"That thing in the paper," cried Mr. Wosk, aghast. "Why—ahem—what has it got to do—ahem—with us?"
Monsieur Judas shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture, and spoke slowly:
"Eh, le voila! I myself am no good to rread les journaux anglais—les feuilletons. If you so kine vil be to me, monsieur, an' rread de Mystère Jarleesterre, I vil to you explin moch, eh! Il est bien entendu."
"But what has the Jarlchester Mystery got to do with us?" repeated Mr. Wosk, helplessly, like a large child.
"Eh, mon ami, qui sait?" replied Monsieur Judas, enraged at his master's stupidity. "De man dead is he who took ze pilules."
"Sebastian Melstane!" cried Mr. Wosk, thunder-struck.
"Oui, c'est le nom!"
And Monsieur Judas narrowed his eyes, spread out his lean hands, and smiled complacently at the look of horror on the face of Mr. Wosk.