Evidence in Blue

Roy Glashan's Library
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E. CHARLES VIVIAN

EVIDENCE IN BLUE
(THE MAN IN GRAY)

First UK edition: Ward, Lock & Co., London, 1938

First US edition: Hillman-Curl, New York, 1938 as
"The Man in Gray"

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2024
Version Date: 2024-12-07

Produced by Matthias Kaether and Roy Glashan

All content added by RGL is proprietary and protected by copyright.

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Chapter I. Room Number
Chapter II. Exit by the Back Yard
Chapter III. The Spike
Chapter IV. Motive?
Chapter V. Mr. Hank's Neighbours
Chapter VI. Orchids
Chapter VI. Calls—Some by Telephone
Chapter VIII. Negatives
Chapter IX. Hidden, at Both Ends
Chapter X. Gloria
Chapter IX. The Landlady's Story
Chapter XII. Calder, Cummins, and Calder
Chapter XIII. Accident, or—?
Chapter XIV. Deadlock
Chapter XV. Appointment
Chapter XVI. Driven Hard
Chapter XVII. Flight
Chapter XVIII. Enthwaite
Chapter XIX. South was West
Chapter XX. For Gloria

Chapter I
Room Number

SLEETY rain drove against the window of Superintendent Wadden's office as the Superintendent stripped off his dripping waterproof, removed his uniform cap, and hung both articles on the stand in the corner of the room. Then, with a brief commination on the state of the weather, he turned to his desk, and observed the papers laid ready there for his inspection.

"Except that Mr. Enthwaite of Carden wants you to ring him directly you get in, sir," the constable answered.

"Potts again," Wadden reflected. "That man would poach pheasants in Hades if the devil preserved game. All right, Jeffries—tell Sergeant Wells to get through to him and put the call in here—"

Respect for his caller induced him to keep on his feet, instead of lowering his eighteen stone into the swivel chair at his desk. Miss Cummins, better known to Westingborough and the surrounding district as Little Nell, entered the room and faced him. He stood just six feet in height, but her eyes were level with his own under her crown of golden curls; somewhere in the late thirties or early forties, she had come as barmaid to the Duke of York, the principal hotel in the town, ten years or more before: old Bragg, the then proprietor, had promoted her to the post of manageress within a year, and now, to quote Wadden himself, she was not so much a woman as an institution.

But, for this once, she gave no hint of the quiet efficiency with which she ruled the Duke of York. What should have been a neat linen morning frock was crumpled and stained by some fluid that had not yet dried from breast to knees: her hair was less tidy than usual, and there was a look of stark fear in her eyes.

Long habit prompted Wadden to glance at the clock on the wall, and he registered the time as five minutes past nine.

"Take it easy, Miss Cummins," he advised gently, "I felt things were too quiet to last so. This man—injured, or dead?"

"Dead, eh?" He raised his voice, for both Jeffries and Sergeant Wells had retreated from the room. "Oh, Wells? Tell Inspector Head I want him here, at once. Now"—he reverted to a normal tone—"just sit down, Miss Cummins, and take all the time you want. If the man's dead—any idea of how it happened, though?"

"I—I think I know," she said, and dropped down on the chair that he drew forward, just as Inspector Head, a tall, kindly-looking man neatly dressed in ordinary civilian attire, appeared in the doorway.

"Come in, Head," the Superintendent invited. "Miss Cummins has got a man stabbed to death over at the hotel, she tells me. How long is it since you found out about him, Miss Cummins?"

"Yes. I've been attending to Annie Green since then—that's why—why I'm in such a mess. She took—took up his early tea, and when she saw him lying there she dropped the tray and fell down in a fit. I'd no idea she was an epileptic before. Two fits in succession, and I couldn't leave her till Doctor Bennett got there. I—Oh, it's so terrible! I didn't think to send anyone before."

"We'll both go over, Head, at once, I think," Wadden suggested. "If you don't mind, Miss Cummins, you'd better come with us. Bennett, I take it, will be there ready for us if we want him." He glanced at the window again. "Did you bring a coat, Miss Cummins?"

She shook her head. "I just snatched up an umbrella to run across here," she answered. "It's—I left it in the sergeant's room."

"In the charge-room—yes," Wadden amended. "Come on, Head—we don't need coats to go over there, just across the street."

His glance at Nell invited her to rise, and she preceded the two men out to the passageway of the police station. Wadden looked into the charge-room, picked up the umbrella standing just inside the door, and handed it to Nell, or she would have gone without it.

"Finger-print outfit, Wells, and fetch a man with you," Wadden bade. "Camera and flash powders, too, just in case. Hurry it."

Then he went out to Westingborough's main street, and made a run of it to the hotel entrance. Head, keeping beside Little Nell, followed more slowly, and they entered together to face Wadden.

She pointed to the main staircase at the back of the big entrance hall. Dating from the old coaching days and still described as a "posting house" on the big signboard along its frontage, the Duke of York was spaciously planned, and, in these days, scarcely half its rooms were ever needed at one time. Still preceding the two men, Nell led them up the staircase, past a door just ajar that yielded a sound of sobbing, and on to another door on which the numeral 7 showed in faded yellow against the dark, glistening paint of the panels.

"No," Wadden promised. "I'll see you again later—or Mr. Head will, perhaps. And the doctor—don't let him go. We want him."

For a few seconds, as she retreated toward the top of the stairway without replying, Head stood gazing along the corridor. It ran parallel with the frontage of the hotel, with rooms on either side, and number seven, evidently, gave on to the street. While Head stood thus, one of the doors farther along the corridor opened and a man looked out, but almost instantly drew back and closed his door again. Somebody spoke soothingly in the room from which the sobbing had sounded: then Head followed the Superintendent into number seven.

He had to step over a mess of smashed crockery and an overturned tray, left as the girl Annie Green had let them fall at sight of what lay on the bed. For there with the clothes thrown back as if he had begun getting out, lay the figure of a man with widely staring eyes and dropped lower jaw, with a bloodstain on the left breast of his grey silk pyjamas, and, in the middle of the stain, the handle of some dagger-like implement. The pillow under his head had been pulled to a diagonal position, Head noted, and that dark stain on the breast of the pyjama jacket was no more than three inches in diameter: apparently the man had bled little, since with the one thrust his heart had ceased to beat. And the handle standing up over the wound was of turned white wood, unpolished: whatever blade was fixed in it had been driven in with such force that no metal was visible.

Bending over, Head saw the faint marks that told how someone had gripped this victim by the throat to drive the blade into his heart.

"Yes," he said. "A strong man did it. This—this one probably tried to get up, and flung the clothes back for that purpose. There was a light in the room—that blow was well and truly aimed."

"Hellishly so," Wadden agreed. "Where's Bennett? You want that thing pulled out without disturbing any possible finger prints."

But Head turned away and went to the electric light switch by the door—the only one in the room. It was cased in ribbed brass which might yield a finger print, but he thought it unlikely. He turned back to the bed, and pulled the clothes down all the way to reveal the figure of the dead man fully, at which Wadden shook his head silently.

"In the forties, about five feet ten, and in bad condition—running to fat, in fact," Head catalogued aloud. "Quite a good-looking type, though I don't like the face, and that beautiful brown hair is dyed. A bit of a fop, probably. Quite well-to-do—he paid more for those pyjamas than I would for mine, and that grey suit looks West-End cut, to me. Yes"— he turned out an inner breast pocket to show a Burlington Street tailor's label—"they don't make other than to measure, there. And—eh, no papers?" He searched pocket after pocket, rapidly.

"In that case, maybe," Wadden suggested. "I'll go and find Bennett while you give the place the once-over, also make sure nobody who was here last night gets away without our seeing 'em."

He went out, and Head pursued his search. But neither in the clothing—inspection of the big wardrobe revealed that the dead man had come here with only the one suit and a grey overcoat still hanging behind the door—nor in the attaché case which appeared to constitute all his baggage was there any paper that might reveal his identity or purpose here. Then, gazing at the fire-place as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, Head espied a wisp of paper under the empty grate and, retrieving it, smoothed it out and saw that it was an ordinary shop bill. The firm issuing it was declared as "Posies, 272, Knightsbridge, London, S.W." The "Paid" stamp of the firm, initialled "G.B." appeared under the pencilled legend—"Orchids, £2 5 0." It was evidently a record of a cash transaction, for there was no customer's name under that of the firm. The date in the stamp was that of two days before.

Head slipped the paper in his leather note-case and put it away as the doctor entered the room and frowned at the mess of early tea.

"Morning, doctor," Head greeted him. "I'd like that dagger, or whatever it is, drawn out of the wound so that any finger prints on the handle will be available. You might hand it to Sergeant Wells, if you don't mind. Could you tell me if that girl with the fits is capable of answering questions now—Annie Green, I think is her name."

"For heaven's sake leave her alone as long as you can," Bennett answered with a hint of irritation. "I'm not happy about her—the hydrocephalous idiot! I'll save your prints for you."

Without further words, Head gazed round the room to get the picture of it in his mind. The furniture was of highly-polished mahogany, big and old-fashioned; there was a valanced dressing table with big swing mirror, a marble-topped washstand, a double-floored wardrobe, and two easy chairs, one on each side of the fire-place. Heavy tapestry curtains were drawn back from the window, their folds pendant to the floor—an assassin might have hidden behind them, Head reflected. In addition to the door leading to the corridor was one which communicated with the next room along the corridor—number eight, it would be—but, on trying the handle, it proved to be locked, and there was no key on this side. Head had no compunction over grasping the handle, since it had an ornamental, serrated surface, like that of the door leading to the corridor, which would not reveal any finger prints. A subsequent inspection showed him that all the doors along the corridor were fitted with these exasperatingly useless handles—useless, that is, from the finger-printer's viewpoint. The key of the door leading to the corridor, he noted, was in the lock on the inside. Inserting a pencil in the loop of the key, he turned it and found that it squeaked rustily, as if long disused or, more probably, in sore need of a few drops of oil.

Emerging to the corridor, Head closed the door, leaving the doctor to complete his examination, and found himself facing the man who had looked out from another room when he and Wadden had come to this. It was a stoutly-built, middle-aged being whom Head saw, with a huge suit-case in his hand and curiosity written large in his face.

"I can't tell you," Head answered. "But you can tell me—did you hear anything unusual during the night?"

"Not what you'd call unusual," the man said, slowly. "He came in late, very late, and I heard him shut his door and lock it. And that was all. I went to sleep soon after. Then, while I was shaving, somebody crashed some crockery and screamed, and I saw the manageress carry a girl out of that room. But I wasn't dressed, then."

"It must have been that. There was the click when he shut it, and then that squeaky noise I heard just now. That's the lock, surely?"

Entering the room again, he closed the door, and heard the single click of the bolt as it latched itself. Then he came out again.

"That first, and then a squeaky noise," the other answered. "The sort of noise you or somebody made just now, before you came out of the room the first time. That was when he locked it, wasn't it?"

Again he went within the room, and this time closed the door and locked it. Then, unlocking it, he once more faced his man.

"Half of it," the man answered. "If that was the lock, he locked the door, but didn't unlock it again as you did just now."

"You have only heard that squeaky sound once, till you heard me make it in trying the lock just now?" Head inquired.

"Aye, I'd take oath on that. But"—he looked at his watch—"I'm late, and'll have to hurry. You'll excuse me, now—"

"Wait," Head interrupted. "Your name and address, please, in case I need you for evidence on this or any other point?"

"Name's Smith—Hobson and Tanner are my people—" he produced a card from his vest pocket and handed it over. "But for the Lord's sake don't drag me back here if you're police, for I've got a family to keep and it's hard enough to get orders these days. "All right, Mr. Smith. You're sure the occupant of that room locked his door, you say. At what time did he lock it, do you know?"

"It'd be about half-past eleven—I can't say any nearer than that, because I was asleep not much more than ten minutes later."

He watched the man hurry off down the stairs, and followed more slowly himself. One man's uncorroborated certainty over the locking of the door was of little use: the occupant might have unlocked the door later, supposing that he had left it locked until Smith had gone to sleep. In any case, it was not worth while detaining the commercial traveller over such a point, while he could easily be found and recalled if wanted for any other reason.

Thus reflecting, Head went downstairs, and in the entrance hall found Sergeant Wells and a constable, equipped as ordered.

"Ah, Wells! Room number seven, on the left—first floor. Doctor Bennett is in there now. The handle of the thing that stabbed the man, his attaché case, and anything else you think might yield a print. I think you've done enough of this work for me to leave it to you."

"Yes, Mr. Head, I'll do my best. But Mr. Enthwaite has rung up again and asked for either you or Mr. Wadden. Sounded pretty desperate, too."

"Said you were both out on what looked like a very urgent case indeed—he asked where, but I wouldn't tell him. And he cursed most horribly, though I've never heard he's the sort to curse."

"He certainly is not," Head agreed. "Well, you get on with your outfit, and I'll have a word with Mr. Enthwaite as soon as I can spare the time—or the Superintendent will. We'll see to him."

Looking back up the staircase, he saw Wadden at the top, and ascended again, following Wells and the constable.

Wadden nodded along the corridor. "In with that fool girl who has fits," he answered, "trying to get her to compose herself enough for us to question her—though I doubt if we'll get anything useful out of her when she's steadied enough to talk."

"There's one thing I most particularly want out of her," Head remarked. "Also, we've not heard Nell's story yet. I heard her say something about thinking she knew as I came into your room."

"Well, she's quite rational again now," Wadden said, "though this is one hell of a damaging thing for her—the hotel, I mean. If people get stabbed in their beds, they don't sleep easy in said beds."

"That's so. Old Bragg left it to her when he died, being a childless man. But that's nothing to do with—"

"Mr. Wadden?" A maid at the foot of the staircase called up softly. "You're wanted on the telephone by Mr. Enthwaite—urgent, he says."

"I'll rake Jeffries' liver for telling Enthwaite where to find me!" Wadden promised, and blew a heavy gust, as was his habit when irritated. "All right—coming along. You'd better get Nell out of there and hear her tale, Head—there's another servant in with the girl."

He went down the stairs to the closed telephone booth at the side of the big entrance hall, where the receiver lay on the shelf. Closing the door of the booth, he took up the receiver with a "Hullo!"

"Superintendent Wadden?" a voice asked. "Mr. Ralph Enthwaite of Enthwaite House speaking. I've been trying to get you for the best part of an hour—it is Superintendent Wadden, though, isn't it?"

"I am," Wadden answered, rather sharply. He did not like the tone of the man at the other end: it was far too peremptory.

"Yes. Well, I want to see you at once—want you to turn out a car and come over here instantly, Superintendent."

"Well, I'm afraid I cannot possibly come over for some time," Wadden said. "We're busy here on a case that's likely to take some time—"

"But, hang it all, man!" Enthwaite interrupted, shouting. "I tell you you've got to come over at once! I must see you!"

"Oh, but—look here, is there no way of making you understand?" Enthwaite demanded in exasperation. "I tell you it's vitally urgent—"

"I tell you it's utterly impossible to give any details over the telephone, and every minute is of importance—national importance! Nothing you can possibly be doing ranks in comparison with this. I want both you and Inspector Head to set to work on it—"

"We are already busy on what looks like a case of murder," Wadden interrupted again, "and unless you've got another one of equal importance, Mr. Enthwaite, you'll have to wait till one of us is free."

"I'm sorry if I sounded dictatorial, Superintendent. I dare not indicate my reason for asking you to come over until I see you and know there is no possibility of being overheard, but I will say it is something more important, more urgent, than any murder case. Vital."

"All right. I'll turn the car out and start the minute I'm free," Wadden said. "I can't give you a definite time—"

"And we shall lose more if you keep me talking here instead of getting on with all we have to do at this end," Wadden interposed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Enthwaite, and I'll do my best—good-bye."

Heedless of a further attempt at persuasion, he replaced the receiver and went out from the booth to ascend the stairs again.

Chapter II
Exit by the Back Yard

PETTY offenders against law and order in Westingborough and the surrounding district knew Superintendent Wadden as a large, fat man with a bulging neck and fierce eyes that had an uncannily searching quality. Eyes like gimlets was a phrase often used concerning them, and many a hardened sinner had wilted when the Superintendent directed his gaze in a way that rendered lying excuses not merely futile, but dangerously foolish. Poachers, tramps, and their kind all had a very wholesome fear of those eyes, and of their owner.

They would hardly have recognized him as he seated himself on the edge of the bed in which Annie Green had been placed after undressing, nor would they have known the voice as his when he looked up at the tall, golden-haired woman with: "Leave her to me, Nell. I'll see that she isn't worried or comes to any harm."

