'Perhaps you are right,' remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party. Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland courtesy—
'You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr Wilber Scribbings?'
The journalist started.
'How do you know my name?' he gasped.
Kombs waved his hand impatiently.
'Look inside your hat if you doubt your own name.'
I then noticed for the first time that the name was plainly to be seen inside the top-hat Scribbings held upside down in his hands.
'You have heard, of course, of the Pegram mystery—'
'Tush,' cried the detective; 'do not, I beg of you, call it a mystery. There is no such thing. Life would become more tolerable if there ever was a mystery. Nothing is original. Everything has been done before. What about the Pegram affair?'
'The Pegram—ah—case has baffled everyone. The Evening Blade wishes you to investigate, so that it may publish the result. It will pay you well. Will you accept the commission?'