'Mr. FitzHoward! What do you mean?'
'Aren't I going to tell you, if you'll wait? Even the best of women--and, Mrs. Merrett, you must pardon my saying that you are the best I ever met, and I've met some--are impatient.' I wished he'd stop his nonsense. 'I jumped off the 'bus, went up to Mr. Smith from behind, reached out my hand, and touched him on the shoulder. He gave such a jump that he made me jump too. I never saw a man so startled. He didn't look much happier when he saw me; he knew me right enough. "Good God!" he said. "You!" "Yes," I said. "Mr.--Mr. Smith, might I be permitted to inquire what you've done with Mr. Babbacombe?" I don't know what made me ask the question, at least in that way. It must have been a kind of inspiration. For when I did ask it, it seemed to strike him all of a heap. He gave a lurch so that I thought that he was going to fall; and if the wall of St. James's Church hadn't been handy for him to lean against, he'd have come a cropper. The sight he was took me quite aback. It made me think all sorts of things. I couldn't make it out at all. It was some time before he'd got hold of himself enough to speak; and then it was with a stammer. "What--what do you mean by--by asking me such a question?" "I asked it because I want an answer. What's become of him since you had that interview with him at the York Hotel?" "How do you know I had an interview with him?" "That's tellings. I know one or two things, and I want to know one or two more. Mr. Smith, what have you done with Mr. Babbacombe?" "I know nothing whatever, sir, of the person to whom you refer." He tried to pull himself together, and pass things off with an air. But it wasn't altogether a success. Just as he was making as if to take himself off, a friend came rushing up to him. "Hollo, Howarth!" he cried, "you're the very man I wanted to see." I pricked up my ears at this. "Excuse me, sir," I said. "Is this gentleman's name Howarth?" The friend looked me up and down; like those swells do. "Who's this?" he asked. Mr. Smith--or Mr. Howarth--took his arm. "Some person who wishes to make himself offensive to me." And he was going to walk off. But I got in front of him. "Excuse me, Mr. Smith, or Mr. Howarth, or whatever your name is, but before you go perhaps you'll tell me what you've done with Mr. Babbacombe." He was more himself by now, and looked at me in a way I didn't like; as if I was so much dirt under his feet. "What's he mean?" asked his friend. My gentleman beckoned to a policeman who was standing a little way off. "Officer," he said, "be so good as to prevent this person from annoying me." "Constable," I said in my turn, "I want to know what this gentleman has done with a friend of mine." However, Mr. Smith, or Mr. Howarth, called a cab; and as the bobby had as near as a toucher, planted himself on my toes, I had to let him get into it. "Who's that?" I asked the copper, as he was driving off. "That's the Honourable Douglas Howarth. What do you want with him?" "I want to know what size he takes in boots," I said. That gentleman in blue had given me the needle. There's a Court Guide where I live. When I opened it this morning the first name I saw was Howarth. The Hon. Douglas Howarth is the third son of the late Earl of Barnes, and the uncle of the present Earl. He's a bachelor. He has a sister, Lady Violet, who's unmarried; and he lives in Brook Street, Grosvenor Square. All of which sounds very different to "John Smith."'
'But why should he have called himself Smith? And what was it he was so anxious to say to James?'
'Exactly. That's what you're going to find out.'
'I! Mr. FitzHoward!'
'You--Mrs. Merrett! Who's entitled to know who killed the husband if it isn't his wife?'
'Mr. FitzHoward!'
'So this afternoon you're going to call on the Hon. Douglas Howarth, alias Mr. John Smith, at his residence in Brook Street, to make inquiries.'