Miss Silver’s partiality for the Victorian poet laureate being notorious, this was a challenge. She accepted it mildly.

“It was not, as you know, intended to have that application, the subject of the poem being maidenhood, and the poet, Longfellow.”

He reached for a sandwich.

“Another good quotation wasted! Anyhow, the place is Enderby Green, and the bank manager was held up and shot dead, poor chap, just before closing time yesterday afternoon. A young clerk got a bullet through his shoulder and is lucky to be alive. There had been some big sums paid in that day-all the shops were having sales-and the chap got away with fifteen hundred pounds. Now everyone wants to know what the police are doing. Funny for us! I expect you’ve seen about it in the papers.”

Miss Silver inclined her head.

“Was he not seen? Did nobody hear the shot?”

“There was a pneumatic drill working outside. I don’t suppose anyone would have noticed a machine-gun, let alone a couple of revolver shots! The clerk’s description wouldn’t fit more than about two or three hundred thousand people-except for red hair which nobody would go out gunning with unless as a disguise for the occasion. The lad did one rather bright thing though. He was making an entry in red ink at the time the hold-up occurred, and he managed to smear some of the notes they made him hand over. He says he doesn’t think the chap noticed.”

“The clerk will recover?”

“Oh, yes. The other poor chap was shot down in cold blood-he hadn’t a chance. Somebody saw a car drive off and was able to describe it. But of course it was stolen, and got rid of as soon as possible-found abandoned not half a mile away. The bother is there have been too many of these shows, and a tendency to ask what the police are paid for. You may yet see me playing a barrel-organ on the kerb and holding out my cap for coppers. Or I might do a great disappearing act on my own. ‘Well Known Detective Inspector Vanishes. Loss Of Memory Or Murder?’ It would make very good headlines. And then when I turned up again I could sell my life story to the Sunday papers-‘A Blank World. What It Feels Like To Be Lost.’ Quite a tempting prospect.”