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"That is what I was thinking, sir."

"Keep his address out of it if you can. Tell 'em the body was taken to house in West End and dumped there."

Firth frowned. "I'll do my best, sir. But you know what Fleet Street is like! Then there is this Mrs. Vane."

"Whatever his interest in Mrs. Vane, Firth, doubt if of amorous nature. Never was a skirt hunter, never. Women used to chase him. Astonishingly handsome man in young days. Not so bad now, I believe. But Mrs. Vane, well—"

"Sergeant Bluett has her record, sir," said Firth dourly.

"Yes, he would have. One doesn't want to be rude, but we are dealing with a murder charge, and—er—she is very little better than society courtesan, you know. Mixed up with all sorts of men, as well as poor Charlie Vane. Mug to marry her. You tell me her evidence was unsatisfactory?"

"Well, sir—" Firth leaned forward in his chair, resting long, sensitive hands upon bony knees—"strictly speaking, it wasn'a evidence at a'. She had joined Lord Marcus that night for the purpose of whatever mumbo-jumbo they had in hand, and they had dined together ... When I say 'dined,' according to the lady's statement, confirmed by Wake, the repast consisted of some kind o' specially baked wheaten bread—"