"Tush," cried the detective; "do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery.
There is no such thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever
_was_ a mystery. Nothing is original. Everything has been done
before. What about the Pegram affair?"

"The Pegram--ah--case has baffled everyone. The _Evening Blade_
wishes you to investigate, so that it may publish the result. It will
pay you well. Will you accept the commission?"

"Possibly. Tell me about the case."

"I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barrie Kipson lived at
Pegram. He carried a first-class season ticket between the terminus and
that station. It was his custom to leave for Pegram on the 5.30 train
each evening. Some weeks ago, Mr. Kipson was brought down by the
influenza. On his first visit to the City after his recovery, he drew
something like £300 in notes, and left the office at his usual hour to
catch the 5.30. He was never seen again alive, as far as the public
have been able to learn. He was found at Brewster in a first-class
compartment on the Scotch Express, which does not stop between London
and Brewster. There was a bullet in his head, and his money was gone,
pointing plainly to murder and robbery."

"And where is the mystery, may I ask?"

"There are several unexplainable things about the case. First, how came
he on the Scotch Express, which leaves at six, and does not stop at
Pegram? Second, the ticket examiners at the terminus would have turned
him out if he showed his season ticket; and all the tickets sold for
the Scotch Express on the 21st are accounted for. Third, how could the