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yes,” said the attendant excitedly, and pointed at the dark stain on the white paper; “threw it over there on the wall.”

      Valentin looked at the proprietor, who came to his rescue[13].

      “Yes, sir,” he said, “it's quite true, though I don't suppose it has anything to do with the sugar and salt. Two clergymen came in and drank soup here very early. They were both very quiet, respectable people; one of them paid the bill and went out; the other, who seemed a slower coach[14] altogether, was some minutes longer getting his things together. But he went at last. Only, the instant before he stepped into the street he picked up his cup, which he had only half emptied, and threw the soup on the wall. I was in the back room myself, and so was the waiter; so I could only rush out in time to find the wall stained and the shop empty. It don't do any particular damage, but it was confounded cheek[15]; and I tried to catch the men in the street. They were too far off though; I only noticed they went round the next corner into Carstairs Street.”

      The detective was on his feet, hat pulled and stick in hand. He had already decided that in the universal darkness of his mind he could only follow the first odd finger that pointed. Paying his bill, he was soon running into the other street.

      It was fortunate that even in such moments his eye was quick. Something in a shop-front went by him like a flash; yet he went back to look at it. The shop was a popular greengrocer and fruiterer's, an array of goods set out in the open air and ticketed with their names and prices. In two compartments there were two heaps, of oranges and of nuts respectively. On the heap of nuts lay a piece of cardboard, on which was written in blue chalk, “Best tangerine oranges, two a penny.” On the oranges was the equally clear description, “Finest Brazil nuts, 4d. a lb[16].” M. Valentin looked at these two cards and thought he had met this form of humour before, and that somewhat recently. He drew the attention of the red-faced fruiterer to this inaccuracy in his advertisements. The fruiterer said nothing, but sharply put each card into its proper place. The detective, leaning elegantly on his walking-cane, continued to look around the shop. At last he said, “Excuse me, my good sir, but I should like to ask you a question in experimental psychology and the association of ideas.”

      The red-faced shopman regarded him with an eye of menace; but he continued gaily, swinging his cane, “In case I do not make myself clear, what is the mystical association which connects the idea of nuts marked as oranges with the idea of two clergymen, one tall and the other short?”

      The eyes of the tradesman stood out of his head like a snail's; he really seemed for an instant likely to fling himself upon the stranger. At last he stammered angrily: “I don't know what you 'ave[17] to do with it, but if you're one of their friends, you can tell 'em from me that I'll knock their silly 'eads off, parsons or no parsons, if they upset my apples again.”

      “Indeed?” asked the detective, with great sympathy. “Did they upset your apples?”

      “One of 'em did,” said the shopman; “rolled 'em all over the street. I'd 'ave caught the fool but for havin' to pick 'em up.”

      “Which way did these parsons go?” asked Valentin.

      “Up that second road on the left-hand side, and then across the square,” said the other promptly.

      “ Thanks,” replied Valentin. On the other side of the second square he found a policeman, and said: “This is urgent, constable; have you seen two clergymen in shovel hats[18]?”

      The policeman began to chuckle heavily. “I 'ave, sir; and if you arst me, one of 'em was drunk. He stood in the middle of the road that confused that —”

      “Which way did they go?” snapped Valentin.

      “ They took one of them yellow buses over there,” answered the man; “them that go to Hampstead[19].”

      Valentin showed his official card and said very rapidly: “Call up two of your men to come with me in pursuit,” and crossed the road. In a minute and a half the French detective was joined by an inspector and a man in plain clothes.

      “Well, sir,” began the former, “and what may —?”

      Valentin pointed suddenly with his cane. “I'll tell you on the top of that omnibus,” he said, and ran across the traffic. When all three sank panting on the top seats of the yellow bus, the inspector said: “We could go four times as quick in a taxi.”

      “Quite true,” replied their leader, “if we only had an idea of where we were going.”

      “Well, where are you going?” asked the other, staring.

      Valentin smoked for a few seconds; then, removing his cigarette, he said: “If you know what a man's doing, get in front of him; but if you want to guess what he's doing, keep behind him. Stop when he stops; travel as slowly as he does. Then you may see what he saw and may act as he acted. All we can do is to keep our eyes skinned[20] for a queer thing.”

      “What sort of queer thing do you mean?” asked the inspector.

      “Any sort of queer thing,” answered Valentin, and fell into silence.

      The yellow omnibus crawled up the northern roads for what seemed like hours; the great detective would not explain further, and perhaps his assistants felt a growing doubt of his task. Perhaps, also, they felt a growing desire for lunch, for the hours went long past the normal luncheon hour. But though the winter twilight was already darkening the road ahead of them, the Parisian detective still sat silent and watchful, eyeing the facade of the streets that went by on either side. By the time they had left Camden Town behind, the policemen were nearly asleep; at least, they gave something like a jump as Valentin struck a hand on each man's shoulder, and shouted to the driver to stop.

      They tumbled down the steps into the road without realizing why they had been disturbed; when they looked round for explanation they found Valentin triumphantly pointing his finger towards a window on the left side of the road. It was a large window, forming part of the long facade of a gilt and magnificent public-house; it was the part reserved for respectable dining, and labelled “Restaurant.” This window, like all the rest along the frontage of the hotel, was of frosted and figured glass[21]; but in the middle of it was a big, black smash.

      “Our cue at last,” cried Valentin, waving his stick; “the place with the broken window.”

      “What window? What cue?” asked his principal assistant. “Why, what proof is there that this has anything to do with them?”

      Valentin almost broke his bamboo stick with rage.

      “Proof!” he cried. “Good God! the man is looking for proof! Why, of course, the chances are twenty to one that it has nothing to do with them. But what else can we do? Don't you see we must either follow any possibility or else go home to bed?” He went into the restaurant, followed by his companions, and they were soon seated at a late luncheon at a little table, and looked at the smashed glass from the inside. Not that it was very informative to them even then.

      “Got your window broken, I see,” said Valentin to the waiter as he paid the bill.

      “Yes, sir,” answered the attendant, bending busily over the change, to which Valentin silently added an enormous tip. The waiter straightened himself with unmistakable enthusiasm.

      “Ah, yes, sir,” he said. “Very odd thing, that, sir.”

      “Indeed?” Tell us about it,” said the detective with careless curiosity.

      “Well, two gents in black came in,” said the waiter; “two of those foreign parsons that are running about. They had a cheap and quiet little lunch, and one of them paid for it and went out. The other was just going out to join him

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