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"Oh 'e's in, sir. Bin in a little while. Shall I take you up, or do you remember the way?"
"I remember the way, thank you." Monk smiled grimly and started up the stairs. The place was becoming wretchedly familiar to him. He passed Grey's entrance quickly, still conscious of the horror inside, and knocked sharply
at Yeats's door, and a moment later it opened and Yeats's worried little face looked up at him.
"Oh!" he said in some alarm. "I—I was going to speak to you. I—I, er—I suppose I should have done it before." He wrung his hands nervously, twisting them in front of him, red knuckled. "But I heard all about the—er—the burglar—from Mr. Grimwade, you know—and I rather thought you'd, er—found the murderer—so—"
"May I come in, Mr. Yeats?" Monk interrupted. It was natural Grimwade should have mentioned the burglar, if only to warn the other tenants, and because one could hardly expect a garrulous and lonely old man to keep to himself such a thrilling and scandalous event, but Monk was irritated by the reminder of its uselessness.
"I'm—I'm sorry," Yeats stammered as Monk moved past him. "I—I do realize I should have said something to you before."
"About what, Mr. Yeats?" Monk exercised his patience with an effort. The poor little man was obviously much upset.
"Why, about my visitor, of course. I was quite sure you knew, when you came to the door." Yeats's voice rose to a squeak in amazement.
“What about him, Mr. Yeats? Have you recalled something further?" Suddenly hope shot up inside him. Could this be the beginning of proof at last?
"Why sir, I discovered who he was."
"What?" Monk did not dare to believe. The room was singing around him, bubbling with excitement. In an instant this funny little man was going to tell him the name of the murderer of Joscelin Grey. It was incredible, dazzling.
"I discovered who he was," Yeats repeated. "I knew I should have told you as soon as I found out, but I thought—"
The moment of paralysis was broken.
"Who?" Monk demanded; he knew his voice was shaking. "Who was it?"
Yeats was startled. He began to stammer again.
“Who was it?'' Monk made a desperate effort to control himself, but his own voice was rising to a shout.
"Why—why, sir, it was a man called Bartholomew Stubbs. He is a dealer in old maps, as he said. Is it—is it important, Mr. Monk?"
Monk was stunned.
"Bartholomew Stubbs?" he repeated foolishly.
"Yes sir. I met him again, through a mutual acquaintance. I thought I would ask him." His hands fluttered. "I was quite shockingly nervous, I assure you; but I felt in view of the fate of poor Major Grey that I must approach him. He was most civil. He left here straight after speaking to me at my doorstep. He was at a temperance meeting in Farringdon Road, near the House of Correction, fifteen minutes later. I ascertained that because my friend was there also." He moved from one foot to the other in his agitation. "He distinctly remembers Mr. Stubbs's arrival, because the first speaker had just commenced his address."
Monk stared at him. It was incomprehensible. If Stubbs had left immediately, and it seemed he had, then who was the man Grimwade had seen leaving later?
“Did—did he remain at the temperance meeting all evening?" he asked desperately.
"No sir." Yeats shook his head. "He only went there to meet my friend, who is also a collector, a very learned one-"
"He left!" Monk seized on it.
"Yes sir." Yeats danced around in his anxiety, his hands jerking to and fro. "I am trying to tell you! They left together and went to get some supper—"
"Together?"
"Yes sir. I am afraid, Mr. Monk, Mr. Stubbs could not have been the one to have so dreadfully attacked poor Major Grey."
"No." Monk was too shaken, too overwhelmingly disappointed to move. He did not know where to start again.
"Are you quite well, Mr. Monk?" Yeats asked tentatively. "I am so sorry. Perhaps I really should have told you earlier, but I did not think it would be important, since he was not guilty."
"No—no, never mind," Monk said almost under his breath. "I understand."
