refined. Evidently, there were surprising points about Mr. Ingerman. Long
afterwards, Grant learned, by chance, that the man had been an actor
before branching off into that mysterious cosmopolitan profession known
as "a financier."

"No," said Grant. "I have heard it very few times. Once, about three
years ago, and today, when I mentioned it to the police."

The other man's sallow cheeks grew a shade more sallow. Grant supposed
that this slight change of color indicated annoyance. Of course, the
association of ideas in that curt answer was intolerably rude. But Grant
had been tried beyond endurance that day. He was in a mood to be brusque
with an archbishop.

"We can disregard your confidences, or explanations, to the
police," said Ingerman smoothly. "Three years ago, I suppose, my
wife spoke of me?"

"If you mean Miss Adelaide Melhuish--yes."

"I do mean her. To be exact, I mean the lady who was murdered outside
this house last night."

Grant realized instantly that Isidor G. Ingerman was a foeman worthy of
even a novelist's skill in repartee. Thus far, he, Grant, had been merely
uncivil, using a bludgeon for wit, whereas the visitor was making play
with a finely-tempered rapier.

"Now that you have established your identity, Mr. Ingerman, perhaps you
will tell me why you are here," he said.