Nell—"Miss Cummins" to Westingborough since she had become proprietress as well as manageress of the Duke of York, but Wadden was an old friend and she did not resent the freedom of address from him—went out from the room and left him sitting on the edge of the bed, with his pudgy big hand stroking the thin hand of the girl on the coverlet. He smiled, ignoring the look of terror in the rather vacuous eyes that gazed up at him: intermittent shudders proved the severity of the seizure from which the girl had not yet fully recovered, and he ignored them too.

"Why, bless my soul, Annie," he said, "it seems only a day or two ago since you were a tiny little thing. Father still at the gasworks?"

"Well, that's sad, now." He felt rather discomposed over the break, but went on stroking her hand. "Then who looks after father, now?" He wished he knew more about the family, but, beyond the fact that Green was a gasworks employee, could remember nothing.

"Father sold up an' went into lodgin's when mother died," she said. "He reckoned I was old enough to go out to work, an' Miss Cummins—"

"I know," he observed, as she did not end it. "A real good sort, isn't she? Well, you'll have to hurry up and get better, Annie, and then have a few days off to get really strong again. It's being not strong enough makes you go down like this, you know."

"That's it—you cry if you feel like it," he advised. "Don't mind me. I feel like crying myself, very often, and you'd never believe what a sight I look with the tears rolling down my cheeks."

"Ah! That's better," he said encouragingly. "Now do you feel well enough to talk, Annie, or would you rather have a sleep first?"

"But there's no cause for being afraid," Wadden insisted earnestly. "Why on earth should you be afraid, my dear girl?"

"It's—oh, his eyes! And the blood!" She clutched at the hand that caressed her own, and gripped it fiercely.

"My dear, you mustn't let dreams get hold of you like that," he urged soothingly. "Why, I thought you were frightened because you dropped the tray! You know, when you were taking up the tea. They've got to get him some more tea—and if it was he who frightened you, I must see what can be done about it. We can't have people doing things like that."

"Why, what do you think?" he answered, and smiled at her again. "It's got to be stopped, and Miss Cummins sent for me to come and stop it. That's why I'm here, and I want you to tell me everything about it to help me stop it. We can't have men frightening girls like this."

"Well, now, would I be sitting here like this, if it were? Tell me that, Annie. Would I, now?" he asked persuasively.

"Of course not! He must have got it up to scare you, and that's the sort of thing I'm not going to let happen again—you can make up your mind to that, Annie. Now you took the tea up, didn't you?"

"Ye-yes, Mr. Wadden." She was growing more composed, interested by reason of his interest in her. And the reassuring gentleness of him was a thing at which to marvel, an inspiration to confidence.

"I—the door was locked, Mr. Wadden. I tried the handle. So I put the tray down an' went an' told Miss Cummins. Downstairs. His tea was for half-past eight. She said—go through number eight."

"The next room, that is." He sounded very interested, leading her on to tell all her story before she should recall horror of what she had seen. "But you dropped the tray in front of the door of his room, as if you'd gone in that way. Don't you remember, Annie?"

"No, sir. I was goin' to put it on the chair against that door an' then move the chair up to the bed, but then I looked round an'—ooh!"

"All right, all right, my dear!" he soothed her. "Now I know exactly what happened we won't talk about it any more. You just lie quiet and I'll send someone along to sit with you till you feel like a sleep."

With a smile and a reassuring pat on her hand, he rose from the bed and went out from the room as quietly as if he trod on eggs for a bet.

An inspection of the hotel register which Head made while Nell was receipting the commercial traveller's bill revealed only two guests for this present week. "A. W. Smith, Wolverhampton, British Subject," appeared under the date "April 7th," which went to show that the commercial man had arrived on the Monday and spent the whole of Tuesday—the preceding day—in the town or its vicinity. Then, under Tuesday's date, was inscribed "Arnold Feilding, Bloomsbury, British Subject," and Head noted that the "e" and "d" of the signature were Greek letters—the "d", separate from the "l" that preceded it, was a perfect lower-case Greek "delta." By the time he had finished his survey of the register, A. W. Smith was on his way to his car outside, hurrying lest he should be caught and asked to stop as a witness to what had occurred in the hotel, and Nell emerged from her office at the back of the big entrance hall and faced Head. She was quite composed now, though the stains on the front of her linen frock still showed, and she had had no chance to tidy her hair.

"That is the man," she assented. "I wonder—this is a terrible thing to happen, Mr. Read. Not only—not only in itself, but for the hotel, I mean. For me. I don't know if you think that selfish—"

"We have to think for ourselves, and obviously he was nothing to you," he answered. "But I want all you can tell me about it—you said over in the Superintendent's office that you thought you knew—what?"

"I—but we can hardly talk here," she answered. The news of some abnormal happening had already got out, and a small group of idlers showed on the pavement beyond the glass-floored entrance. Gazing in that direction, Head saw that the sleety rain had stopped and there was a gleam of sunshine—April weather in its traditional variableness.

A shirt-sleeved lad was busy polishing the bar that ran along the back of the big lounge, and a girl with a carpet-sweeper was at work in the dining-room—the staff, well-trained, were at their tasks in normal fashion. Nell turned and nodded at the staircase.

He went up the staircase with her, past the room in which Wadden talked to Annie Green and the one in which Doctor Bennett had not yet finished his examination of Feilding's body, and on to a big apartment at the end of the corridor which looked out on the back of the hotel premises. It was comfortably furnished as a bed-sitting-room, with a single divan bed, unmade as yet, by one wall, and, under the window, a flat-topped mahogany knee-hole desk with neat little piles of papers, invoices and the like, showing that its occupant used it for her clerical work to some extent. She went straight to the window as Head closed the door, and, turning to him, pointed out to the hotel yard.

"There," she said. "It was there I saw what I did. Somebody climbing over the gate, very early this morning. And I went down—"

"Just a minute," he interrupted. "If you don't mind, I'd like the whole story—everything, from the time this man came into the hotel."

"Yes—I see, Mr. Head. Well, he arrived yesterday morning, about noon. I suppose he came off the noon train, since he put a London address in the register. Parker—the head waiter, that is—booked him in, because I was having my lunch at the time. I always lunch early, so as to be free when the hotel lunches are on. He told Parker he wanted a good room, not a poky little one, so Parker gave him number seven and came and told me, and I said it was all right. I saw him later when he was having his lunch, just to ask if he were comfortable and liked his room, and he said he did—"

"And your impression of him then?" Head interrupted. "What sort of man did you take him to be? What class of man, I mean?"

"I should say quite well-to-do," she answered slowly. "He was very well-dressed in a rather noticeable shade of grey—I expect you've seen his clothes, though. A handsome man, I should say, but not a good face. He said he didn't know how long he was staying, and then I left him to get on with his meal and attend to other things."

"I didn't see him again," she answered. "Parker told me this morning that he—this man, that is—came in last night about a quarter-past eleven, just as he was locking up the front door for the night. I noticed that he was not in for dinner, but didn't think anything of it. He might have had friends in the neighbourhood and gone to see them, for all I could tell. One doesn't take much notice. So many come and go. There was no tea booked against him, I know, and Parker put on the slate that early morning tea was to be taken to number seven at half-past eight this morning, which Annie Green took up. But before that—"

She broke off, and went to stand before the writing desk, looking out from the window. "Naturally, I didn't connect it then," she said. "But— Oh, all this is so terrible! And I saw—out there—"

"Yes. A man climbing over the gate there. It wasn't fully light, and I could only see him as a dim sort of figure, climbing over—"

"No. Oh, no! I don't get up as early as that. No, but I was awake, and heard a noise—it sounded like somebody at the back door. So I got out of bed, thinking of burglars and knowing that cook sometimes forgets to lock the back door before she goes to bed—she's always the last to go, and that door is left to her. I looked out of the window and saw this man—just saw him, not enough to be able to know who he was or anything about him. I put on my dressing-gown—the one hanging on the door there—and went down, and found the back door unlocked. I locked it, and then looked at the safe and found it hadn't been broken open, and I went through all the ground floor rooms, but could see no sign of anyone having been there. I'd made up my mind to come and tell you or the Superintendent if any loss were reported in the morning, and came down at my usual time—"

"Between half-past seven and eight—I'm not sure to a minute or two. With only two guests in the place, it's quite early enough."

"Mine? I don't have any brought up. Sometimes I have a cup after I get downstairs, but not often. I didn't this morning. But why?"

"Trying to fix your time of coming down more clearly," he explained with a smile. "Never mind, though. Could you state the time when you saw this man climbing over the gate that gives on to the road?"

She shook her head. "Only that it was just beginning to get light, and raining at the time," she said. "I didn't look."

"Perhaps. It was a dull morning, and raining—such an utter change after the beautiful spring evening yesterday. Not six, because cook comes down then. There was nobody about."

"Except this man," he said thoughtfully. "And you have no idea of his identity—you can give me no particulars about him?"

"None, Mr. Head. Just a dimmish figure, on top of the gate when I saw him. Then he dropped on the outside—disappeared, from my sight."

"I couldn't even tell you that. It wasn't light, you see—only just beginning to get light. This room was still quite dark, and I only knew dawn was beginning because the window showed more plainly."

"I didn't see any. But then, I didn't look closely, and there's coco-matting all the way from the backdoor, past the kitchen and on as far as the door leading into the dining-room."

He thought it over. A dozen or more people would have gone in and out of that back doorway by this time. Then, standing before the desk, he looked out from the window. On the right of the big yard was a range of open sheds, and on the left sliding doors enclosed garages that had replaced the old-time stables. At the far side, two doors, about seven feet in height, had been opened from the twelve-foot entrance in the wall dividing the yard from the road, probably to yield egress to the commercial traveller's car. Little or no trace of the night's intruder would remain there now, evidently, though in climbing he might have left some marks on one of the doors.

He stood looking out from the window, cogitating. Ten o'clock now, or nearly so, and the man who had climbed that gate—the murderer, almost certainly, had been well away from the place by six. Four hours start: he might be in another country by this time, and on the little Nell had seen no description could be based. It was no straightforward case, and hurrying after the man with no more particulars than he had was useless. And he had not even seen Bennett or Wells, yet.

His gaze dropped to the desk before him. Neat little piles of papers, a gold-banded fountain pen, uncapped, and a silver propelling pencil in a tray, a bottle of ink, and a flapjack laid beside it—Nell was a methodical, orderly person, by the look of these things, and also by the way in which she related all she knew. And, as she had said, this affair meant grave damage to her as proprietress of the hotel: it was the main hostelry in Westingborough, but the murder of a guest in his bed might ruin it—and her. People would fight shy of it, after such a happening, no matter what cause for it might come to light.

"Gibbons—yes," he said at last. "And then, Annie Green took up the tea, and discovered the body—isn't that so?"

"Took up the tea, and found his door locked," Nell amended. "She came down and told me she could get no reply when she knocked, so I told her to go in by the communicating door between seven and eight. I thought probably he was a heavy sleeper. Then I heard the crash of the tray and her scream, and went up. I could see at once nothing could be done for him, so I took her to the room across the corridor, and by that time I had realized she was epileptic. She went from one fit into another, which was why I didn't come over to the police station at once. I couldn't leave her till Doctor Bennett got here."

"Why, yes." She smiled slightly. "She's just a frail little girl, and if I'd stayed to get help—well, I didn't. I rang for it after I'd taken her into the other room, and two of us got her undressed before I came across to you. The doctor had got here, then—"

"Finger-prints," he explained. "But since she had already turned the key to get into the room, it makes no difference. But—" Again he cogitated. Someone who not only knew that Feilding was in number seven, but also knew that access to the room could be gained by means of that communicating door, had planted that sure blow by which the man had been killed. Unless, of course, Feilding had driven the blade through his own heart, which was in the last degree unlikely. Someone had tried the door of number seven, found it locked, and then made entry from number eight. He had had a coco-matted way from the back door to the main entrance hall, and then a carpeted way up the stairs and into number seven. A silent way, if he were reasonably careful. But he must have known the geography of the hotel very well indeed.

"Many people in here yesterday afternoon or last night?" he asked abruptly, turning from the desk to look at her.

"The usual people," she answered. "You know, there's a little group gathers round the bar in the lounge. A young couple came in for tea—strangers as far as I'm concerned, and I concluded they were motoring through. I saw them get into a car and drive away."

She shook her head. "No. Anyone might have inspected it, of course. It lies on that ledge, open, just inside the office."

"That couple with the car who came in for tea—did either of them take a look at it, do you know?"

"I've no idea," she answered. "They looked round the lounge, and round the entrance hall too—at the pictures and other things on the walls, and I heard the girl say in the lounge that it was a fascinating old place. But they looked—well, just ordinary people."

"I don't know. If so, he was up in his room, I should say. I didn't see him down in any of the public rooms."

"You have no idea what time he went out to return at a quarter-past eleven last night, or where he went during the evening?"

"One other thing," he said after a pause. "His door was locked from the inside—Annie Green had to unlock the communicating door to get in, hadn't she, when she took the tea up?"

"I did. I went into his room again before coming across to you—to see the Superintendent and tell him—and I went out by that door and locked it again. Some vague sort of idea—it was like that when she went in, and so ought to be like that for you to see. You know—if you don't understand, I can't explain it."

"I think I do understand," he said smiling. "Yes—but to complete it you should have locked his door too, you know."

"I didn't think," she confessed. "It was—call it a sort of automatic action. I remember I wanted to lock his door, but the key was on the inside, and I wouldn't go into that room again after coming out by the other door. It was too—too ghastly, and I was too upset."

"Naturally," he observed. "Well, I must get on. Your man Parker first, I think, in case he can add anything to what you've told me."

"I was thinking—the bar will be crowded, since the news has got about, and it's not the sort of trade I want. It will do the place more harm than good. But as you say it's got to be."

"Don't assume the worst," he advised kindly. "You've built yourself a reputation in Westingborough and made this hotel a different place from what it was in Bragg's time, and that will count for a good deal. In a year, say, you'll find things as they were before this happened. People have very short memories, you'll see."

"Both you and the Superintendent—you've always got time for other people's troubles, no matter what you have of your own."

"Your record in that direction is not so bad," he countered, smiling. "But I'd like you to remember, if you get to thinking over this, that your man who climbed over the gate knows this hotel practically as well as you do, if he were the one who got into that room and did the killing. With that, you may help us to identify him."

"I won't forget," she promised. "This—it's injury to me, you see, and so—well, I think you understand, Mr. Head."

He left her, then, and found Doctor Bennett down in the entrance hall, conversing with Wadden while Wells and the constable awaited further orders. Head glanced a question at Wells, who shook his head.

"Precious little, sir," he said. "Tooth glass and brush in it—his own prints, for a certainty. I've taken them to make sure. A muddled lot on both door keys—the handles won't take prints. But the spike it was done with—nothing at all on it. Gloves, or a handkerchief—it's a beautiful surface for prints, too."

"It was not suicide," Bennett said, joining them. "He couldn't have driven the spike right through like that. And the marks on his throat—he wouldn't have held himself down to stab himself."

"Merely that he was stabbed, once, at somewhere between four and five o'clock this morning, and death was almost instantaneous. I should say the stabber gripped him by the throat, and probably he flung off the bedclothes himself in an attempt at getting free. Then the spike was driven in, through the heart—and there's no more to tell you."

"No." The reply was grimly emphatic. "And now, since I have work to do, what about letting me go to it?"

"Yes. Wells, arrange to get the body out by the back way, and arrange for every possible inquiry for a man who climbed over the back yard gate of the hotel just before dawn this morning. No particulars of him, except that he climbed out from the yard—it was too dark for any identification. See to that first, and then get the body away to the mortuary. Ring for the ambulance to drive in at the back here. Chief, have you anything to tell me?" He turned to Wadden.

"I have, laddie," Wadden answered. "The man who did it knows the Duke of York as well as if it were his own home."

"I've found that out," Head said rather dryly. "Also, he's got between four and five hours' start on us, so the sooner we question the hotel staff to see if we can get a line on him, the better. I want specially to see the head waiter, a man named Gibbons, and the cook. Will you tackle the rest and see what you can get?"

"Yes, I'll—half a minute, though. Mr. Enthwaite of Carden is boiling over with anxiety to see either you or me."

"Oh, well, another hour or so won't hurt him. You take your three, and I'll see what I can get out of the rest of them."

