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anything like a fair price. I meant, of course, to buy it back from him as soon as I’d got the money for my other work. There was no criminal intention.”
    â€œThat will be a matter for the court, not for me. Did you sell the old man any other pictures?”
    â€œNo, sir, that I can swear.”
    â€œWhat was the date when you sold this one?”
    â€œWell, sir, I don’t keep a diary; it was some weeks ago.”
    â€œTry to remember. Was it three months ago?”
    â€œOh, not as long as that, sir.”
    â€œTwo months? One month?”
    â€œI should think it was between four and eight weeks ago, but I couldn’t swear even to that.”
    â€œDo you often go down High Street?”
    Cronin was seized with another fit of shivering; Foster ascribed it to his recent potations, of which the room reeked. “I went down there once, sir, and saw the picture exposed in the window.”
    â€œTell me how lately you have been down to that shop. When was the last time?”
    The old man began to cry; it was a pitiful sight. The idea crossed Foster’s mind that possibly this wretched creature had been concerned in the tragedy, but looking at him now he felt sure that such a human wreck could not have killed a fly, let alone a tall, vigorous woman. The creature filled him with pitying disgust.
    â€œAre you going to arrest me, sir?”
    â€œNot this evening: it all depends upon whether the owner of the picture signs an information against you.”
    â€œI’m thoroughly ashamed of myself. I owe a great deal to that lady. Indeed, I owe my livelihood to her; it was she who got me some of these commissions. She trusted me, and now she knows what I am. When I think of my ingratitude, I’d rather go to prison.”
    â€œAs I said, it’s not come to that yet, but I may have to see you again. You mustn’t change your address without letting me know at the Marylebone police station, and if you’ll take the advice of a man who can speak with knowledge, you’ll take a pull on yourself and not touch another drop of liquor.” Foster rose to go. He longed to breathe the comparatively pure air of the King’s Cross Road. As he was going out, his eye rested on the parcel propped against the wall near the door. It caught the light from the naked kerosene lamp, and he saw that it was tied up with little lengths of string of unequal thickness knotted together—just the same kind of string as they had found on the floor of Catchpool’s antique shop in Marylebone High Street. That set him thinking: it seemed certain now that he would have to see the artist again.

Chapter Six
    T HE CORONER had fallen in with the suggestion that he should open the inquest and adjourn it. Evidence of identity was all that he required, and one witness, the nephew, Herbert Reece, could provide that. He proved to be an excellent witness; the formalities of the law restrained his natural loquacity. Inspector Foster was favourably impressed by the conciseness of his replies and the tone of blended sorrow and respect with which he spoke of the two dead people. The press was present in force, but the coroner was not disposed to satisfy their thirst for a sensation; medical evidence was called to show that Mrs. Catchpool had died from shock consequent upon having been seized violently by the throat, and the coroner then adjourned the inquest with an intimation that the police were pursuing their inquiries.
    As Inspector Foster was leaving the court, he was overtaken by Herbert Reece. “Excuse me, Mr. Foster, I want to ask your advice. I have been trying to get some sense into the head of the executor to my uncle’s will; now that the first part of the inquest is concluded, surely he ought to read the will or tell me its contents. Besides, I have to arrange about the funerals and I want to do them in some style; surely the executor ought to advance money out of the estate for the