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Yeats blinked.
"I-I really can hardly say, Mr.—Mr.—"
"Monk—I'm sorry," he said, apologizing for not having introduced himself. "And my colleague is Mr. Evan. Was he a large man, or small?"
"Oh large, very large," Yeats said instantly. "Big as you are, and looked heavy; of course he had a thick coat on, it was a very bad night—wet—terribly."
"Yes, yes I remember. Was he taller than I am, do you think?" Monk stood up helpfully.
Yeats stared up at him. "No, no, I don't think so. About the same, as well as I can recall. But it was some time ago now.'' He shook his head unhappily.
Monk seated himself again, aware of Evan discreetly taking notes.
"He really was here only a moment or two," Yeats protested, still holding the toast, now beginning to break and drop crumbs on his trousers. "He just saw me, asked a question as to my business, then realized I was not the person he sought, and left again. That is really all there was." He brushed ineffectively at his trousers. "You must believe me, if I could help, I would. Poor Major Grey, such an appalling death." He shivered. "Such a charming young man. Life plays some dreadful tricks, does it not?"
Monk felt a quick flicker of excitement inside himself.
"You knew Major Grey?" He kept his voice almost casual.
"Oh not very well, no, no!" Yeats protested, shunning any thought of social arrogance—or involvement. “Only to pass the time of day, you understand? But he was very
civil, always had a pleasant word, not like some of these young men of fashion. And he didn't affect to have forgotten one's name."
"And what is your business, Mr. Yeats? I don't think you said."
"Oh perhaps not." The toast shed more pieces in his hand, but now he was oblivious of it. "I deal in rare stamps and coins."
"And this visitor, was he also a dealer?"
Yeats looked surprised.
"He did not say, but I should imagine not. It is a small business, you know; one gets to meet most of those who are interested, at one time or another."
"He was English then?"
“I beg your pardon?''
"He was not a foreigner, whom you would not expect to have known, even had he been in the business?"
"Oh, I see." Yeats's brow cleared. "Yes, yes he was English."
"And who was he looking for, if not for you, Mr. Yeats?"
"I-I-really cannot say." He waved his hand in the air. "He asked if I were a collector of maps; I told him I was not. He said he had been misinformed, and he left immediately. ''
"I think not, Mr. Yeats. I think he then went to call on Major Grey, and within the next three quarters of an hour, beat him to death."
"Oh my dear God!" Yeats's bones buckled inside him and he slid backwards and down into his chair. Behind Monk, Evan moved as if to help, then changed his mind and sat down again.
"That surprises you?" Monk inquired.
Yeats was gasping, beyond speech.
"Are you sure this man was not known to you?" Monk persisted, giving him no time to regather his thoughts. This was the time to press.
"Yes, yes I am. Quite unknown." He covered his face with his hands. "Oh my dear heaven!"
Monk stared at Yeats. The man was useless now, either reduced to abject horror, or else very skillfully affecting to be. He turned and looked at Evan. Evan's face was stiff with embarrassment, possibly for their presence and their part in the man's wretchedness, possibly merely at being witness to it.
