air. Evidently he did not care to see the man whose name was on the card, and as evidently he did not dare refuse him. Finally he said:
"Show him in in five minutes."
When Trafford entered, in the very act of bowing, he cast a quick glance at the top of Matthewson's head. There was the odd bald spot, shaped, as Jim Shepard had said, "Jest like a heart."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Trafford?" Matthewson asked, with the air of a busy man.
"I want about ten minutes' talk with you," the detective answered, drawing a chair close to the desk.
"Professional?"
"Yes;—my profession."
The lawyer started. He was provoked with him-*self for doing so, but it was beyond his control. Trafford was not a man with whom it was comfortable to talk professionally—that is, from the stand-*point of his profession.
"Well, be quick about it, then. I'm busy, and it'll be a favour to cut it as short as you can."
"You were in Millbank the evening of the tenth."
