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Melson jerked round.
    Stanley was laughing again horribly, and beating his hand against the back of the chair.

4
The Man Across the Threshold
    “M Y FRIEND IS ILL,” Boscombe remarked, very quietly. At the back of his eyes, the eyes that the inscrutability of the sharp dry face could not control, he looked startled out of his five wits; not at the implication of guilt, but at something crashing and unforeseen.
    Which, thought Melson, made it worse. The man who overlooks a smashed window and mudstains on the sill is not a criminal who makes a slip; he must be stark insane.
    “My friend is ill,” repeated Boscombe, clearing his throat. “Allow me to get him some brandy… Brace up, will you?” he snapped.
    “By God! Are you apologizing for me ?” the other asked, his mirth choked off. “Ill, am I? And of course I can’t take care of myself. Look here, I think I’ll blow the gaff.” He grinned widely. “Hadley will be here in a minute, and he’ll appreciate it … Robert, my lad,” he said to the constable, with a kind of bravado that was not supported by his twitching eyelids, “blast you—you and all your land—the rotten lot and bag of them—the whole filthy—” His voice rose and he gulped. “Do you know who I am? Do you know who you’re talking to?”
    “I was wondering,” said Dr. Fell, “how long it would be before you told us. If I remember rightly, you were once chief inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department.”
    Stanley looked slowly round. “Retired,” he said, “with honour.”
    “But, sir,” protested the constable, “aren’t you going to ask them?”
    Dr. Fell did not appear to be listening.
    “Tree!” he roared, suddenly. “Tree! O Lord! O Bacchus! O my ancient hat! Of course. This is terrible. Tell me—” He checked himself, and turned to Pierce. “My boy,” he continued, benevolently, “that was fine work. I’ll ask them right enough. But now I’ve got a commission for you.” He had taken out notebook and pencil and was scrawling rapidly as he spoke. “By the way, did you get Hadley on the phone?”
    “Yes, sir. He’s coming over straightaway.”
    “And the chap on the department-store case?”
    “Yes, sir. Inspector Ames, Mr. Hadley said. He said he was bringing him if he could be found.”
    “Right. Take this,” Dr. Fell ripped out the note-sheet, “and don’t ask questions. It’s a step towards promotion. Hop it, now.” He regarded Stanley with a sombre eye while Boscombe brought the latter a tumbler half full of brandy. “Now, gentlemen, I don’t want to hurry you, but I can’t help feeling my friend the chief inspector is going to cut up rough when he finds those shoes. Don’t you think an explanation is in order? And I shouldn’t drink that brandy, if I were you.”
    “You go to hell,” shouted Stanley, and drained the glass at a gulp. “… Steady,” said Dr. Fell. “Better send him into the bathroom. I don’t like the imminence of—that’s it.” He waited while Boscombe urged Stanley, wavering, through the door. Boscombe, rubbing his hands together, returned as unsteadily as his companion. “That man,” continued Dr. Fell, “is as close to a nervous breakdown as he’s ever likely to be. Suppose you tell me—what happened here tonight?”
    “Suppose,” returned Boscombe, with a mild flash of ugliness, “you reason it out for yourself.” He went softly to the sideboard, his face an unpleasant length; he drew the stopper of a decanter and turned. “I’ll give you only one hint. I don’t want that lunatic to strangle me when he finds I was trying to play a joke … Admit, if you like, that the fact of the broken window is curious—”
    “Somewhat. It could hang you.”
    Boscombe’s hand jerked. “That is nonsense, of course. A perfect stranger, a burglar, climbs in that window. We stab him with the hand of a clock; we take all the trouble to put a pair of new shoes on him and drop him outside the door. Really, that