"Naturally I did, Mr. Inspector. Would you like to see his signature?"
"Very much," we both answered at once, and the book was accordingly produced.
Podgers ran his finger down the list.
"Brown, Williams, Davis—ah! here it is. 'Chloroform: J. Venneage, 22, Calliope Street, Woolahra.'"
"Venneage!" I cried. "Why, that's not his name!"
"Very likely not," replied Podgers; "but it's the name he gave me."
"Never mind, we'll try 22, Calliope Street, on the chance," said the Inspector.
Again we drove off, this time at increased pace. In less than fifteen minutes we had turned into the street we wanted, and pulled up about a hundred yards from the junction. It was a small thoroughfare, with a long line of second-class villa residences on either side. A policeman was sauntering along on the opposite side of the way, and the Inspector called him over. He saluted respectfully, and waited to be addressed.
"What do you know of number 22?" asked the Inspector briefly. The constable considered for a few moments, and then said—
"Well, to tell you the truth, sir, I didn't know until yesterday that it was occupied."