Chapter III
The Spike

BEHIND the hotel lounge was an apartment usually known as the "small writing-room," also used as a sort of drawing-room by lady visitors who disapproved of a lounge with a bar in it. Here Head came to interview the three from whom he hoped—very faintly indeed—to gain some information that would be of use to him, and here, first of the three, entered Parker, the head waiter, a sombre-looking individual, heavy-jawed, blue-chinned prior to his morning shave, which he had evidently postponed, and with deep-set eyes with which he turned the merest look into a cold, unfriendly stare. He faced Head, who had seated himself at a writing table by the window of the room, and had before him on the table the spike with which Feilding had been killed. It was about six inches in length, round in section, with a needle-like point, and the spike itself, as well as the flat end of the handle into which it was fitted, was rustily, ominously stained.

"Know anything about this?" Head inquired, pointing to the spike and ignoring the greeting.

"Bills." He seemed content to let the one word stand alone, but then responded to Head's questioning, rather stern gaze. "When we're busy, I spike the bills with it after they're paid for addin' up an' accountin'. But not lately. Not enough people in."

"Eight lunch, one dinner, sir," said Parker, and shut his mouth as if he feared to let another word escape.

"Look here, man," Head expostulated with some impatience, "I don't want to go on dragging replies of that sort out of you. If you know where the thing was, or who had it, for heaven's sake tell me and save both your time and my own! Do you know where it was, or who had it?"

"Gibbons borrowed it, sir, three days ago," Parker confessed, as if he hated furnishing that or any information. "That's all I know."

"You booked a man in and gave him room number seven yesterday," Head stated. "Do you know anything about him?"

"Do you know anything about him living, I mean?" Head demanded. "Have you ever seen the man before?"

"Nozur. Said he wanted a good room, so I thought seven. An' seven it was. I told Miss Cummins, an' she said all right. It's a double."

Head drew a long breath—of exasperation with such a witness, from whom it appeared that every admission had to be extracted as if it were a tooth. But he made no further remonstrance: there had been a certain significance in the way in which Parker had tried to pick up the spike the moment his attention had been directed to it.

"Yazzer. Telephonin' in the box afore he went out, an' when he come in. After eleven, that was, when I was lockin' the front doors."

"Parker"—Head risked a direct appeal—"that man was murdered last night in this hotel, as probably you know. It's a disaster for Miss Cummins, and very probably for you too, but we may be able to make things better by discovering by whom and for what reason the man was killed. And for that I want to know everything I can find out about him—and about another man as well. Is there anything else you can tell me about him that might help—anything that you or he said, or anything that you saw in connection with him to give us a lead?"

"Nozur," Parker answered. "Except—you could tell that grey suit a mile off, an' him by it. That's all."

"Such as the back door being opened or closed, or noises on the first floor, especially toward morning?"

Parker took his departure so hastily that it looked like an escape, and Head sat brooding over the brown-stained spike until the cook, a tall, thin, middle-aged woman, made her appearance.

"Mrs. Roberts, I believe," Head said. "I want to ask you a question or two, if you don't mind. You know what happened here last night, the death of this man Feilding—"

"Oh, yes, sir," she, broke in, "an' poor Annie—I wouldn't wonder if her mind was permanently affected. She's none too strong in the head, an' the shock of it—terrible! Awful for her!"

"Quite so," Head agreed calmly. "Mrs. Roberts, did you lock the back door before you went to bed last night?"

"I am to take it that you did not lock the back door last night?" he insisted, gazing steadily at her.

"Well, no, sir. I'm not sure, but I believe I did. I have forgot it once or twice, an' with the yard doors bein' locked it don't seem as if we could come to any harm, an' one night's very much like another, an' I did forget it Sunday night, because Miss Cummins told me I did an' oughtenter, but I believe—last night, let me see! Yes, I believe I did lock it, but I couldn't actually swear to it."

"But I can't do that, Mr. Head," she protested. "I believe I did lock it, but I can't be sure enough to swear to it. What with the boiler dampers an' all I have to see to before I go to bed—but I truly believe I did lock that door. Yet if I was to swear, an' didn't after all—well, that'd be tellin' a lie, wouldn't it, now? All I can say is that if I didn't, I'm mistaken, an' I'm nearly sure I did."

"Yes—it's the one Parker uses, I believe, but I wouldn't swear to that eether, because they ain't uncommon things. Only last week—it was Saturday, I believe—Gibbons wanted something to make holes with, an' I told him Parker'd lend him that if he asked—or the one Parker's got that's like it. He said a bradawl, but a spike would do."

She shook her head. "No, I don't. It was Ethel wanted him to tack up the valance round a dressin' table, he said, an' he wanted to make holes for the tacks. But whether he did—" Again she shook her head.

"Did you hear any unusual sound in the hotel—or out of it—when the alarm wakened you this morning?"

"Nuthin' whatever, sir. Never seen him, an' never heard of him in me life. I can take oath to that, if you want me to."

"You might be asked to take oath to it, yet," he told her. "Meanwhile, what is Ethel's surname, in case I want a word with her?"

The man took her place after a brief interval. Corduroy-trousered, rough-handed, he had an intelligent face and a pleasant manner. He nodded in response to Head's question concerning the spike.

"Why, yes, mister," he said. "Ethel got it for me off o' the sideboard in the dinin'-room, she said, one day last week. Friday or Saturday—it was Saturday, I remember now. Wanted a job done in that room the chap was killed in—by gum!" He stared at the thing with suddenly increased interest. "Was that what it was done with?"

"It's one o' these here tables with a sorter skirt round it wanted tackin' up," Gibbons said. "Dressin' table, wi' little drawers alongside the lookin' glass, an' there's a sorter skirt o' stiff stuff all round—looks sorter funny, I thought, but some part of it'd come away, an' it bein' hard wood I couldn't get the tacks to stick till I hammered 'em in. So she fetched me this, an' I used it instead of a bradawl to make the holes to start the tacks—hold 'em for hammerin'."

"I dunno, mister. I left it on the table. But was—was that what it was done with? Was he stabbed wi' that?"

"The investigation of what happened has hardly begun," Head said evasively. "Another thing I want to ask you, Gibbons. Is the back door of the hotel always locked at night, do you know?"

"Well, y' see, mister, the cook—that's Mrs. Roberts—it's her job to see that door locked. But she likes a drop o' somethin' short to help her to sleep, last thing, an' I wouldn't swear to her allus rememberin' what she's doin' about the time she stokes up the biler. Never over her work—I'll say that for her—but latish, like, she takes her drop. An' there have been times when I've found that door undone in the mornin', if a bagman wanted to get away early an' I had to go an' undo the gates so he could get his car away."

"Next room to Mrs. Roberts, mister—when she'll let me. For snorin', I reckon that woman'd take first prize anywhere. But she's a wonnerful cook, an' Miss Cummins ain't the sort to turn her off for likin' a nightcap afore she turns in. Ain't the sort to turn anyone off, as far as that goes, unless they're right down bad uns."

"Did you see any signs of their having been tampered with, or of anyone having got into the yard during the night?"

"Why, no, mister. But then, it's no use anyone gettin' into the yard. The cars are all locked up—there was only one in, last night, except for the hotel bus, an' nobody'd steal that. But I locked the gates last night, if that's what you mean. I'll swear to that."

"Quite so—I don't doubt it," Head assured him. "Your bedroom looks out on the front of the hotel, I take it—on to Market Street?"

"Did you hear any sounds at all in the night, or early this morning?" Head interrupted him. "Either in the hotel or outside?"

"Not a thing, mister, an' I was down by half after six for boots an' shoes. Seven didn't put his out, so there was only that commercial an' Miss Cummins' two pair for me to do. No, I heard nuthin'."

"It were locked, but I heerd Miss Cummins givin' Mrs. Roberts a dressin' down about it, an' I thinks to myself that's funny, for it were locked when I had to go out in the yard—unless p'raps Miss Cummins found it weren't locked afore I went to it. Happen she did."

"Possibly," Head agreed. "Send Ethel Andrews here as you go, Gibbons, and thanks for all you've told me."

Flustered, and a trifle mutinous, Ethel Andrews admitted to recognizing the spike as the one she had borrowed from the dining-room for Gibbon's use on the dressing table valance the Saturday before.

"But," she added, "Mr. Wadden's just been asking me all sorts of questions, and I've got me work to do, Mr. Head."

She was a pretty girl, and nobody was more conscious of the fact than herself. Head eyed her gravely at first, and then smiled.

"You're not the only one, Ethel," he told her. "Now tell me, what became of this spike after Gibbons had finished using it?"

"I expect it stopped there, if he didn't give it back to Parker," she answered. "I thought he would give it back, knowing where it came from. But—no, though. It was left on the table, I remember, because when I went to turn the bed down last night it was there. I noticed it and yet didn't notice it, as you might say. And now— Oooh! If Gibbons had taken it back, this wouldn't—the gentleman wouldn't—" She broke off, staring at the ominous thing with fear in her eyes.

"Why, no." She looked surprised at the question. "I'd never seen him before. We get lots of strangers in to meals."

"Well, I don't know. I didn't like his face. He looked as if—he didn't look good, to me, if you know what I mean. Though perhaps I oughtn't to say that about a man what's dead. And I particularly noticed his suit, a lovely grey such as you don't often see. Quite new, too, it looked. You couldn't mistake him anywhere."

"Well, I mean you'd pick out that suit anywhere—the colour of it. Sort of—distangy, if you know what I mean. Extra special."

"Did you hear or see anything unusual in the hotel last night, or early this morning? Any unusual sounds, for instance?"

"I was just coming to look for you, Head," Wadden told him. "I've investigated the lot of them, and got nothing, except that the cook lifts her elbow and Nell keeps her on out of sheer goodness of heart because she's got two kids tucked away somewhere—not here. But as for anything bearing on this affair—well! It's tough. And now I think I'll leave it to you and get away to Carden to see Mr. Enthwaite before he starts tearing holes in the ground, which is what he sounded like because I wouldn't turn out at once when he rang through here."

"Bless you for them words, Mr. Copperfield!" Wadden said fervently. "But what—why—how—you can't leave this alone, man?"

"Don't intend to leave it alone. Feilding made inquiries about getting to Carden yesterday afternoon, and probably went there. And in that grey suit of his—unless he had his overcoat on, which wasn't likely on a day like yesterday—he'd show up like a miller in a tar barrel. I'll just have a look in the back yard here, and then start."

"I think I'll start in by trying to find out why it was done," Head answered thoughtfully. "Whoever did it has got too much start for a direct quest—he may be back in London by this time, though—well, he knows this hotel, inside and out. Oh, while I'm away, see if you can trace a long telephone call he took from here yesterday afternoon, before six o'clock. I corkscrewed that out of Parker, who tried to destroy any possible finger prints on the spike handle."

"Yes, but if it's local you won't get it—the dial system doesn't record anything but the fact of the call," Wadden pointed out.

"Quite so, but it might be toll or trunk," Head retorted. "Feilding of Bloomsbury—untraceable, probably, but you might look up London directory and telephone directory for me. It's not a common name, with the 'e' before the 'i' in spelling. Will you try it?"

"Yes, I'm sorry for her. But I think the hotel will stand it, if we catch the man who climbed over the gate. I'll have a look there, and then run over to Carden and take in Enthwaite for you."

But, when Head inspected the gates at the yard entrance, they yielded nothing. They were made of upright planks with the cross-members on the inside, and, originally dark green, now needed painting. The blistered, peeling paint that remained on them was in such a state that anyone climbing over carefully could avoid leaving any sign of his feat: certain scratches which looked promising at first revealed themselves as made by the bumper or dumb-irons of a car, on close inspection, while the yard itself, floored with old-fashioned cobble-stones, retained no footprints. Harker's Lane, on to which the gateway gave, was bounded by pavement which had been washed clean by the morning's rain. A final survey of the gates convinced Head that an active man could get over them and leave no trace on either side, if he went at it carefully. With his hands on the top he could leap, swing his feet over, and drop on the other side without making a scratch.

Head went through the hotel again, and, once more ascending the staircase, found that no board creaked under him anywhere—the place was solidly built, and from the back door to that of room number seven one could move soundlessly. Coming down again, he saw Nell in the entrance hall, and her eyes questioned him.

"I know," she said, "but she's a first-class cook, and never lets it interfere with her work. You are thinking—the back door?"

"Quite probably he'd have got in if it had been locked," he remarked. "But are you quite sure you can tell me no more about him?"

"Nothing more." There was finality in the reply. "Just a dim figure in the dark and the rain—I wouldn't know him if I saw him again."

He went out, passed through the group of idlers who stood on the pavement outside waiting for the bar to open, and turned out the small car which he usually drove. It was near on eleven o'clock when he set out for Carden.

Chapter IV
Motive?

EMERGING on the Carden side of the cutting in which the road over the shoulder of Condor Hill reached its highest point, Head kept his foot off the accelerator and even used the brake instead, for time to survey the long perspective which, although he knew it so well, was ever fresh and ever beautiful. Here at this bleak height, the catkins were just beginning to droop on the hazel twigs, but in the sheltered valley before and beneath him the wonderful pale green of spring's annual miracle was beginning to tint the trees.

The garden behind the Carden Arms was a blaze of daffodil yellow; to right of the village street, along the lane leading past the station, pink bouquets—they appeared no more, at this distance—declared that the almond trees were flowering, and over the red roofs, over the springing green about them, bright sunlight intensified the clean tones of colour, though in the far west a white squall went across the darkness of a clouded area of country. And, to right of the station, Enthwaite House sat grey and ugly among groves of oak, with, a half mile in front of it, the one remaining tower of Anger* Castle, a huge, empty, roofless cylinder said to have been built in the reign of John the Abominable. The name was commonly believed to be a corruption of the word "Anjou", and may have been so, since the Ralph de Courvald who built the castle held it for John, with whom he sided against his fellow-barons at Runnymede. These de Courvalds had become extinct in the male line at the time of the Civil War, and Doth-Not-Behave-Itself-Unseemly Enthwaite, who, as his name implied, was a very staunch Puritan indeed, managed to marry Dorothy de Courvald, and built his house of the castle stones.

But he left that one tower intact, and still it stands in the parkland surrounding the house. Save for grass-covered foundations, nothing else of the ancient stronghold remains; the moat was filled in by some one of the Enthwaites, and there beside the ill-kept, little used road between Carden station and Westingborough Parva, the tower stands lonely at one end of the mound on which the castle buildings and guarding wall were reared. Its circular wall, fourteen feet thick at ground level and twelve at the top, is unique in that, instead of an ordinary spiral stairway within its thickness, it contains a stair which winds once round the tower from base to top, with three exits to mark the spacing of the upper floors, of which no trace remains to-day except the mortises in the stone for the ends of floor beams.

With a query in his mind as to what Ralph Enthwaite, the present owner of Enthwaite House and the few farms that made up his estate, considered important enough to summon police to his presence, and also a slight feeling of irritation over having to combine this errand with his quest for the murderer of Arnold Feilding, Head took his foot off the brake pedal and let the car gather momentum. The perspective diminished rapidly, and in a few minutes, ignoring Enthwaite's summons for the time as Wadden had virtually ignored it all the morning, he turned in to the forecourt of the Carden Arms, once an ordinary village hostelry, but now, under the management of Cortazzi, a naturalized Italian who had added to the accommodation and exploited to the full the possibilities of the place, a fairly large country hotel.

Cortazzi himself, middle-aged, stout and partly bald and very genial, greeted Head in the entrance lounge, a very comfortable apartment fitted with a bar in one corner and warmed by a big coal fire.

"Ze feesh—yaas? Bring me ze feesh, Mr. 'Ead, an' I give 'im to ze cook to fry for you. He shall be for ze lunch for you, especial."

"Not that sort of fish, Cortazzi," Head told him. "I'm looking, for one thing, for a man in grey, specially and noticeably in a very nice grey suit, who might have looked in on you here yesterday."

"Ah! But now do I compre'end," Cortazzi announced. "Ze man in grey—yaas. 'E have beautiful brown 'air, per'aps too beautiful to be true—yaas? An' 'e is not so tall laik you—about laik me?"

"It sounds like him," Head admitted. "Arriving here last night somewhere about a quarter to seven—by the bus from Westingborough."

"Zat is ze man!" Cortazzi declared. "But I 'ave not seen 'im to-day—noh! 'E say per'aps can I let 'im 'ave a room, an' I say yaas, for ze week-end she is in ze middle, an' I 'ave not many people stay 'ere yet—ze wezzer she is not good for ze golluf an' ze uzzer games zey come for—feeshing, an' ze tennis an' ze what-nots. But 'e do not come back for ze room, zis man in grey. No good, I theenk."

