elbow chair, drummed silently with his fingers on its arms.
"Can't account for it in any way, gentlemen," he said in a silky tone. "No suggestion to make—none at all. A quiet, unobtrusive man, my brother John, poor fellow! Not likely to have enemies—oh, dear me, no! Wasn't even his own enemy, as the saying is. Sober, respectable, you understand. A mystery, gentlemen, a mystery!"
Wedgwood gave Thomas Wraypoole a good, long look.
"Have you done anything towards solving it, so far?" he asked.
"I? Dear me, no! Oh, no! That, I think, is your job—eh? I—I shouldn't know what to do!"
"I've just come from your brother's lodgings, at Porteous Road," said Wedgwood, pointedly. "You've been there all the morning, examining his effects. You carried away a lot of his papers: you destroyed a quantity of other papers by burning."
The inspector started, staring at the vistor. But Thomas Wraypoole looked back at Wedgwood and smiled.
"Well, mister?" he said quietly. "And what's that got to do with you, or with the police, or with anybody but me, myself? My
