T. B. read it and shook his head.
"This sort of thing is fairly common," he said; "there never was a bad murder yet, but what the Yard received solutions by the score."
A little bell tinkled on the editor's desk, and he took up the receiver of the telephone.
"Yes?" he said, and listened. Then, "Send him up."
"Is it——"
"Monsieur Escoltier," said the editor.
A few seconds later the door was opened, and a man was ushered into the room. Short and thick-set, with a two days' growth of beard on his chin, his nationality was apparent long before he spoke in the argot of the lowly born Parisian.
His face was haggard, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep, and the hand that strayed to his mouth shook tremulously.
"I have to tell you," he began, "about M'sieur Moss and M'sieur Hyatt." His voice was thick, and as he spoke he glanced from side to side as though fearful of observation. There was something in his actions that vividly reminded the detective of his interview with Hyatt. "You understand," the man went on incoherently, "that I had long suspected N.H.C.—it was always so unintelligible. There was no such station and——"
"You must calm yourself, monsieur," said T. B., speaking in French; "begin at the beginning, for as yet my friend and myself are entirely in the dark. What is N.H.C., and what does it mean?"