So far, Head reflected, nobody appeared to have been favourably impressed by Arnold Feilding. Cortazzi's tone damned him as surely as had Ethel Andrews' estimate of his character after serving him with coffee at the Duke of York. They might be wrong, of course, but—

"Came in by the bus," he remarked, "and then what? Can you give me an account of what he did, Cortazzi, missing out nothing?"

"Oh, yaas, Mr. 'Ead. First, 'e ask what time is ze dinner, an' I tell 'im. Zen 'e look at ze picture post carts at ze reception desk, an' 'e take down one of ze old castle—ze round tower—but, when I tell 'im it is four-pence 'e put it back in ze stand. Zen 'e 'ave a gin an' mixed, an' zen a double gin an' mixed. Zen 'e telephone, an' ze gong she go for ze dinner, an' 'e go in to ze dining-room—"

Cortazzi shook his head. "Noh, but I cannot tell you zat," he said gravely, "for it was what you call ze local, not ze tronk. Because ze box, as you see, Mr. 'Ead, she is shut off so nobody listen, but she is not—how you call it?—not ze slot. An' some people zey telephone ze tronk an' zen try to make me believe it is ze local, so always when I am 'ere I stand outside ze box an' watch, an' if zey waggle ze dial only three time, I know it is ze tronk, an' charge for ze tronk. But zis man in grey, 'e waggle ze dial five times, so I know it is ze local call—an' zat dam Henry, ze waiter, he forget to put ze call on ze bill! So I dock 'im tuppence, which 'e lose me."

"It is ze tuppences zat make ze bankrupt, if 'e do not watch zem," Cortazzi declared seriously. "But zen, ze man in grey—yaas' Mr. 'Ead. In ze dining-room 'e ask for ze wine list, an' I take it to 'im myself, because I am not busy, an' tell 'im we 'ave a very good Chianti, ze red or ze white, an' 'e say 'e do not want any Italian mook—muck. Zat is what 'e call my Chianti! So 'e choose a 'alf bottle of claret, cheap, which I would not drink at my own funeral, for I tell you in confidence I buy it by ze barrel an' put ze labels on ze bottles, an' never recommend it only to 'oneymoon couples, for to make zis place pay you must study ze psychology—yaas. But if you 'ave lunch 'ere to-day, Mr. 'Ead, I find you a claret zat is like Lafitte, at 'alf ze price."

"We'll see about that later—if I'm here for lunch," Head half promised. "But this man—he had dinner, you say?"

"An' zen 'e pay ze bill, an' Henry forget ze tuppence. Zen 'e come to me in ze lounge 'ere—ze man in grey, not Henry—an' say 'e is going out, but if 'e come back can I give 'im a room. An' I say yaas, an' what is ze name, an' 'e say 'e will put ze name down if 'e come back for ze room, an' 'e go out, an' do not come back."

"'E turn to ze right, to ze village," Cortazzi answered. "I see 'im in ze moonlight—it was a beautiful evening, Mr. 'Ead, but I am glad ze man what call my good Chianti Italian mook do not come back, because I do not theenk ze money is altogezzer everything for my life, but zere is too ze nice respect zat make you laik people, ze courtesy, ze—ze—how you call it? To regard ze man who live by service, like me, not to insult 'im, but to give ze nice courtesy to—to ze boiled egg not less zan to ze lobster mayonnaise."

"Quite so," Head agreed gravely. "And what time would it be when this man went out and turned toward the village?"

"Well, all ze dinners was fineesh by eight," Cortazzi reflected. "Zen 'e stop to ask me about ze room 'e do not 'ave after all, an' zen 'e look at 'is watch an' go. I theenk quarter past eight, Mr. 'Ead."

"Ah! Many thanks, Cortazzi. I may look in for lunch, if I've time for it. Meanwhile, one telephone call before I go."

Dialling the operator, he called for Westingborough police and got himself put through to Superintendent Wadden, who blew into his transmitter in response to Head's request for news of his inquiries.

"First," Wadden said, "there's no news of anyone in Harker's Lane early this morning—you asked Wells to look into that, he tells me. Yates was on last night, and he went along the lane at about four this morning and saw nothing—naturally, since your man hadn't been killed then, and the one who did it was probably inside the hotel. Next, Feilding of Bloomsbury doesn't exist in any record I can look up. And thirdly, his call from the hotel was toll, made at five forty-five precisely, to Carden 92. That, I have ascertained for you, is a public call-box—one of those up-ended red coffins with glass sides—on the way to Crandon at the far end of Carden Street. About where it begins to call itself the London Road again, in fact, and not far short of the house called The Angle, which you may remember. He talked to a woman, and took a second three minutes, but the operator swears she didn't listen in, only knew it was a woman because she had to break in to say time was up, and a woman was speaking then. Maybe she didn't listen in, and having told me she didn't, she can't go back on it. That's all I've got for you, except that there's nothing but laundry marks on any of Feilding's clothing, so he's most likely a single man."

"It's not every wife that marks her husband's clothing," Head objected to the deduction. "Is that all, Chief?"

"Oh, no! I've kept the best till last. Enthwaite rang up again about a quarter of an hour ago, and I told him you were on your way to him. He told me I was a disgrace to the country, called down the wrath of God on me for all this delay, said you might as well stop away now for all the good you could do, and still wouldn't tell me what it was all about. So I leave it to you whether you trouble over seeing him or no, with this Feilding case on your hands. Any news yet of him?"

"Yes, he dined at the Carden Arms and then went out—I'll give you all of it when I get back, but that's all I've got, so far."

Emerging from the telephone box, Head paid Cortazzi for the call and went out to his car. He drove along the village street, pulling in to the side and beckoning at sight of Sergeant Plender, who was responsible for the maintenance of law and supervision of motorists in Carden.

"The public call-box ahead of me at the end of the village," Head explained when the sergeant arrived alongside his car. "A man found murdered in his bed at the Duke of York this morning rang a woman and talked to her at five forty-five yesterday evening—the call was by appointment, obviously, and quite probably she was hanging round the box for some minutes waiting for the bell to ring. Carden 92 is the number, and it's the call-box nearest The Angle."

"Badly," Head assented. "Also, a man rather conspicuously and very well dressed in grey came over here from Westingborough last night, arriving at the Carden Arms at about a quarter to seven—off the bus, almost certainly. He dined at the Carden Arms and went out from there at about a quarter-past eight. I want any trace of him you can get from that time onward to, say, ten-thirty or eleven."

"No. The one who was done. If you can get anything at all on either of those two queries, the woman in the telephone box at a quarter to six and this man from eight-fifteen onward, be at the Carden Arms with it by half-past one. In any case, ring through there at that time and ask for me, if you've nothing to justify coming to report."

Turning the car about, since he did not think it worth while to go on as far as the telephone call-box and examine it, Head drove back until he came to the lane leading past Carden station, where the road to Enthwaite House and on to Westingborough Parva branched off across the railway line. Up to now, he had had nothing to do with Ralph Enthwaite, and knew only that he owned the small estate which stretched toward Westingborough Parva to northward of Enthwaite House, and that, a year or two before, he had married a second time. He drove over the crossing by the station and saw the tower of Anger Castle rising grey and sombre above the leafless oaks of Enthwaite's park, and the house away to the left among the trees.

Saw, too, out of the corner of his eye, that Mr. Hawk, the station-master, emerged from his shabby wooden booking office to the plank platform of the station, to stand and gaze in the hope of ascertaining who was in the car, where it was going, and why. Mr. Hawk, a man of many interests—gardening and music were two of them—and one grievance, had a reputation for inquisitiveness, and maintained it strenuously: in fact, there were those who said that if other people's business had a buttonhole, then a button ought to be sewn on the station-master's nose, but Head, having once profited by that quality of Mr. Hawk's, did not resent it, though he knew the fact that he had driven to Enthwaite House would be tidings all over Carden by the end of the day.

Ten minutes after leaving Mr. Hawk behind, he was shown into the presence of Ralph Enthwaite, a scholarly-looking man of about fifty, rather carelessly dressed, clean-shaven, grey-haired, and owning a pair of keen grey eyes which, as he faced Head, had a decidedly unfriendly light in them. He fiddled with a monocle cord, and then broke out—

"Are you aware, Inspector Head, that I telephoned your Superintendent before nine o'clock this morning to request his presence here—or yours—at once, and that it is now past twelve o'clock?"

"Merely that both Superintendent Wadden and myself are responsible to no individual but the Chief Constable, and accept no orders from private persons," Head said, as quietly as before. "The case on which we are engaged, one of murder, stands before your request—or order, and if it is an order you must get the Chief Constable to deliver it."

"I see," Enthwaite said coldly. Then, abruptly, he turned and went to the window of the big, luxuriously-furnished room—it appeared to combine the functions of smoking-room and library—and for some seconds stood gazing out toward the ruined tower in the foreground, or Condor Hill and the ridge of which it formed a part in the distance.

"No," Enthwaite interrupted, in an altered tone, facing about. "I like the way you made it, Inspector, and feel—you are too late, of course, but still—here, have a cigar, and do sit down."

"I'd prefer a cigarette at this time of day, if I may—" and Head, feeling for his case, found a box of cigarettes thrust under his nose and took one, which Enthwaite lighted for him, the actions revealing that he was quivering with nervousness. Then he pulled forward a chair for his visitor, and seated himself facing it.

"I am in very grave trouble, Inspector," he said, "and if I state the case to you, it must not be spoken outside these four walls."

"That is understood," Head told him—and pitied him, seeing now that, whatever the trouble might be, it had almost broken the man.

"I am afraid I don't. You have not—well, we are very busy people over in Westingborough, and leave Carden mainly to subordinates—"

"Yes, yes," Enthwaite interrupted. "But not Carden. London, at the heart of things. Until my elder brother died three years ago, and I succeeded him here, I was at the parliamentary bar and—I have to say this for myself—was entrusted with secrets that very few men learn, trusted, probably, as much as any private individual ever had been. It is necessary to make you understand this, for what follows."

"A good part of my work," Enthwaite pursued, "consisted in revising and approving drafts of acts, orders, and the like. From your study of criminal and other law, I dare say you realize that a comma or a word in a phrase may alter the tenor and purpose of a whole act of parliament, or frustrate the intent with which a law is framed. Is it so?"

"Yes. Well, on Friday last Sir Osbert Macclesfield, whose name you may or may not know as that of a permanent government official, asked that I should call and see him, which I did. He informed me of a project for—let me call it an understanding with a foreign power, and not specify it more definitely than that. It was drafted in consultation with representatives of that power, and two copies exist, one in their hands and one in ours—or should be in ours. It is vitally necessary that the terms of this document should remain an absolute secret until it becomes binding on both parties, after which a wangle is to make it appear as a parliamentary measure—these things are still done, in spite of democratic government. Vitally necessary, I say, because, in the event of its being known before it is binding, there is grave risk—certainty, almost—of war."

"It is vitally necessary—I use the phrase again—that such a document should be scrupulously accurate in its wording, so that it may admit of only the intended interpretation," Enthwaite went on. "I may say that scores such have been entrusted to me for final scrutiny, and that my discretion has won me absolute trust. Sir Osbert, going through this document himself, was not quite satisfied with some of the phrasing, and thus he sent for me, and handed it to me—it is in three foolscap sheets of single-space typing—handed it to me for my opinion as to the phrasing. To-day is Wednesday. I am due to return the document to him, having made one inconspicuous but in reality tremendous alteration, at noon on Friday, in his office in London."

"I—yes, of course. You see it. Now, Inspector, I did a thing I have never done before, over this—brought it away from the chambers I still keep in London. I had promised to attend the wedding of my sister's child—my niece—yesterday morning, and came down here from London with my wife the night before, for that purpose. We attended the wedding at Todlington church, and you may guess how I regard this document when I tell you it was pinned to my undervest during the ceremony and until we got back here. I confess frankly—I had no right to bring it here at all, and now, unless it is found, I am a ruined man. Worse—I am damned in my own sight as unworthy of the trust reposed so freely in me by a man I have been proud to call friend."

"And what do you expect of us—of Superintendent Wadden and me?" Head asked after a pause.

"Expect of you? Why, to find it for me, of course. I became aware that it had gone this morning, and instantly telephoned—knowing your career, Inspector, although you do not know mine. It disappeared between half-past six yesterday evening, when I went up to dress for dinner, and a quarter to nine this morning, when I rang your Superintendent the first time, realizing that every minute was of value in the attempt at recovering it—recovering it before it can be lodged in the hands of the power which may regard it as cause for war, unless it is signed by the contracting powers and thus a guarantee of their unity. Your Superintendent, unfortunately, would not realize the urgency, and I dared not tell him over the telephone the facts I have told you, for fear of leakage."

"We are not omniscient," Head remarked, "and, as I told you, I believe, we have a murder case on our hands. But I wonder—Mr. Enthwaite, does the name Arnold Feilding convey anything to you?"

"Where was this document up to the time of its disappearance, Mr. Enthwaite? Tell me all you can about it, please."

"It was—in there." Enthwaite pointed to a beautiful old rosewood bureau standing in a recess beside the fire-place. "My wife and I returned here from the wedding at about three o'clock, and I came in here and settled to study of the document—unpinned it from my vest and sat down with it at the bureau. I put it in the breast pocket of my morning coat when I went for tea with my wife and—and the other two members of the family, and then came back here and settled to it again. You must understand that with a thing of this kind one goes over every word and phrase, over and over again, to make certain that only the intended interpretation is possible, and so I kept at it until about half-past six, when my wife came in to say she would come to London with me on Friday—she had intended to stay here, but changed her mind. Then, realizing it was time to go up to dress, since I felt like a hot bath, I locked the document in the bureau and went up, certain that since nobody but myself knew I had it here, it would be safe—"

"Mrs. Enthwaite—" her husband made a reproof of the name—"did not know even that I had been entrusted with the draft."

"Placed it in the middle drawer over the falling flap, where I put papers of importance and keep a cheque book, and then closed the flap and locked it. When I opened the bureau this morning at about half-past eight or a little later—just before I first rang through to your Superintendent, in fact—the document was not there."

"A very fine piece of furniture, that bureau," Head observed, rising to his feet and feeling in his trouser pocket.

"Yes, but what the devil does that matter?" Enthwaite snapped with sudden testiness. "I'm not concerned over the bureau—"

But, taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, Head went to the bureau and, choosing one of the keys, inserted it in the keyhole, turned it, and lowered the flap. Then he turned to Enthwaite, who gazed at him with something between amazement and fear in his eyes.

"Almost any ordinary key, Mr. Enthwaite," he said. "This is one belonging to an old wardrobe of mine. Sometimes these old locks are fine specimens of workmanship, but more often they are simple—like this."

Head glanced at the wide, double-casement window, and returned to seat himself again, leaving the bureau flap down.

"The fastenings are burglar-proof, and were untouched this morning when I examined them," Enthwaite said. "Also, before the four of us settled to bridge after dinner, I came in here, assured myself that the bureau was still locked, and then locked the door and put the key in my pocket. The door remained locked till I came into the room this morning."

"Quite probably, Mr. Enthwaite, the keys of other doors in the house will fit the lock on this door. If those casements were fastened, I can see that entry through them by an outsider is out of the question."

"Yes, some member of your household," Head completed for him, and rose to his feet. "Do you wish me to question them?"

"But that's utterly absurd!" Enthwaite exclaimed irritably. "I have three domestic servants, all natives of this district and absolutely trustworthy. Then there is Billings—he has been here since my father's time, and is a part of the place—I would as soon suspect myself as him. And Mrs. Enthwaite's maid—"

"No, impossible," Enthwaite said decidedly. "A middle-aged, staid sort of woman—she was with Mrs. Enthwaite when we married."

"But the document has disappeared," Head remarked quietly, "and by what you tell someone in this house is responsible."

Enthwaite shook his head. "None of them knew," he said. "I'm certain none of them knew the thing was here. Nobody but myself."

"No—but you don't know, of course. My first wife was a widow with two children, a boy and a girl, when I married her. I regard them as if they were my own children, and they still live here when they choose. Nina—Miss Tracy—is here practically all the time, but her brother lives in London except for some week-ends—and he came down for this wedding. They are both grown up now, of course."

"He went back this morning—caught the nine o'clock express from Westingborough. He is articled to a firm of architects, and—no, I'm certain you're wrong if you suspect him. Sure of him."

"Did you get any telephone calls between half-past six and dinner-time last night, Mr. Enthwaite?" Head asked, disregarding the other's anger at his implication regarding the lady of the house.

"Yes. With Mrs. Nevile of Long Ridge. Mrs. Enthwaite's maid went up to tell her she was wanted on the telephone just before she began dressing for dinner—the maid took the call, apparently."

