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“Naturally,” Monk agreed. “But I am from the police, and am investigating Major Grey’s murder, therefore I am in a different category from the merely inquisitive.” He lowered his voice and it became peculiarly menacing. He saw Marner’s face tighten. “And as a law-abiding man,” he continued, “I am sure you will be only too happy to give me every assistance you can. I should like to see your records in the matter. Precisely how much did Major Grey lose, Mr. Marner, to the guinea, if you please?”

Marner’s chin came up sharply; his eyes were hot and offended.

“The police? You said you wanted to make an investment.”

“No, I did not say that—you assumed it. How much did Joscelin Grey lose, Mr. Marner?”

“Oh, well, to the guinea, Mr. Monk, he—he did not lose any.”

“But the company dissolved.”

“Yes—yes, that is true; it was most unfortunate. But Major Grey withdrew his own investment at the last moment, just before the—the takeover.”

Monk remembered the policeman from whom he had learned Marner’s address. If he had been after Marner for years, let him have the satisfaction of taking him now.

“Oh.” Monk sat back, altering his whole attitude, almost smiling. “So he was not really concerned in the loss?”

“No, not at all.”

Monk stood up.

“Then it hardly constitutes a part of his murder. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Marner. And I thank you for your cooperation. You do, of course, have some papers to prove this, just for my superiors?”

“Yes. Yes, I have.” Marner relaxed visibly. “If you care to wait for a moment—” He stood up from his desk and went to a large cabinet of files. He pulled a drawer and took out a small notebook ruled in ledger fashion. He put it, open, on the desk in front of Monk.

Monk picked it up, glanced at it, read the entry where Grey had withdrawn his money, and snapped it shut.

“Thank you.” He put the book in the inside pocket of his coat and stood up.

Marner’s hand came forward for the return of the book. He realized he was not going to get it, debated in his mind whether to demand it or not, and decided it would raise more interest in the subject than he could yet afford. He forced a smile, a sickly thing in his great white face.

“Always happy to be of service, sir. Where should we be without the police? So much crime these days, so much violence.”

“Indeed,” Monk agreed. “And so much theft that breeds violence. Good day, Mr. Marner.”

Outside he walked briskly along Gun Lane and back towards the West India Dock Road, but he was thinking hard. If this evidence was correct, and not fiddled with by Zebedee Marner, then the hitherto relatively honest Joscelin Grey had almost certainly been forewarned in time to escape at the last moment himself, leaving Latterly and his friends to bear the loss. Dishonest, but not precisely illegal. It would be interesting to know who had shares in the company that took over the tobacco importing, and if Grey was one of them.

Had he uncovered this much before? Marner had shown no signs of recognition. He had behaved as if the whole question were entirely new to him. In fact it must be, or Monk would never have been able to deceive him into imagining him an investor.

But even if Zebedee Marner had never seen him before, it was not impossible he had known all this before Grey’s death, because then he had had his memory, known his contacts, who to ask, who to bribe, who could be threatened, and with what.

But there was no way yet to find out. On the West India Dock Road he found a hansom and sank back for the long ride, thinking.

At the police station he went to the man who had given him Zebedee Marner’s address and told him of his visit, gave him the ledger and showed him what he thought the fraud would be. The man positively bubbled with delight, like someone who contemplates a rich feast only hours away. Monk had a brief, fierce glow of satisfaction.

It did not last.

Runcorn was waiting for him in his own office. “No arrest yet?” he said with black relish. “No one charged?”

Monk did not bother to reply.

“Monk!” Runcorn slammed his