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 suppose you've heard of the murder of his brother in Handel Street, recently?"

"Good lord! You don't mean to say you suspect him of that!" exclaimed Gregson. "Come, come, I couldn't think that of him! He's a bit of a plausible chap, Thomas, but I don't think I could bring myself to believe that of him! His own brother!"

"I don't say I believe he murdered his brother," said Wedgwood. "But I think he knows something about it—may have had knowledge of it, after the fact."

Gregson leaned back against the door which he had just opened, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, showed an inclination to talk.

"Well, now," he said, "he's mentioned that sad affair to me. We've talked about it."

"You have, eh?" exclaimed Wedgwood, pricking up his ears. "What did he say about it?"

"We had a talk about it not so long ago, one night when he came to see me in Whitechapel about my buying this business," continued Gregson. "We went out and had a friendly glass together, and he talked about it. Now I come to think of it he mentioned you—that is, if you're Mr. Wedgwood?"

"I am!" assented the detective. "What did he say about me?"