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?'
'Possibly. Tell me about the case.'
'I thought everybody knew the particulars. Mr. Barrie Kipson lived at
Pegram. He carried a first-class season ticket between the terminus
and that station. It was his custom to leave for Pegram on the 5.30
train each evening. Some weeks ago, Mr. Kipson was brought down by the
influenza. On his first visit to the City after his recovery, he drew
something like L300 in notes, and left the office at his usual hour to
catch the 5.30. He was never seen again alive, as far as the public
have been able to learn.
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