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 that Heath ignored Markham's explanation, and proceeded to treat us as if we were non-existent.

Inspector Moran was a man of different quality from the others in the room. He was about sixty, with white hair and a brown moustache, and was immaculately dressed. He looked more like a successful Wall Street broker of the better class than a police official.

"I've assigned Sergeant Heath to the case, Mr. Markham," he explained in a low, well-modulated voice. "It looks as though we were in for a bit of trouble before it's finished. Even the Chief Inspector thought it warranted his lending the moral support of his presence to the preliminary rounds. He has been here since eight o'clock."

Inspector O'Brien had left us immediately upon entering the room, and now stood between the front windows, watching the proceedings with a grave, indecipherable face.

"Well, I think I'll be going," Moran added. "They had me out of bed at seven-thirty, and I haven't had any breakfast yet. I won't be needed anyway now that you're here. . . . Good-morning." And again he shook hands.

When he had gone Markham turned to the Assistant District Attorney.

"Look after these two gentlemen, will you, Dinwiddie? They're babes in the wood, and want to see how these affairs work. Explain things to them while I have a little confab with Sergeant Heath."