more than one occasion. I wonder whether you
would tell me, as a special favour, what address?"

The constable looked at him.

"Yes," he said slowly, "if you like. His address is: The Elms, Buxton
Common, near Purley, Surrey."

"Thank you," said Rupert, and ran home through the gathering night as
fast as his legs could carry him, repeating the address to himself.

Rupert Grant generally came down late in a rather lordly way to
breakfast; he contrived, I don't know how, to achieve always the
attitude of the indulged younger brother. Next morning, however, when
Basil and I came down we found him ready and restless.

"Well," he said sharply to his brother almost before we sat down to the
meal. "What do you think of your Drummond Keith now?"

"What do I think of him?" inquired Basil slowly. "I don't think anything
of him."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Rupert, buttering his toast with an energy
that was somewhat exultant. "I thought you'd come round to my view, but
I own I was startled at your not seeing it from the beginning. The man
is a translucent liar and knave."

"I think," said Basil, in the same heavy monotone as before, "that I