She lowered her eyes, possibly to hide the mischief in them. "No," she
returned hesitantly and consciously. "He isn't--exactly my brother."

He recalled the initials, "R.B.W.," on the car's door. Hope sank for the
third time without a bubble. "Good-bye," said Martin Dyke.

"Surely you're not going to quit your job unfinished," she protested.

Dyke said something forcible and dismissive about the job.

"What will the Mordaunt Estate think?"

Dyke said something violent and destructive about the Mordaunt Estate.

"Perhaps you'd like to take the house, now that it's vacant."

Dyke, having expressed a preference for the tomb as a place of
residence, went on his gloomful way shedding green paint on one side and
red on the other.

Insomnia, my old enemy, having clutched me that night, I went to my
window and looked abroad over Our Square, as Willy Woolly's memorial
clock was striking four (it being actually five-thirty). A shocking
sight afflicted my eyes. My bench was occupied by a bum. Hearing the
measured footsteps of Terry the Cop, guardian of our destinies, I looked
for a swift and painful eviction. Terry, after a glance, passed on.
Nothing is worse for insomnia than an unsolved mystery. Slipping into my
clothes, I made my way softly to the spot. There in the seat where I was
wont to pursue my even tenor as an orchid slumbered Martin Dyke, amateur
desecrator of other men's houses, challenger of the wayward fates,