“He’s not a member of that firm, sir,” shouted the Major.  “He was, up to six o’clock this evenin’.”

“What do you mean exactly?” inquired Harley, and the tone of his voice suggested that he was beginning to entertain doubts of the Major’s sanity or sobriety; then: 

“He’s dead!” declared the latter.  “Dead as the Begum of Bangalore!  He died at six o’clock.  I’ve just spoken to his widow on the telephone.”

I suppose I must have been staring very hard at the speaker, and certainly Harley was doing so, for suddenly directing his fierce gaze toward me: 

“You’re completely treed, sir, and so’s your friend!” shouted Major Ragstaff.

“I confess it,” replied Harley quietly; “and since my time is of some little value I would suggest, without disrespect, that you explain the connection, if any, between yourself, the drunken Bampton, and Mr. De Lana, of the Stock Exchange, who died, you inform us, at six o’clock this evening as the result, presumably, of injuries received in an accident.”

“That’s what I’m here for!” cried Major Ragstaff.  “In the first place, then, I am the party, although I saw to it that my name was kept out of print, whom the drunken lunatic assaulted.”

Harley, pipe in hand, stared at the speaker perplexedly.

“Understand me,” continued the Major, “I am the person—­I, Jack Ragstaff—­he assaulted.  I was walkin’ down from my quarters in Maddox Street on my way to dine at the club, same as I do every night o’ my life, when this flamin’ idiot sprang upon me, grabbed my hat”—­he took up his white hat to illustrate what had occurred—­“not this one, but one like it—­pitched it on the ground and jumped on it!”

Harley was quite unable to conceal his smiles as the excited old soldier dropped his conspicuous head-gear on the floor and indulged in a vigorous pantomime designed to illustrate his statement.

“Most extraordinary,” said Harley.  “What did you do?”

“What did I do?” roared the Major.  “I gave him a crack on the head with my cane, and I said things to him which couldn’t be repeated in court.  I punched him, and likewise hoofed him, but the hat was completely done in.  Damn crowd collected, hearin’ me swearin’ and bellowin’.  Police and all that; names an’ addresses and all that balderdash.  Man lugged away to guard-room and me turnin’ up at the club with no hat.  Damn ridiculous spectacle at my time of life.”

“Quite so,” said Harley soothingly; “I appreciate your annoyance, but I am utterly at a loss to understand why you have come here, and what all this has to do with Mr. De Lana, of the Stock Exchange.”

“He fell out of the window!” shouted the Major.

“Fell out of a window?”

“Out of a window, sir, a second floor window ten yards up a side street!  Pitched on his skull—­marvel he wasn’t killed outright!”

A faint expression of interest began to creep into Harley’s glance, and: