“Well, if you should hear of a strange man with a bicycle having been seen, you might let me know,” said Hanslet. “Good night, sergeant, I won’t trouble you any further.”
Hanslet left the police station, more convinced than ever that the Professor was suffering from some temporary aberration. He had known such cases before, where overwork had caused the queerest effects. It was quite understandable. The Professor had certainly discovered the motive for the murders; it could not be a coincidence that all the men who had died had served on this particular jury and had been the victims of this mysterious murderer. But, having discovered this, and realizing that he was the only survivor, the Professor must have received a shock which had unduly stimulated his imagination. This was all that Hanslet could make of it. Meanwhile he determined to keep a very close watch over the Professor, for, if his theory was correct, his life was undoubtedly threatened, Black Sailor or no Black Sailor.
The party returned to London on the Monday morning, and Hanslet immediately went to see Whyland, whom he had left in charge during his absence. At the police station he was told that he had gone to see Mr. Ludgrove, and thither Hanslet followed him.
He found Whyland and Ludgrove seated in the latter’s sanctum, and the herbalist greeted him warmly on his entrance. “Come in, Inspector,” he said. “Mr. Whyland and I are talking about the death of Mr. Copperdock. As you see, I am still alive, in spite of my numbered counter.”
“So I see,” replied Hanslet. “You’ve seen or heard of nothing suspicious, I suppose, Whyland?”
“Not a thing,” replied Whyland. “Mr. Ludgrove and I set a little trap, but nothing came of it.”
“Oh, what was that?” enquired Hanslet. “Did you wander about Praed Street with counters stuck on your backs, or what?”
“Better than that,” said Mr. Ludgrove with a smile. “Of course, you realize that five out of six of these deaths have taken place in Praed Street, don’t you? Well, another thing is that they have taken place during the week-end. It was a fair inference that if my life was to be attempted, it would be during the week-end, and in Praed Street. Do you agree?”
“Well, it sounds reasonable, anyhow,” replied Hanslet. “What about it?”
“I felt as though a breath of country air would do me good,” continued the herbalist. “As Inspector Whyland may have told you, I usually try to spend a week-end out of London at least once every three weeks. For one thing it does me good, and for another my business obliges me to collect herbs from time to time. And I happen to have heard of some particularly fine colchicums growing near Dorchester.”