"None whatever," Enthwaite said. "But we're wasting time, Inspector. Even if that draft is recovered now, its contents may have been communicated where the knowledge of them will do most harm—"

He had risen when Enthwaite got on his feet over that reference to his wife, but now, ignoring the fact that Enthwaite was still standing, he sat down again, took his cigarette case from his pocket and, taking out a cigarette, flicked his lighter and took a long draw.

"Frankly, an utter muddle," Head said, exhaling smoke and gazing up at him. "A man, a complete stranger signing his name as Arnold Feilding, booked a room at the Duke of York hotel in Westingborough yesterday in time for lunch there. He was apparently in the hotel all afternoon until he telephoned a call-box at the other side of Carden—the, Crandon side, on the London road—at a quarter to six. A call-box, so somebody must have been waiting for that call. Then it seems that he came over to Carden by bus, for he arrived at the Carden Arms before seven, and again telephoned, a local call. He went out from the Carden Arms at about a quarter-past eight, and did not return. This morning he was found in his bed at the Duke of York, stabbed through the heart, and with no paper of any kind to establish his identity—except for a florist's bill for orchids which bears no name but that of the firm, in Knightsbridge. Then your story of this document—to me, something far more like a Le Queux novel than real—but if this man had managed to get into your house, or been in league with someone inside the house to abstract that document. Someone who would hand it to him—"

"No!" Enthwaite broke in. "I see your point, and if rival—interests, let me call them—were contending for it, one or other of them might risk murder to get it from the other. But—nobody inside the house. I am perfectly certain of that—absolutely certain."

"No. I can't afford to jump to conclusions. I consider the two things and question if they are in any way related. That is why I have given you so much time, Mr. Enthwaite, with a murder case on my hands. Now, am I to interview the members of your household, or no?"

"You can't interview Mr. Tracy, because he is already in London," Enthwaite answered. "I refuse to bring my wife into it—she is above suspicion. Her maid is the barest possibility, but hasn't the brains for such a theft, I'm certain, even if she had the will. And she's devotedly loyal to her mistress. Miss Tracy is not connected with it, and the other servants—no! I'll have the maid in, if you like."

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Enthwaite. Questioning one would be useless without the others. One more question for you, though. You say you locked this room, and then played bridge all the evening?"

"No, we didn't. We had one rubber, and then Mrs. Enthwaite recollected a relay of Carmen from Covent Garden, and turned it on. Harry and I—Mr. Tracy and I—settled to chess by the dining-room fire—we are both fond of the game, and he is a very good player. His sister—I believe she went up to her room. The usual letters to write, because she doesn't like the wireless."

"No," Enthwaite snapped back, "but if your fool of a Superintendent had let you come over and take it up when I first telephoned him—"

"One moment, Mr. Enthwaite!" Head broke in sharply. "You tell me of a loss which, according to you, may be a national disaster. You give me definite pointers to three people who may be responsible for it, and then refuse to let me question two of them—and yet another has already left the house. I should have thought"—he rose to his feet and stubbed out his cigarette on an ash-tray—"a gentleman of your experience would know that you cannot exonerate anyone in such a case as this until you have found the person responsible. But, as you said, we are wasting time. I'm sorry, but I can do nothing for you. Good morning, sir."

He went out to the wide entrance hall from which the room opened, leaving Enthwaite standing silent, angry, and yet with a look on his face which told almost of despair. Angry himself over that reference to Wadden as a fool, he made for the front door, and noted as he went that a door on the opposite side of the hall, open about a foot when he first glanced at it, was silently and very slowly closing. He halted, questioning for the moment whether to make a rush at the door and find out the cause of that movement, but decided against it. As he went on again, the very faintest of clicks told him that the door was fully closed.

"And a man like that," he said to himself as he climbed into his car, "has the nerve to call another one a fool!"

Chapter V
Mr. Hank's Neighbours

PULLED up at the level crossing by Carden station, Head sat in his car while a goods engine chuffed heavily at the head of a clanking procession of trucks and box-cars, gradually—very gradually indeed!—gaining speed on their way to Westingborough, where this single-track branch joined the main line between London and the north. When the brake van at the rear end of the train had got clear of the crossing, Mr. Hawk, the stationmaster—as Head had expected—came himself to open the gates before his porter and general handy man could get under way. The very efficient bus service between Westingborough and Carden had reduced passenger rail traffic to a minimum, for the trains were both infrequent and uncomfortable: Mr. Hawk's chief duties were concerned with goods trains; farm produce, coals, building materials, artificial manures and fertilizers, involved him in clerical work, and he also did a rattling and eke clinking business in milk churns. But passengers were few, and usually booked through to or from London or other big centres; practically all the local people patronized the buses. Thus Head's visit to Enthwaite House, duly observed from the booking office doorway, came as a godsend to the stationmaster, who advanced toward the car with obvious intent to make the most of it. For Head would not go to Enthwaite House unless something important were afoot, Mr. Hawk reasoned, and if, by furnishing information that might get his name in the papers, he could bring himself to the notice of "the company," they might realize what a man he really was and promote him from this dead-and-alive hole to something more important and lucrative.

"The information furnished by our worthy and respected stationmaster, Mr. Samuel Hawk"—he began quoting to himself from some possible future issue of the Westingborough Sentinel. Then, aloud:

"It is," Head answered, as one of the gates, responding to a violent push, went to collide against its fastening with a shattering crash. "You're short-handed today, eh?"

He sent the other gate on its way, and came to put a foot on the running-board of the car before the road over the crossing was clear. "Been looking up my neighbours, I see. Any trouble there, Mr. Head?"

"Why, what makes you think such a thing?" Head asked in reply, with no resentment at the question.

"Well, I saw you go there, and I said to myself, he don't go running about like this for nothing. There must be something up."

"Well, I don't see much of 'em, you know," Mr. Hawk confessed. "They don't patronize me—go to Westingborough by car, and pick up a main line train if they're going anywhere. Got two cars—that big old Rolls that Mr. Geoffrey Enthwaite had while he was alive—pre-war, I reckon that car is, but they say you can't wear a Rolls out. And a little one for the ladies, a coopy—they were both over here yesterday."

"No, both cars, I mean. All four of 'em came over the line in the Rolls to go to that wedding—Mr. and Miss Tracy, and Mr. and Mrs. Enthwaite, and come back about three. Then after I'd had my tea I saw the little coopy come across and go up to Carden. To post, maybe."

"No, I couldn't say whether 'twas Miss Tracy or Mrs. Enthwaite—her hat shaded her face and she was wearing a veil, whichever 'twas. And I remarked to the wife that was odd, because they don't generly wear a veil—one of these sort that come down over the eyes, it was, and what with that and a fur collar high up round her ears, I couldn't for the life of me tell which one it was. But Miss Tracy generly drives that little car—I've never seen Mrs. Enthwaite drive it."

This, Head reflected, looked as if it might fit in with Feilding's pre-arranged telephone message to the call-box at the other end of the village, if the long shot he had already made, that the dead man was in some way connected with the disappearance of the document from Enthwaite's bureau, were correct. But he decided not to rouse Mr. Hawk's curiosity over it: Sergeant Plender might have news of the car and its occupant, by the time he himself got back to the Carden Arms.

"Then I expect it would be Miss Tracy," he said. "Not that it's of any importance to me. I'm trying to find some trace of a man in grey, Mr. Hawk, one who left the Carden Arms at about a quarter-past eight last night. I want to trace him from there, if possible."

"Ah!" Mr. Hawk exclaimed delightedly. "I thought as much. Well, Mr. Head, you've come to the right man. Somehow, I always happen to be the right man, but I can't get the company to recognize it. Else, I wouldn't be buried alive in a potty little hole like this. It fair makes me ache, the way sows' ears climb to the very top of the tree while a silk purse like me goes on hanging on a single-line branch like this. Favouritism, that's what it is. Sheer favouritism!"

"It must be," Head agreed placatingly. The stationmaster's grievance was no new thing to him. "And so you—"

"Why," Mr. Hawk interrupted earnestly, "it was only the other day the wife said to me—'Samuel,' she said, 'with your brains, I wonder you put up with it—I really do! Whippersnappers, with less'n half your experience and not a tenth of your ability, promoted over your head, time after time!' And I wonder I stand for it myself, Mr. Head."

"Justice," Mr. Hawk interrupted, vehemently, "ain't always done in this world, and"—gloomily—"I s'pose there won't be railways in the next. But"—brightening—"all the directors'll be stokers, that's one consolation, engines or no engines. Favouritism—bribery!"

"And you saw something of this man I'm trying to trace?" Head managed to get in while the stationmaster paused to snort.

"Nineish, or a bit before—I reckon it was the man you're looking for, Mr. Head." He abandoned his grievance for the time. "I'd locked up for the night and was just going over to the house for supper when I heard footsteps along the road and went to see—well, who it was and whether they were on the way to Todlington. But it was a man who came as far as the crossing, and then 'e hesitated—I mean he 'esitated—well, anyhow, he stopped for a bit in an undecided sort of way—and it was bright moonlight. Grey suit—very nice grey suit—and I could see his face quite clear. And though I'd nothing to go on, as you might say, I didn't exactly like the look of him. Then, when you went over the crossing and up to Enthwaite House, I said to myself he's the man you're after. Because though we get plenty of strangers in Carden in the summer, they don't come over my crossing at that time of night, not alone, that is. These here archæologians who wants to look at the old tower come in daylight, and the others are always in couples. So, seeing the sort of face he had, I deeduced when I see you that he'd been up to no good. Burglary, was it, Mr. Head?"

"Ah, well! I'm the very last man, as you know, Mr. Head, to go inquiring into things that don't concern me. But seeing you appeared to be after him for something, this nocturne in grey, as you might call him, and as I did call him to myself when I spotted that suit—"

"It appears to have been quite an apt description, Mr. Hawk. If you see this man again, you might let Sergeant Plender know. We should like a word with him if he's remaining in the district."

"Why, certainly, Mr. Head—certainly! Well"—he gazed toward the booking office—"that's my buzzer. I'll be sure to let Plender know if I do see or hear any more of the man."

He hurried off to attend to his buzzer, and Head drove over the crossing and turned left for Carden. Emerging to the village street, he was in time to see Plender on his way to the Carden Arms and, passing the sergeant, he pulled up in the forecourt and sat waiting. There were people in the entrance lounge, as he could see through the glass doors: they might possibly be interested in seeing him consulting with a police sergeant, but at least the colloquy would not be overheard here.

"No news of the telephone box, Mr. Head," Plender announced as he put a foot on the running board of the car. "That is, up to the present. I don't know that anyone would specially notice a woman inside it, even if I manage to light on anyone passing when she was in it. Still, I'll keep on at it. But about the man in grey—Hawker was outside the Greyhound when the late bus came in from Crandon, and a stranger to the district, dressed in grey, boarded the bus—ten twenty-five last night."

"Eleven-five, it's due at the corner of London Road and Market Street," Plender amended. "They drop the passengers there and go on to garage—don't run along Market Street with that last one."

The only reason for making so late a run, as Head knew, was the lack of garage facilities at Crandon. And now it began to appear definitely that Feilding had gone to or near Enthwaite House after dining at the Carden Arms, and had caught this last bus back to Westingborough. And, if he were concerned in the theft of the document that had vanished from Enthwaite's bureau, what had become of it? No papers that would identify him, even, had been left in the room he had occupied. The case began to shape itself, and a motive became apparent.

"A very old family, on the female side," Plender responded slowly. "De Courvald was the name, and the last daughter married an Enthwaite in Cromwell's time. There's—I think—five farms belonging to the estate, beyond the mansion and along that road to Westingborough Parva. They're fairly well-to-do, I believe. This present one inherited about three years ago when his brother died. Up to then, I believe, he'd been a lawyer of some sort in London—and he spends a lot of time away still. Then there's a Mr. and Miss Tracy, no relation to him at all, but children of his first wife by her first marriage, but till he married the second time himself they lived here with him as his own, and everyone reckoned he'd make Harry Tracy his heir. That second marriage was a bit over two years ago, and within six months of it Harry Tracy went to live in London. You see, he's in his twenties, and this second Mrs. Enthwaite is quite a young woman, and according to gossip young Harry was far too attentive to her for her husband's liking—

"Well, not much good," Plender said. "Rather hot stuff, and a bit of a disappointment to Mr. Enthwaite, if all that's said is true. He failed for the Army, and they say Mr. Enthwaite had to settle some heavy debts for him. Then he went to an agricultural college, but chucked that about the time Mr. Enthwaite married again, and now they say he's gone in for architecture in London. But I've heard he's got in with a bad set up there—servants' gossip—take it or leave it, sir."

"Miss Nina? Oh, never a word against her anywhere. Very fond of her brother—they say she's stood between him and Mr. Enthwaite time after time, and pretty much gone down on her knees to beg him off when he's been due for trouble. A very nice young lady, and good-looking, too. She's still one of the family here."

"A first-class landlord to his tenants, and a kind man to everyone he comes against," Plender answered unhesitatingly. "I'd say, a good man—not goody-goody, but the sort you can respect. Everybody does respect him, too. A trifle short-tempered and obstinate, they say, but if he does blaze out at anyone it's soon over. They say he fair idolizes this second wife. He met her over at Castel Garde, Mr. Houghton's place, and fell in love with her on sight. They were married in three months after that, a bit over two years ago."

"Yes. She was Gloria—what was the name, now? Swanson's the one that comes to my mind, naturally, but—yes, Gloria Kingsley. Actress, and a friend of the one who is now Mrs. Houghton—I needn't ask whether you remember her, Mr. Head. Mrs. Houghton invited her to stay at Castel Garde, and there she met Mr. Enthwaite, as I said. A tall, fair woman, she is, and very good-looking indeed. Not unlike Mrs. Houghton—the same type, I mean. They make a fine pair."

Plender shook his head. "That's a difficult one," he said. "In her twenties, most likely, but not many more of 'em to go, I'd say. Though what with their make-up and that sort of thing, it's not easy to tell any woman's age these days. Somewhere round thirty, probably."

"Well, no," Plender said doubtfully, "except—it's easy to see Mr. Enthwaite's put up a tombstone over his fiftieth year, and with a young wife like her he'd naturally keep an eye out for a gay young spark like Harry Tracy. Whether he had any real cause for suspicion of 'em or no is more than anyone can tell. She seems all right, and there's never been a word said against her, but I'd put nothing past young Tracy."

"He sounds interesting," Head observed. "Keep an eye and ear lifting for news of that telephone box call, Plender, and get on to me or the Superintendent at Westingborough instantly if you have any news for us. In that connection, a fact for you. Either Miss Tracy or Mrs. Enthwaite was out in the coupé belonging to Enthwaite House at a time which would fit in with the call. News of the car, you see."

Then, to Cortazzi's disappointment, Head started his engine and drove out from the forecourt of the hotel and away up Condor Hill, on his way to Westingborough. Lunch was not for him yet, he knew.

It was near on two o'clock when he got out from the car outside the main police station at Westingborough and, with a sign to the constable on duty indicating that the car was to be put away, crossed the street and entered the Duke of York. Potts, the reporter for the local paper, started forward in the entrance hall at sight of him, but Head waved him back and went straight to where Little Nell stood just inside the dining-room doorway. Every table was occupied, Head saw; apparently lunch in the hotel which had a murder to its credit—or discredit—was a popular pastime, especially with women.

"Apart from the body, that is," she suggested, as she went to the office at the back of the entrance hall to get the key.

Taking it from her, he went up the staircase and entered the room. The communicating door between it and the next room was locked, he ascertained, and there was no key in the lock, now. He locked himself into number seven, and began operations by pulling all the clothes off the bed and hanging them on the chair on which the dead man's attaché case still stood open and empty, except for a spare collar and a couple of handkerchiefs. The mattress, rolled up, revealed nothing under it; pillow slips yielded nothing but their pillows. Head took the carpet next, moving the bedstead to roll it off the floor and examine every plank and crack, and even lifting the big, heavy wardrobe aside to make certain nothing was under the carpet there.

Altogether, he spent over half an hour in the room, subjecting it and everything in it to a thorough, systematic, and fruitless search. He had not expected to find anything, but would not leave it to chance, and this negative result caused him no disappointment. To some extent, in fact, it confirmed the theory he was beginning to form as to the motive for this crime, connecting it with Enthwaite's loss.

Perhaps! The two things might be entirely unconnected. Finishing his search, Head emerged from the room, locked the door again, and went downstairs to return the key to Nell.

