"The Egyptologist? Yes, I remember the case quite well. What about it?"

"The brother is a patient of mine. He is living in Nevill's Court with
his daughter, and they seem to be as poor as church mice."

"Really," said Thorndyke, "this is quite interesting. They must have
come down in the world rather suddenly. If I remember rightly, the
brother was living in a house of some pretensions standing in its own
grounds."

"Yes, that is so. I see you recollect all about the case."

"My dear fellow," said Jervis, "Thorndyke never forgets a likely case.
He is a sort of medico-legal camel. He gulps down the raw facts from the
newspapers or elsewhere, and then, in his leisure moments, he calmly
regurgitates them and has a quiet chew at them. It is a quaint habit. A
case crops up in the papers or in one of the courts, and Thorndyke
swallows it whole. Then it lapses and everyone forgets it. A year or two
later it crops up in a new form, and, to your astonishment, you find
that Thorndyke has got it all cut and dried. He has been ruminating on
it periodically in the interval."

"You notice," said Thorndyke, "that my learned friend is pleased to
indulge in mixed metaphors. But his statement is substantially true,
though obscurely worded. You must tell us more about the Bellinghams
when we have fortified you with a cup of tea."

Our talk had brought us to Thorndyke's chambers, which were on the first
floor of No. 5A King's Bench Walk, and as we entered the fine, spacious,
panelled room we found a small, elderly man, neatly dressed in black,