“Johnson is Capella,” explained Winter.  “I forgot to tell you we had arranged that.”

Brett surveyed the second telegram so intently that the detective inquired: 

“How do you read that, sir?”

“Capella is securing copies of certificates—­marriages, births, or deaths; perhaps all three.  He is also getting hold of living witnesses.”

“Of what?”

“He will tell us himself.  He is preparing a bombshell of sorts.  It will explode here.  Goodness only knows who will be blown up by it.”

He took the cover off the type-writer, seized a sheet of paper, and began to manipulate the keyboard with the methodical carefulness of one unaccustomed to its use.

He wrote: 

“About Stowmarket.  David Hume Frazer killed cousin.  Cousin talked girl in road.  Girl waited wood.  David Hume Frazer met girl in wood after 1 a.m.”

“Do you mean to say,” cried the detective, “that you can remember the anonymous letter word for word?  You have only seen it once, and that was several days ago.”

“Not only word for word, but the spacing, the number of words in a line, the lines between which creases appear.  Look, Winter.  Here is the small broken ‘c,’ the bent capital ‘D,’ the letter ‘a’ out of register.  Where is the original?”

“Here, in my pocket-book.”

They silently compared the two typed sheets.  It needed no expert to note that they had been written by the same machine.

“It would take a clever counsel to upset that piece of evidence,” said Winter.  “I wish I had hold of the writer.”

“You have spoken to him several times.”

“Surely you cannot mean Jiro!”

“Who else?  Jiro is but the tool of a superior scoundrel.  He is just beginning to suspect the fact, and trying to use it for his own benefit.  I wish I was in Naples with your friend Holden.”

“But, Mr. Brett, the murderer is in London!  What about this morning’s attempt—­”

“My dear fellow, you are already constructing the gallows.  Leave that to the gaol officials.  What we do not yet know is the motive.  The key to the mystery is in Naples, probably in Capella’s hands at this moment.  If I were there it would be in mine, too.  Do not question me, Winter.  I am not inspired.  I can only indulge in vague imaginings.  Capella will bring the reality to London.”

“Then what are we to do meanwhile?”

“Await events patiently.  Watch Jiro with the calm persistence of a cat watching a hole into which a mouse has disappeared.  At this moment, eat something.”

He rang for Smith, and told him to attend to the wants of the waiting cabman, whilst Mrs. Smith made the speediest arrangements for an immediate dinner.

The two men sat down, and Winter could not help asking another question.

“Why are you keeping the cab, Mr. Brett?”

“Because I am superstitious.”