"Do what you like about the room," he told her, "for we don't need to see it again. But—do you know anyone named Tracy, by any chance?"

"Has stayed here," she assented. "Not lately, but there was a suggestion of a quarrel between him and Mr. Enthwaite—Mr. Enthwaite of Carden, you know—about—yes, it would be nearly two years ago, I think. He came and stayed a night here then. There was a lot of talk at the time, but quite probably there was nothing in it."

"I didn't hear it," Head owned. "Can you remember or look up for me which room Mr. Harry Tracy occupied?"

"Oh, up and dressed again. I'm letting her stay on as help to Mrs. Roberts in the kitchen. I daren't let her wait at table or anything of that sort, now she's proved herself an epileptic, but—well, we shall look after her, Mr. Head, and keep her here if we can."

"Good for you. Send me some sandwiches over to the station, will you? I haven't time for a sit-down lunch, but need something."

"Bad for the figure—too much bread—but most decidedly tasty," Wadden remarked as he took the last sandwich from the plate on Head's desk. "That is, if you've got a figure. And on top of my lunch too. Never mind. And out of all this, what do you think of it?"

"For a start," Head said, "Feilding came here intending to stay only the one night, and had everything arranged in advance."

"M'yes," Wadden, conceded. "Pyjamas, toothbrush and hair brush and comb, two handkerchiefs, one spare collar—and as nearly as we can tell, his telephone talk to a call-box all arranged—"

"Chief," Head interposed, "get me all incoming and outgoing calls to and from Enthwaite House for the last three days, will you?"

"Trunk and toll, that'll be," Wadden pointed out. "You can't get the locals, you know. Yes, I'll see to that for you. But he came for one night only, as you say. Yes. Next, please?"

"And therefore would know about that communicating door. Proves nothing, though. Would Tracy ruin Enthwaite over that document?"

"Unlikely," Head said. "And yet, with a possible passion for Mrs. Enthwaite, though that again is only a possibility. Next, when I was questioning Parker, he made a grab at that spike, as if to destroy or muddle possible finger prints. It may have been an innocent move."

"Surly devil, Parker," Wadden commented. "We'll pigeon-hole that for reference, and move on to the next point."

"Either Miss Tracy or Mrs. Enthwaite went out in the small car at a time that would fit in with Feilding's talk to the call-box at Carden."

"And I'm echo to your not. Why the devil the box was ever put up there beats me. A broken-down motorist might find and use it, but I'd say it doesn't take a shilling's worth of coppers in a month. Next?"

Wadden blew gently as he reflected. "Well," he said, "I found you that call-box. I overhauled Little Nell's staff for you, and all my litmus paper stayed blue. Negative reactions, in every case—not one of 'em knew a thing. Nobody saw the man who climbed the gate of the back yard—except Nell herself, of course—and nobody appears to have seen anything of Feilding, though in a place like this he'd hardly be remarked unless he broke a window or kicked somebody in the pants. I mean, he'd have to make himself conspicuous to be conspicuous. But now look here. Are you dead sure he was the man who dined at the Carden Arms, and then the one Hawk saw go over the crossing?"

"I am not," Head confessed, "but both of them agree to the grey suit, and you yourself know it was a noticeable sort of grey. And this is not like summer, when you can't throw a stone in Carden without hitting a stranger. He certainly telephoned Carden and asked Parker about the bus service, so I'm justified in suspecting him of going there."

"I am not yet justified in assuming that," Head said, "but I can take it as, say, a tentative premise and try to trace Feilding back to London from the Duke of York—work back along his trail as far as possible with a view to eliminating any connection with Enthwaite's document, or else proving a connection. Mind, we know nothing about the man, but we found out in the Gatton affair3 that agents out to get anything of national importance, as Enthwaite describes this document, do not stick at trifles. With them, an odd murder or two is all in the day's work. Say that he represented one set of interests willing to do anything to get hold of that document, and another set of interests had an agent or agents out to checkmate him—"

"Don't run quite so fast," Head urged, smiling. "If you do, I refuse to keep up with you. Not that I don't feel like investigating the said Harry Tracy, for his going off this morning before Enthwaite could discover his loss—or rather, before he did discover it—seems a trifle fishy, though there may be nothing in it. But, if that were so, what about the lady in the call-box? None of the pieces of this puzzle fit together as yet, Chief, so I think I'll go to London and look for corresponding sides, beginning with Arnold Feilding's antecedents."

"M'yah," Wadden commented. "And if you want to turn on to this young Tracy, what happens? Do I get you his address?"

"There'll be somebody at Enthwaite's chambers, and I can get it there if I need it," Head pointed out.

"By the way, to-night's London papers will have this stupendous tragedy or ghastly discovery in hotel or whatever they like to call it, which means you may have relatives down for the inquest to-morrow. If so, will you pump 'em dry?"

"Leave it to me, laddie, if you don't get back by to-morrow afternoon. We will take as little evidence as possible, and adjourn."

"All the more glory," Wadden pointed out. "I wish you'd given the Enthwaite household the once-over, while you were there."

He sat pondering over a thought that had come to him, and Wadden waited for an explanation of the incomplete remark, but vainly.

"Possibly nothing, and possibly quite a lot," Head roused himself to reply. "Chief, I'll go and pack to catch the three-fifty up, and I may get to a certain place before closing time, and again may not. So I'll pack rather more than two handkerchiefs and one spare collar."

"Yes, do," Wadden urged. "People who travel with as little as that get spikes stuck in 'em after they've gone to bed—it's unlucky. Take a shirt and extra pair of socks with you, to keep off the hoodoo."

Chapter VI
Orchids

"I'M sorry, sir, but we close at seven, and it's nearly half-past." The girl who spoke had evidently forgotten to drop the catch of the shop door, for Head had found no difficulty over entering, though the drawn-down blind over the window, and the majority of lights switched off inside the place, announced it closed to customers. Inside, girls were busy putting plants and vases and other vessels of flowers away, while one was at work with a hard broom on the sprinkled boards of the floor. And, at this girl's forbidding, Head held out a card.

"No, not you, merely an inquiry," he said. "If you'll let me in—" She stood back, then, and he entered. "I want to speak to an employee here who signs receipts with the initials 'G.B.'," he explained.

"'G.B.'," she repeated. "That will be Miss Burton. Grace?" She turned to address the girl with the broom. "You're wanted."

Bringing her broom with her, the tall, fair girl came forward and, Head reflected with slight amusement, made the fourth tall and fair figure in the case, up to the present, if he counted in Mrs. Houghton, who was so far concerned in it that she had been responsible for Enthwaite's meeting with his tall and fair wife. The one who had demurred over his entrance took the broom, and left him to interrogate Grace Burton while she got on with the sweeping.

He held out the crumpled "Posies" receipt. "Do you remember this, Miss Burton?" he asked. "A sale made on Monday, apparently."

She shook her head. "Gentlemen hardly ever give their names," she said. "He didn't, either."

"We're not—not supposed to—" she began doubtfully, and broke off without ending the sentence.

"No," he agreed, and held out for her inspection the card he had already shown the other girl. "But this, you see, is a police inquiry. Did he take the flowers with him?"

"It was—he wrote a card," she answered. "I don't remember—I know it was somewhere near Lancaster Gate, but I don't remember the address. Nor the name. We have so many deliveries here."

"Probably. But I want that address, Miss Burton. How am I going to get it? Who delivered the flowers?"

"Why, Jimmy, of course!" she exclaimed, as if it were a very bright idea indeed. "Just a minute, please. I don't think he's gone."

She went to the back of the shop and disappeared, and the other girls gave Head glances indicating their curiosity while they got on with the work of closing down for the night. Presently Grace Burton reappeared, and following her. Head saw a skinny-looking youth in livery-green trousers and shirt-sleeves, with a cigarette end hanging from his lower lip. He gave Head an impudent look.

"I want you to come with me and point out the place where you delivered orchids on Monday, somewhere dear Lancaster Gate," Head said.

"'Eere, that's comin' it, ain't it?" Jimmy demanded in an aggrieved tone. "'Ar-past seven's supposed to be knockin'-off time, an'—"

"You'll find yourself getting the knock without the off, if you're not careful," Head interrupted, with a complete change of manner. "Take that beastly fag-end off your lip at once, put a coat on, and come and show me where you delivered those flowers! Hurry it' too!"

"Ye-yes, sir," Jimmy said, detaching the cigarette from his lip as he turned to go for his coat, and hurrying as bidden.

Head turned to the girl again. "Forty-five shillings worth of orchids is rather an unusual order, isn't it, Miss Burton?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know," she answered. "Some gentlemen spend more than that when they come in here. Not—not on orchids, though."

"A little." She frowned slightly in an effort at remembering. "A very well-dressed man—he had a new grey suit on, and he wasn't young. Not very tall—about my height, I think. Clean-shaved. Why—?"

"No," he said, "I'm not looking for him. Thank you very much, Miss Burton. Now come along, Jimmy—stop the first taxi you can."

For Jimmy had reappeared, with an incongruous-looking, rather shabby blue serge jacket above his green box-cloth trousers, and his rather sullen expression vanished at mention of a taxi. He darted out, and Head, following more slowly, heard him give the address to the taxi-driver whom he had hailed and stopped.

He held the door, and then followed Head into the taxi, which turned into the park by the Knightsbridge entrance, and then to the left for Victoria Gate. Jimmy produced a packet of cigarettes.

"Not at all," Head told him. "Now, to save time when we get there, what was the name to which these flowers had to be delivered?"

"Oh, no—no, sir, I mean. She wouldn't be back till six, they said. It was a nold lady—least, she'd got grey hair—an' she took 'em an' said she'd give 'em to Miss Kaye just as soon as she come in. I asked her not to be orkard with 'em, because they was orchids, an' she larfed an' said she'd take as much care of 'em as if they was for 'er."

Lighting one of his own cigarettes, Head said no more until the taxi drew up at the given address, when he got out and paid off the driver, and Jimmy, without waiting for instructions, rang the bell.

"Now, Jimmy, as soon as I'm sure Miss Kaye lives here, you can go," Head told him, and handed him a shilling as a grey-haired, thin-lipped woman opened the door and gazed at the two of them in a hostile way.

"Another Inspector!" the woman said witheringly. "All right—you'd better come in an' wait in the 'all, while I go an' see if she's in."

Puzzling over the comment, which indicated that Miss Kaye received visits from at least one other member of the police force, Head entered the spacious hallway and waited while the woman went in a slow way that somehow indicated resentment, up the carpeted stair, and disappeared. The house was evidently one of the big Georgian or Victorian residences of the district that had, like its fellows, descended from its original estate to room-letting, with Miss Kaye as one of its tenants.

"Says you can go up," she announced. "It's the door facing as you come to the second floor—number seven, it is. On the door."

His knock on the door labelled "7" brought him a high-pitched—"Come in," and he entered a large apartment, once, probably, the principal bedroom of the house, and now a divan-fitted bed-sitting room, with a large screen in one corner which concealed much, probably, but not the end of a towel-rail. The occupant of the room was yet another fair-haired woman, apparently in her late thirties, clad in a backless evening frock of pink georgette, and heavily made-up, even to crimson finger-nails. She was not and never had been good-looking, but there was more than normal intelligence in the grey eyes that gazed at Head.

"Why, no," he answered, rather deliberately, to gain time over such a question. "Just—well, ordinary. From Westingborough."

"Orchids," he explained baldly. "Rather, the one who sent them to you—on Monday, I believe. You appear to be wearing one of them."

For, pinned at her waist, he saw a magnificent orchid, and there were four more in a vase on the mantel. Five blossoms—nine shillings each, he calculated as he waited for her reply, which was long

"What do you want to know?" she demanded with sudden asperity. "I haven't much time to spare for you, Inspector. My fiancé is calling for me at any minute, now. What do you want?"

"No?" He considered it—there was no doubt that she was speaking truth, as far as interest in anyone of that name was concerned. Then: "Miss Kaye," he said placatingly, beginning to realize something of the situation, "I may have some rather bad news for you. On that point, I am not sure, yet. Have you any specimen of your fiancé's handwriting about the place that you could show me, please?"

"A police inspector, and not of the Special Branch," he reminded her in the pause, as she stood gazing angrily at him.

"To the best of my present knowledge, I am not looking for your fiancé on any grounds whatever," he said, "but a specimen of his handwriting might help me in what I am trying to find."

"Then—" For a few seconds she gazed at him, her expression changing from anger to sheer bewilderment. At last she went to the mantel, took down an oblong of cardboard about the size of a lady's visiting card, and brought it to him. "There!" she said. "His writing."

On one side, he read her name and address—"Miss Kaye, 40, Inchester Gardens, Lancaster Gate," and on the reverse—"My love, dear, Wednesday, 7.45." And every "e" was Greek in form, every "d" a Greek "delta." He handed the card back.

"Yes," he said. "Thank you, Miss Kaye. And, if you will, the name of the man who sent you that card?"

As with nearly every pseudonym user, only the surname had been altered, Head reflected. He looked at the woman gravely.

"I am afraid he will not come to take you out to-night," he said slowly, "nor any other night. You had better sit down, I think."

"Why that reference to the Special Branch?" he asked abruptly. He saw a possibility of her breaking down if he told what had happened to Feilding or Harden at this point, and wanted more information from her before anything of that sort happened.

"Because—because one of the Special Branch called to see me here once, about—it doesn't matter what it was about, though. Why did you say what you did, about—about him? What has he—is he... dead?"

"No. I'm a private secretary to—but never mind that! About him. You must tell me what you meant by his not taking me out!"

Momentarily, Head closed his eyes, almost as if he had been struck in the face, for some pieces of this puzzle literally crashed together and fitted to each other as he heard the name. And then, realizing all that this woman had done, innocently or with knowledge of the betrayal of confidence, he felt that he would not spare her in any way.

"Arnold Harden is dead," he said, "and I am looking for the man who killed him. If you had not told him what you did tell him, in all probability he would still be alive, Miss Kaye."

She did not so much sit down as collapse into the arm-chair by which she had been standing. Head waited, while she lay back in the chair with closed eyes. He had gained one step along his way to the murderer of Arnold Feilding—or Harden—but there were many more steps that he must take, yet, before he could lay hands on his man.

She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. "Stole?" she echoed incredulously. "Why, he was honest as the day! He would never—" She bent forward in the chair and put her hands over her eyes.

"Dead—Arnold dead!" she whispered. "Oh!" a sudden cry. "It isn't true! It isn't—it can't be true! Arnold—dead? Never!"

Again Head waited, while she sat with her face hidden and her shoulders rising and falling with long, sobbing breaths. After a while she controlled herself and looked up at him again, her hands falling to her lap. She was dry-eyed, as yet, and purposeful of expression. "What do you mean about my telling him?" she demanded harshly.

"A certain document of international importance," he said deliberately, and, watching her, saw her eyelids droop at the accusation.

"I have told you," he said. "He is dead—murdered. What did you tell him about that document, Miss Kaye?"

"I—if he is dead"—She unpinned the orchid from her frock, and held it between her fingers—"then nothing matters any more. The most loyal, the truest—and we were to have been— Arnold!"

She dropped the flower on the floor and broke into passionate sobbing, her hands covering her face and the tears trickling between her fingers, while with grim, implacable patience Head stood waiting. There was, he knew, little likelihood of his obtaining information elsewhere to-night, so he could afford to give her time to recover.

As suddenly as she had broken down, she regained composure and literally glared up at him, her make-up disfigured by her tears.

"This!" he said sternly. "Unless you can clear yourself of complicity, Miss Kaye, there are judges and juries, and jails too. An honourable man faces utter ruin over this affair—perhaps others with him, and I am determined to get all the truth of it from you and others. You have known this man months only—how did you meet him?"

"Yes, but—but not to know him. He got me a taxi one night—it was raining, and—and one wouldn't stop for me, so he—" She broke off and sat staring before her drearily. "Nothing matters," she said.

"And remarked on the coincidence when he found you were a member of that society," Head suggested. "Was it as you were leaving Sir Osbert Macclesfield's house that Harden got you this taxi?"

"It would be," he commented acidly. "What was he—what did he tell you about himself after you got to know him?"

"You mean you would prefer an official investigation, in Sir Osbert Macclesfield's presence?" he suggested coolly.

"He—he hasn't any. Except—he does confidential work for the Conservative Association, but that's honorary."

"Nobody, obviously," he said rather grimly. "You didn't verify the information by any chance, did you?"

"Yes, quite. Did he know of the existence of this international treaty, or whatever it is, or did you tell him?"

"Now tell the rest," he bade cuttingly. "All of it—how you came to mention Enthwaite's name, and exactly what you told Harden."

