'Really, Mr. Kombs, you are the most wonderful man on earth. You are the equal of Gregory, by Jove, you are.'
A frown marred the brow of my friend as he placed his pipe on the sideboard and drew his self-cocking six-shooter.
'I do not--I--I assure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotland Yard tomorrow ----. I am in earnest, indeed I am, sir.'
'Then heaven help you,' cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm.
'Don't shoot!' I cried. 'You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw, don't you see the man means well. He actually thinks it is a compliment!'
'Perhaps you are right,' remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party. Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland courtesy--
'You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr Wilber Scribbings?'
'Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name.'
I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen inside the top-hat Scribbings held upside down in his hands.
'You have heard, of course, of the Pegram mystery--'
'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?'
'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.'