CHAPTER XIII 

Four men were discussing the verdict at the adjourned inquest upon Victor Bidlake, at Soto's American Bar about a fortnight later. They were Robert Fairfax, a young actor in musical comedy, Peter Jacks, a cinema producer, Gerald Morse, a dress designer, and Sidney Voss, a musical composer and librettist, all habitues of the place and members of the little circle towards which the dead man had seemed, during the last few weeks of his life, to have become attracted. At a table a short distance away, Francis Ledsam was seated with a cocktail and a dish of almonds before him. He seemed to be studying an evening paper and to be taking but the scantiest notice of the conversation at the bar. 

"It just shows," Peter Jacks declared, "that crime is the easiest game in the world. Given a reasonable amount of intelligence, and a murderer's business is about as simple as a sandwich-man's." 

"The police," Gerald Morse, a pale-faced, anaemic-looking youth, declared, "rely upon two things, circumstantial evidence and motive. In the present case there is no circumstantial evidence, and as to motive, poor old Victor was too big a fool to have an enemy in the world." 

Sidney Voss, who was up for the Sheridan Club and had once been there, glanced respectfully across at Francis. 

"You ought to know something about crime and criminals, Mr. Ledsam," he said. "Have you any theory about the affair?" 

Francis set down the glass from which he had been drinking, and, folding up the evening paper, laid it by the side of him. 
Did he think the man was guilty?
poor old Victor was too big a fool to have an enemy in the world