"I—he said what a wonderful thing it would be for us when it was signed, and asked me did I know when that would be. So I—I told him it had to be finally revised, and he said he'd done work of that sort for the association, and asked me if I couldn't get it entrusted to him for revision. I knew that was quite impossible, and told him so, and then—then he said he knew one of the members of the Cabinet and might be able to pull strings himself, but I said he couldn't, over that, and he asked me who had it for revision. I told him—I knew it was quite safe with him, because—because he said we were to be married as soon as it was signed. A fortnight—less, perhaps."

"You knew your work for Sir Osbert Macclesfield demanded absolute secrecy—that you had no right to betray any of it?" he asked.

"I—does it matter now?" she asked wearily. "Yes, but Arnold—I'll never believe he wasn't—he was my other self. You can't understand. I'd never had but one love affair in my life, and I wasn't much more than a schoolgirl then. Then he came, and gave me affection, shared my aims, proved himself the noblest, finest, most considerate—"

"Yes," Head said in the pause, very coldly, and let the comment stand alone. Her state was obvious: loveless and craving love, she had utterly lost her head over one who, probably practised in handling women, had used all his art to win her confidence—and would have vanished out of her life as soon as he had gained this end for which he had worked on her. She had her punishment for her folly now, in full.

And, leaving her, he went down the staircase and out from the house, just in time to beckon the driver of a taxi crawling past the door.

Chapter VII
Calls—Some by Telephone

THE octagonal, flamboyant-walled, mosaic-floored vestibule of Mosewald Mansions was empty when Head pushed open the big swing door and entered. A clock on the wall facing the door was so grotesquely ornamented that he had difficulty in ascertaining the time by it, but made out eventually that it was twenty minutes past nine—and his wristwatch confirmed the clock. A faint whirring sound preceded the opening of an oak door inlaid with strange green blobs and maniacal scrolls: the lift gate which the door had concealed collapsed noiselessly to one side, and there stepped out an elderly dame looking disgustingly youthful, her effeminate gigolo in tails and white vest and tie, and, lastly, a lengthy and incredibly thin lift attendant in purple livery trimmed with silver braid. This, Head reflected, was Chelsea.

"Now where's that blasted car?" the old-young woman asked of nobody in particular, in a flat falsetto voice.

"There—there, dear lady, is the chauffeur," the gigolo lisped. The lift attendant hastened to open the door for the pair, and Head saw them enter a long Daimler. Purple-and-silver returned to where Head waited, and clicked his tongue in disgust as he faced the Inspector.

"Nice car, that," Head remarked, with a view to establishing a friendly footing with the man.

"Ye-ah!" with increased disdain. "The hire people turn 'em out well. You're not from Bonelli's, by any chance?"

"No, I thought not, but there was just a chance you might be from there to serve a writ on her, because she's dodged their regular man up to now. Not that it's for me to talk about the tenants' affairs, though I do happen to know she's so far behind with her rent she'll be fired out if she don't pay up by the end of the week."

"Harden—that'll be on the fifth. Number a hundred an' two, I think, but—yes, he's away. Went out early yesterday mornin', an' left word he'd be back some time to-day if anyone called. But he ain't back, I know, because George—that's the man on daytimes—George said there was a female rung up the office about har-past five an' said she couldn't get no reply from the flat, an' George told me he'd told her Mr. Harden wasn't back, an' I could tell her that if she rung up again."

"Anything I can learn about Mr. Harden," Head answered, and revealed the card in his hand for the main's scrutiny. "Mind, I have nothing against him—I merely want to learn all I can about him in connection with a case I'm working up. Can you tell me anything about him?"

"Well-l-l." He dwelt on the word ruminatively. "Quiet sort of gentleman—we don't see much of him, an' I've never known him have any callers. Came here last November, he did. Can't say I care for the look of him, much. Rather tailor's dummyish—too natty, if you get me. Grey—bluish smoky grey suits—never seen him in any other. Know the colour a mile off, you would. A woman-chaser, I'd think. Not that it's for me to say anything against any of our tenants, but you're police, an' I reckon you'll keep what I say quiet, if you get me."

"As quiet as you will keep the fact that I have questioned you," Head assured him.

"Ar! Now we understand one another. Thank-ye, sir." He pocketed the half-crown. "Now there's one thing you may or may not reckon a bit queer. It was after he come here, but before Christmas, there was a letter come addressed just to Mosewald Mansions, no number nor anything on it, and it was addressed to Mister Arnold Haussbrandt"—he spelt the name out—"and you couldn't mistake it, because the envelope was typed. Well, it laid about in the office for days, till one day Mr. Harden come along and asked if there'd been such a letter, an' when George told him there was, he claimed it. Said he'd give it to this Mr. Haussbrandt, who was comin' to call on him. But as far as I know no Haussbrandt ever turned up, an' the name—the front name—what was on that envelope was Arnold, an' Mr. Harden's front name is Arnold, so I sort of put two an' two together in me mind, an' I says to myself: 'All right,' I says, 'you was a little too anxious to get a hold of that letter—' because he was, very eager over it, an' he give George the only two-bob piece eether of us ever seen outer him. Not that we're supposed to look for tips, because we ain't, but eether of us could of refused to give him that letter, y'see, if we'd liked."

"Why, yes," Head assented. "Does he keep any staff in the flat, do you know? Is it any use going up and ringing now?"

"Staff? Oh, no! We run a restyrong for meals, an' a woman goes in mornin's an' does for him, like lots of others work it. No, there's nobody up there till he gets back."

"Not a smell of one. Most quiet, he is. To tell the truth, sly. A slippery, snaky sort of way of walkin'—I don't care for him, mister."

"Obviously," Head commented. "Well, very many thanks—I may see you again, yet, and in the event of any inquiries, you haven't see me."

"Leave it to me, mister. I'll make an oyster look like he was exhibitin' his tonsils an' gettin' paid for the show."

Emerging onto King's Road, Head turned westward and walked slowly along the pavement until he came to Caletta's restaurant, where he entered, realizing that he had had nothing to eat since Nell had sent him the sandwiches over to the police station at Westingborough to take the place of lunch. Although it was his first experience of Caletta's, the genial head-waiter welcomed him as if he had been an old friend, recommended entrecôte garni as useful provender for one who owned himself very hungry, and promised to produce it in ten minutes. Yes, the telephone was half-way up the stairs, and was a slot instrument.

So Head ascended the first flight of stairs at the back of the restaurant, stepped gingerly over the magnificent Alsatian lying on the landing and, dialling trunks, called Wadden's home address. Insertion of the necessary shilling was followed by the Superintendent's voice.

"So far, that I've tied up Feilding with the theft from Enthwaite's quite definitely—certainly," Head answered, "but as I'm on a landing in a restaurant, you do the talking. What news—those calls I asked you to trace for me, or anything else that's turned up?"

"Nothing else has turned up—you haven't been gone five minutes, and if you're sure Feilding stole the goods, you've been swift."

"I am sure. Now what about the calls? He had an accomplice on the spot, almost certainly—one who knew where the thing was hidden."

"Aye. Well, that'll be the married lady, not the single one, for it was the married one, you said, who went in to talk to Enthwaite while he had it out before dinner. Wait a bit—I'll get the record of the calls for you. It's in my note-book. Hold on a moment."

Waiting with the receiver at his ear, Head got out his own note-book and a pencil. Then he heard Wadden's voice again.

"Right. From London—a call-box at Euston station—at ten-thirty yesterday morning, a three-minute call. Another from London, from Enthwaite's chambers, at three-ten P.M. I think you can disregard that as far as the case is concerned, being from his chambers, but you'll do as you like about it. I've put in the list that one you know about, the one Feilding made from the Duke of York to the Carden call-box, since it obviously bears on your case. Then comes one from Mrs. Nevile of Long Ridge to Mrs. Enthwaite at Enthwaite House, at twelve minutes past seven in the evening—and mark this, Head. You had it from Cortazzi that the man in grey put in a long call, a local one, from the Carden Arms to somewhere before he went in for his dinner, and if he got on to Enthwaite House just after Mrs. Nevile hung up, he'd most likely catch Mrs. Enthwaite herself at the telephone. A long shot, I know, but your long shot about Feilding being connected with the theft has come off, so this one may come off too. Then I've one more for you. Maybe the most important of all. From Enthwaite House to the Duke of York at nine-forty-five last night, and how's that, laddie?"

"Umm'm!" Head gazed at his swift pencillings. "Have you asked Nell about this last one, Chief—as to who was at her end?"

"I have not. I don't want to crab your pitch. And that call, I forgot to put in, was six minutes. Operator won't swear whether it were a man or woman at either end—he was busy at the time, and gave 'em a very long first three minutes while he attended to other calls."

"Which opens up quite a few possibilities, since Feilding—as you can go on calling him for your inquest, and make it address unknown—he wasn't in the Duke of York at that time, we know. Now, Chief, I want to stay up here a bit, in the hope of getting a good deal more, so will you run over to Enthwaite House in the morning and put them all through the hoop for me? You see, with Feilding definitely tied up to that theft, as I already have him, we have a right to question everyone in that house, and the longer it's left the worse for us—"

"Yes, yes!" Wadden interrupted. "But that means your getting the flavour of that household at second hand, and if as you say you've tied him up to what happened there, almost certainly he's got a confederate in the house. You heard Enthwaite's story—I didn't, except from you!"

"Never mind," Head insisted. "I'd trust you to worm the truth out of a can-opener—yes, another three minutes please, and here goes the shilling—" he dropped it in the slot—"and as I was saying, Chief, I want to stay up here a bit. I'm of your mind. The lady Enthwaite won't have dragged into it at any price needs looking up, and till she married him her life was up here, not down there. Not that she's connected with Feilding's end at the Duke of York, but inquiries about her may put me on to the other group of conspirators who put an end to Feilding to get that document for their employers, as I see it now. For that becomes more and more patently the motive for his death, to me."

"I do—while yesterday's events are still fairly fresh in their minds. And, Chief, when you're tackling the principals, or any who give you cause to think they know anything, try the name Haussbrandt on them." He spelt the name out. "Ask if they know anyone of that name, and see how they react. I think—I'm not sure, but I think it's Feilding's real name. Spring it on them, and watch results."

"Head, you're moving as fast as ever I've known you move," Wadden said gravely. "Another day's work, at this rate—"

"For the love of heaven don't tempt providence by talking like that, Chief!" Head interrupted. "I shall probably strike the most awful snag to-morrow—it's all going far too smoothly for my liking."

"Well, get hold of your cousin Byrne. He's the Solomon on London and the wickedness thereof, and he'll ladle out wisdom to you."

"I'll see, Chief! I'll either give you a call or be back to-morrow some time, unless developments make it better for me to stay here."

"Good luck, laddie. Little as I like the job, I'll tap the Enthwaite group for you. Oh, where are you staying, in case I want you?"

He replaced the receiver and went down to the restaurant, where he speedily disposed of the excellent entrecôte, since, late though it was by that time, he had thought of another possible call before considering his very long day ended. With the one word "Quadrarian" as direction, he entered a taxi, and for ten minutes brooded on all that the day had given him. Miss Kaye, a clever woman, or Sir Osbert Macclesfield would never have employed her as his secretary, yet utterly, hopelessly foolish, gulled as the veriest child might have been by the attentions Harden (as she knew him) had paid her: that those attentions had been lavish was intimated by orchids at nine shillings a bloom, and probably Harden, in order to flatter her and gain her confidence, had done all things on a similar scale. Then the almost-certainty of his having had a confederate at Enthwaite House: it seemed incredible that Mrs. Enthwaite should attempt to compass her husband's ruin, but a woman had turned out the coupé and driven over the railway line toward Carden in time to take the telephone call in the call-box, and, according to the operator, a woman had taken that call! Miss Nina Tracy, perhaps, but it would be worth while to get everything possible bearing on Mrs. Enthwaite's past—prior to her marriage. And Head's cousin, Inspector Terence Byrne of the C.I.D., had already shown him where to get information of that sort. Thus he paid off his taxi outside the Quadrarian and, entering the vestibule of the big theatre, presented his card at the box-office window and asked for Mr. Weeds.

"I think he's in," the clerk said, and took the receiver off a house-telephone instrument, while Head observed that the successful revue, Mud in Your Eye, had already achieved three hundred performances. He had not finished reading the names of the cast when a page boy appeared, responded to the box-office clerk's pointing by accosting him—"I say, mister," and conducted him out to bare stone staircases which, suitcase in hand, he ascended monotonously until the boy opened a door and pointed beyond it at a badly littered room, which Head entered, not for the first time, to hear a deep, mellow voice that seemed, with every sentence, to appeal to a crowded gallery for applause.

"Aha! The renowned Inspector Head! I told myself, Mr. Head, that you had forgotten Jimmy Weeds! Delighted to find myself wrong, my dearr sirr! Delighted to find myself wrrrongg! Do take a seat!"

There was only one available, at the end of a desk that could not possibly hold all the papers piled on it, yet did, by some miracle. Head seated himself after shaking hands with the big, red-faced man in full evening dress, who promptly went to a large cupboard and took from it a bottle and two glasses and a soda syphon. He poured two soul-destroying tots, and handed one glass to Head, holding the syphon over it.

"Now say when, Mr. Head. And"—as Head lifted a finger to indicate the moment—"to what may I ascribe the honour of this visit?"

"It's very kind of you to put it like that, Mr. Weeds," Head said, as the big man diluted his spirit with a mere spoonful of soda-water and lifted his glass. "Yes, the very best of health and fortune to you. And, since you have asked, I expect you remember Diane Heriot?"

"Remember her?" Weeds boomed sonorously. "Ah, we shall not look upon her like again! A tragedy that she should marry and retire like that, Mr. Head, but then, to paraphrase the bard, contracts end in lovers' meetings, and—but you don't mean to tell me—our darling Diane in trouble of any kind? No, perish the thought—spare me the fiendish blow, Mr. Head! Alas, that one so fair should—what has she done?"

"Nothing, that I know of," Head answered, "apart from settling down happily. She had a friend, or acquaintance, named Gloria Kingsley—"

"Ah! Another tragic loss to the Thespian art!" Mr. Weeds interposed with a gesture implying stage sorrow. "How well do I recall her angelic face and sylph-like form! And to me, Mr. Head, as to stout Cortes on that peak of Darien, must be ascribed the honour of discovery, for I—I, and no other!—discovered the potentialities of Gloria Kingsley! Eight—nearly nine years ago, I elevated her from the comparative obscurity of the Quadrarian chorus and gave her a part, and right nobly did she fill it. A small part, but the next was both more arduous and more lucrative, and with it Gloria Kingsley was made. Made, my dear sir—made! I remember her saying to me with tears in her eyes—'Jimmy darling,' she said, 'I owe it all to you. While life animates this forrm, I swear I will-l-l nottt forrr-gettt!' And then, what do we see? She succumbs to Cupid's fatal spell, and again we mourn the loss of one to whom applies that saddest of all epitaphs—'She might have been!'"

"But she's not dead yet," Head pointed out. He had grave suspicions, from Jimmy Weeds' effusiveness, that the mighty peg of which he had already consumed half was not his first that evening.

"Dead," Jimmy boomed solemnly, "to the clarion call of fame, to the plaudits of the admiring throng. Dead to this world of mine and music behind the footlights, dead to the welcome ghost that walks on Fridays. And what, if I may ask, Mr. Head, has she been doing?"

"Like Miss Heriot, marrying and settling down," Head answered. "I am hoping, by means of information about her, to get on the track of someone else. Can you tell me anything of her friends or private life, while she was working here—at least, I assume she worked here?"

"You have full justification for the assumption, my dear sir," Weeds assured him. "Three pounds a week—we never pay a chorus girl less, for contrary to a widely-spread impression, we do not expect them to resort to immorality as an alternative to semi-starvation. Three pounds a week was her salary for the first six months, and then I discovered her and gave her a part in the revue then going into rehearsal. Thenceforth, my dear sir, she never looked back. The stalls were at her feet, the gallery her slaves, and 'twas an arrow of outrageous fortune that robbed us of so dear a delight—even though Cupid shot it."

"To that I would say aye," said Weeds, "for no breath of scandal sullied her fair fame—she was chaste as fair. Not chased by the boys of the stage door, I trust you to understand, but chaste in the higher, purer sense. She lived with a sister, I understand, one older than herself, when she joined the Quadrarian chorus, and after that alone. Or it may have been that she was even then alone, and there had been a sister whose path in life had even then diverged to ends remote from the life Gloria pursued."

