"It's a most extraordinary thing." "I met once in the smoking-room of a hotel an old gentleman who went about with his name and address sewn on in all his coats in case of an accident or sudden illness," said the Chief Inspector.

"He professed to be eighty-four years old, but he didn't look his age.

He told me he was also afraid of losing his memory suddenly, like those people he has been reading of in the papers." A question from the Assistant Commissioner, who wanted to know what was No.

32 Brett Street, interrupted that reminiscence abruptly.

The Chief Inspector, driven down to the ground by unfair artifices, had elected to walk the path of unreserved openness.