"We discussed this before," said Bocaros, as they approached the belt of pines, "and I told you that I could form no theory. My work lies amidst languages. I am a philologist, my friend, and no detective."
"I guess you'd pan out better than the rest of them if you were."
"You flatter me." Bocaros removed his arm, and inserted a large key into the lock of his door. "Will you come in?"
"You don't seem very set on chin-music, but I'll come," said Tracey, who, when bent on obtaining anything, never rested till he achieved his purpose.
Bocaros gave a gentle sigh, which a more sensitive man might have taken as a sign that his company was not wanted at that precise moment. But Tracey would not go, so he had to be admitted. He entered the room, which was lined with books, and furnished otherwise in a poor manner, and threw himself into the one armchair. Then he took out a cigarette-case. "Have one," he said, extending this.
"A pipe, my friend, will please me better," replied Bocaros, and filled a large china pipe, which he must have obtained when he was a German student. He then took a seat with his back towards the window, and intimated that he was ready.
"See here!" said Tracey, opening the newspaper and pointing to a paragraph; "read that!"
"Is it about the murder?" asked Bocaros, puffing gently at his pipe.
"Yes. That fool of a Derrick has made a discovery of some value."
"In that case he cannot be a fool, my friend," replied Bocaros, leaning back his head and inhaling the smoke luxuriously. "Tell me what the paper says. I can't read while you talk, and I am sure you will not be silent for five minutes."