"Why did he do it?" asked Crewe.
The colonel growled something about fools and their questions, but offered no explanation.
"It may have been a monkey trick to make us change our quarters—the stuff was sulphuretted hydrogen and asafœtida. It may have been just bravado, but if he thinks he can scare me——"
He sucked viciously at his cigar end.
"I've got workmen in to strip the walls and re-paper the bit that's soiled," he said. "I'll be back there to-night."
The colonel threw the end of his cigar from the window and relapsed into moody reverie. When he spoke it was in a more cheerful tone.
"Crewe," he said, "that guy at Scotland Yard has given me an idea."
"Which guy?" asked Crewe, steadying his voice.
"The First Commissioner," said the colonel, lighting another cigar. "He particularly wanted to know if 'Snow' had any relations. Curse 'Snow'!" he said between his teeth, and dropping his mask of urbanity. "I wish he'd—well, it doesn't matter; he's dead, anyway—he's dead."
"Relations?" said Crewe. "Did you tell him anything?"