"No followers," Head suggested. He had in mind Miss Kaye, and her incredibly foolish trust in the man she had known as Harden.

"I will say, none, Mr. Head. Yet—alas, poor Gloria, I knew her well! There was, I am certain—or rather, there had been at some time in her brief span of existence—yet how shall I best express it? On the stage, brightest of the bright, yet oft have I seen that fair visage sicklied o'er with the pale cast of care, and therein, mark you, my dear sir, consisted no small part of her appeal, her success. For you must understand, Mr. Head, that to win success for such shows as we put on here at the Quadrarian, there must be light and shade. The loudest laughter, the most vociferous applause, greet that quip which follows hard on some instant of pathos, of appeal to the finer sensibilities that pervade the human heart. Light and shade—we must have the contrasts to captivate our audiences. Now I hold, and all students of humanity will agree with me, that no man nor woman can express the full gamut of human emotion without having themselves felt it to the full, and therein I say by my own observation lay the secret of our Gloria's appeal. Those brief touches of shade, those moments of pathos—in them lay her power. The power was there, because she herself had felt!"

"What?" The echo was resonantly emphatic. "The terr-ragedy of our brief life, and hand of sorrow laid upon the heart—who shall say what memory of the past lurked ever in that burr-reast? But it was there, my dear sir—it was therrre! Betrayal, irremediable loss—who shall lay finger on the cause? Yet I will maintain that our Gloria had plumbed the depths of tragedy, and thus had power to impart that magic to comedy which renders it a perfect thing—to, as it were, depict the cloud and then the splendour of the sun's appearance. I have seen it in her eyes, marked it in the cadenced melody of her voice. For as love and hate are but opposite poles of the one passion, so are laughter and tears expressions of the two limits of one feeling. And, to express either that others may feel it, one must have known both limits. I say and maintain that Gloria Kingsley had plumbed the depths of tragedy."

"For aught that I know," Weeds answered, and poured himself another gargantuan tot of whisky, offering to refill for Head at the same time. But, having had previous experience of the brew, Head still had two-thirds of his first dose left, and declined any more. "In fact, of her private life I know little, except that once I had occasion to go to her dressing-room—it was on the occasion of her first real success—and I heard her dresser remark that Miss Helen would be pleased. Whereupon Gloria said that she must get her sister to come and see the show, and from that, slender premise, I admit, I deduced that she lived with her sister. An address in the Kennington Road—many of them live there—where I conclude she lived until, with advancing prosperity, she took a flat in St. John's Wood."

"I remember it, my dear sir. Two-two-two, c. How could I forget it? Stutter the numeral two, and then say see—and you have it. But it is of the past, of the distant past, as are her triumphs in the halls of mirth and melody. Ah, what a loss—what a loss!"

"Let me see, Mr. Head—let me see! I would be accurate, my dear sir, I would at all costs be accurate. She was in the chorus of Another Glass With Me, which was decidedly not a success. Dee-cidedly not! And it came off—why, it must be fully ten years ago—more than ten! Well, well! Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all our leading ladies away. And with the part that I gave her in our next show, Sing it with Flowers, she took the flat in St. John's Wood. Yes—yes—and that was more than ten years ago. Ten years last February, in fact. But as to her life outside the Quadrarian—well, we do not inquire what our ladies do in their leisure hours. She was friendly with Miss Heriot, I know—Mrs. Houghton that now is—but that friendship came later. If it were possible to trace her dresser, Mrs. Ramsbottom—but I fear I cannot help you. Too long ago. Yes, too long ago. Mrs. Prudence Ramsbottom—and looked it, too! A gorgon, but devoted to Gloria and with her to the last. Ramsbottom—and looked it!"

"Well, very many thanks for your help, Mr. Weeds," Head remarked, and, finishing the contents of his glass, found a space for it among the papers on the desk, though with difficulty.

"My dear, sir, if the day should come when I fail in charity to my fellow man, then out, brief candle!" Weeds said solemnly. "I fear I have told you little, yet in your sessions of sweet silent thought you may find it not all such stuff as dreams are made of. Such is my earnest hope, my dear sir, and"—he took Head's offered hand and shook it warmly—"give my regards to Byrne when you see him. Look in when you will, my dear sir. Good-bye, Mr. Head—good-baye!"

"One other thing, Mr. Weeds," Head paused to inquire. "This sister, Miss Helen Kingsley—was she on the stage too, do you know?"

"I have not the faintest idea, Mr. Head. Not in any but a very minor capacity, if at all, for the name is quite unknown to me. I can make inquiries if you wish, but—fully ten years since I so much as heard her name mentioned—I fear it would be fruitless."

"Yes—don't trouble about it," Head counselled. "Thank you again, Mr. Weeds—good night."

Going down the stone staircase, he questioned inwardly as to whether to follow up this inquiry by a visit to the Kennington Road address, or to turn on to the activities of Mr. Harry Tracy. Heading for the Regent Palace hotel, he decided to get in touch with Byrne as a next move. And, again reviewing his day, he felt a trifle apprehensive over it: his progress so far had been so marvellously rapid that he was sure of meeting with a bad check soon: the luck was too good to hold.

Chapter VIII
Negatives

AGAIN, as on the preceding morning, Superintendent Wadden entered his office at the police station, and glancing at the papers laid ready on his desk, refrained from blowing, for there appeared to be nothing over which he need concern himself until he chose. He was heavily cloaked, not waterproofed, for the sun was out, and a bitter east wind spoiled the morning. Making no move toward removing his coat, he looked up at Jeffries, who acted both as clerk and chauffeur for the big car, as needs might dictate. A handy man, Jeffries.

"Except that Mr. Enthwaite rang up again, sir," Jeffries answered. "He said he had something of importance to tell Mr. Head—or to tell you if Mr. Head didn't happen to be here."

"He does not happen," Wadden remarked. "All right, Jeffries. I'm just dropping over to the Duke of York for a moment, and while I'm there you can turn out the saloon—I expect to be back by the time you're ready with it. I'm going to call on Mr. Enthwaite."

The Superintendent, going thoughtfully out to the street, decided that when he did retire, and get that bit of land on which he had determined, and start growing tomatoes under glass, he would look for the land on the other, Carden side of Long Ridge and Condor Hill, where he would be sheltered from these east winds.

Otherwise, it would cost him a small fortune to keep up the temperature for tomato plants in his glass houses, at this time of year. So deciding, he entered the Duke of York and saw Little Nell rise and emerge from the small office at the back of the entrance hall, as if to greet him.

"Cold? Don't mention it!" he greeted her before she could speak. "But I've got an inquiry to make of you that may be of the very last importance, the way things are going. Night before last—remember?"

"I am not likely to forget the night before last, Mr. Wadden," she answered. "But what—what in particular do you want to know?"

"At or about nine-forty-five—I don't know how they check these things, or whether they're absolutely exact as to time—but at or about that time a telephone call was put through to this hotel from Enthwaite House at Carden. Can you tell me who spoke at this end?"

"Why, no, Mr. Wadden!" Utter surprise sounded in the reply. "Nine-forty-five—let me see. The dining-room would have been cleared, and only the lounge and bars—I believe I was round in the tap at that time, but I'm not sure. I may have been in the lounge—I'm almost certain I hadn't gone up to my room, because I hardly ever relax my supervision down here before the bar closes at ten. But—no, I don't recollect any call, and certainly not one from Enthwaite House."

"There is a buzzer—not a bell—in the office there," she answered. "And a bell in my room—so I couldn't have been there, since the bell rings as soon as the buzzer does down here. That call-box has to be switched through from the office—we put it through to exchange only by request, and switch it off again after, to prevent unauthorized calls. Then there's another extension line from the office to an instrument just outside the kitchen door, to give orders to the staff and tell Gibbons when a car is wanted. That may have been left through, by chance, though I think it was very unlikely."

"Nothing at all, Mr. Wadden. I'll make inquiries as to who did take it, if you like. Will you wait while I go round the staff and ask?"

"No, I won't do that, thanks all the same. I'm just turning out the saloon to run over to Carden, so if you'll see what you can find out for me in the next hour or two, I'll be glad. Nine-forty-five, it was, and a six-minute call—a long six minutes."

"I'll see what I can do, Mr. Wadden," she promised, "and by the time you look in again I expect I shall be able to tell you about it."

"I shall be glad if you can. Sorry to trouble you, Nell, but it bears on this bigger trouble of yours, and may lighten it for you."

Since she had made such a promise, he reflected as he went away in the big police saloon, the recipient of that call was as good as traced already, for he knew by experience that Nell was ever as good as her word. He dismissed it from his mind, for the time, and fell to thinking over his present errand instead: occupied, as he was in a general way, with matters of administration, care of his men, and the like, it was long since he had done anything like interrogating a whole household for facts to build up a murder case, and now he reviewed the case as far as—to his knowledge—Head had already taken it.

Though he had said nothing at the time, he had not approved of Head's haring off to London instead of pursuing his investigations on the spot, but it appeared now that Head had been right and himself wrong, for London had revealed the connection between Feilding—or Haussbrandt—and the theft from Enthwaite House. Then, that telephone call which Nell was tracing for him revealed the existence, almost certainly, of someone at Enthwaite House who was acting as confederate, not of Feilding, but of the man who had climbed over the back yard gate in the small hours after killing Feilding. For, Wadden reasoned, Feilding himself would hardly have put through that call: by a quarter to ten he had got hold of the document, and had had no need to ring anyone at the Duke of York, where he was about to return—past question he would not have rung the hotel from Enthwaite House. The call had not been intended for him, for it had been lengthened to a long six minutes, on the word of the operator, and Feilding had not been in the hotel to talk for that length of time. Two parties, representative of the interests of two different foreign countries, possibly, had been after that document. Feilding's opponent had been in the Duke of York at a quarter to ten, and someone at Enthwaite House had rung through to tell him that he must get the document from Feilding.

And, softly, Wadden cursed Head for letting Mr. A. W. Smith, representative of Messrs. Hobson & Tanner, go so easily. For, except for the three of whom Head had taken care, he himself had interviewed every one who had been in the Duke of York on Wednesday morning, and had made sure that they were not concerned in the crime. Sure, that is, within reason: there might be a homicidal maniac among them, but he did not think so—and if there were, what had become of the document?

For some few seconds he was minded to turn about and go after that commercial traveller, but he restrained the impulse. If Smith had murdered Feilding and gone off with the document, then he was not Smith at all, but some 'stein or 'vitch for whom a straight chase would be useless. If he were Smith, and guiltless, he would come back at call, and Wadden determined there and then to issue that call.

Out of these reflections developed two facts, in Wadden's mind. One was that he might look for a confederate of Feilding's murderer at Enthwaite House, and probably for someone acting in concert with Feilding himself as well. Quite possibly one person had acted both parts, for birds of this feather were notorious double-crossers. The second fact, as he saw it, was that the murderer had been in the Duke of York at nine-forty-five on Tuesday evening, or else that call from Enthwaite House would have terminated in less than six minutes. He had been in the hotel all night, almost certainly, and damn! If it had been the commercial traveller, Smith, he would not have climbed over the back yard gate into Harker's Lane, but would have gone back to his room.

Deep in reflection over the puzzle, Wadden failed to observe Mr. Hawk, who stood on Carden station platform rubbing his hands gleefully together as the saloon rocked and bumped over what, like all its kind, was falsely described as a level crossing. Inspector one day, Superintendent the next, ran Mr. Hawk's reflections—things were looking up, and there would be some excitement in the place soon. It might have something to do with that hotel murder over at Westingborough, about which the station master had read in his morning paper, at the breakfast table, but he did not think so. In fact, he hoped there was no connection between the two: it was time Carden had a real cause célèbre to itself, and if those neighbours at Enthwaite House provided it—well!

The saloon went on. Descending and ringing the bell at Enthwaite House, Wadden was a little surprised at the celerity with which he was shown into Enthwaite's presence—in the room to which Head had been taken the day before. Enthwaite, on his feet, gazed at his visitor.

"So you thought it worth while to respond to my request this time, Superintendent?" he inquired coldly.

"Well, no, sir," Wadden answered, equally coldly, a little dashed at such a reception. "Yes, they told me you did telephone this morning. I should have rung through to ask you about it, but as I was coming over at once it hardly seemed worth while. But before I begin my own errand here, what was it you wanted to see me about, Mr. Enthwaite?"

"To tell you—the missing document has been returned to me," Enthwaite said. "By ordinary post this morning, postmarked Westingborough with yesterday's date, 7.15 P.M. in the postmark."

"Returned, eh?" Though Wadden kept the surprise out of his voice, he felt utter amazement at the news, and inwardly questioned if all his long shots—and Head's, too—were misses. But, an old hand at his game, he spoke as if Enthwaite had merely commented on the bite in the east wind. "Any covering note, or trace of who sent it?" he asked.

"Nothing whatever," Enthwaite answered, "and—I suppose Inspector Head has told you all about this document, since you appear here instead of his following up yesterday's visit?"

"Yes, I know about it," Wadden answered. "Inspector Head is in London, and I am attending to this end of the case in his absence."

"Yes. Well, perhaps you will understand that the return of the document does not alter the situation for me. There has been plenty of time to copy it, and this original may have been returned to me as a mere slap in the face, a gesture of derision. I have not the slightest hope that it has been returned to me in good faith, and that I may consider the contents unknown to all but the contracting parties."

"Why, no, Mr. Enthwaite," Wadden said slowly. "I don't see that you could hope that much—thirty six hours and more after it was taken out of your bureau. May I see—not the document, but the envelope it was returned in? I should like to have a look at that, please."

Opening his bureau, Enthwaite silently produced an ordinary foolscap envelope and handed it over. Wadden noted the name and address, written in ink, in block capitals:

and then, studying the rather faint postmark, confirmed Enthwaite's statement of the date and time within its circle.

"Certainly, if you think you can make good use of it," Enthwaite answered, "I have no hope of your retrieving the situation for me, but you may yet be able to track down the agents responsible for this."

Wadden put the envelope, unfolded, in his inner breast pockets "The man who was murdered in the hotel at Westingborough the night before last was concerned in it, Mr. Enthwaite," he said. "That is why I am here to see you—and everyone else in this house as well—now."

"The man who was—" Enthwaite began, puzzling over it, and did not end the sentence. He stared at Wadden in a questioning way.

"Precisely," Wadden answered. "Also, I am as nearly certain as makes no difference that somebody who was in the house on Tuesday evening was concerned in it too. Somebody, say, who put through a call from here to the Duke of York at nine-forty-five that evening. Do you know anything about that call, Mr. Enthwaite, or who originated it?"

In blank, utter amazement Enthwaite shook his head. "No," he said. "A call at nine-forty-five—do you mean a telephone call?"

"No. I—let me see. Mrs. Enthwaite was listening in to Covent Garden in the drawing-room, Mr. Tracy and I were playing chess in the dining-room, Miss Tracy had gone up to her room—one of the servants—yet—" Again he shook his head, as if to negative that idea.

"Superintendent, I decline flatly to allow Mrs. Enthwaite to be brought into this in any way. She is utterly above suspicion."

"Are you sure Miss Tracy was in her room at nine-forty-five?" Wadden asked, shifting his ground for the moment.

"She said she was going—look here, Superintendent, this is utterly ridiculous! You might as well suspect me as either of those two."

"I might end by suspecting you, for all I can tell at this stage," Wadden retorted dryly. "I want you to understand, Mr. Enthwaite, that I have come here this morning to carry out investigations in connection with the murder of a man who, I am convinced, must have had some connection or understanding with someone in this house. You, as a barrister, must know that I have the right to question whom I choose over a murder case, though I cannot compel replies to my questions."

"I am not versed in criminal law, but I believe that to be the case," Enthwaite admitted slowly. "And for that—?"

"Every person, without exception, who was in this house for the twenty-four hours ending at nine o'clock yesterday morning," Wadden said with inflexible firmness. "I want to see them all."

Enthwaite considered it, his face, working as he thought, an index of his dislike for the proposal. Then he looked Wadden straight in the eyes, his own eyes hard with anger.

"Very well, Superintendent," he said. "For all that I can tell, I may have the right to refuse your—command, I will call it. But I do not refuse. I have nothing to tell you, myself. Whom do you wish to see first—the interviews may as well take place in this room?"

"On the other hand, Mr. Enthwaite, you may yet have a good deal to tell me," Wadden dissented quietly, unmoved by the other's evident hostility. "As a first question, now, who was in this house between nine o'clock on Tuesday and nine o'clock on Wednesday?"

"There were—one moment," Enthwaite answered, and paused for reflection. "Myself, for one," he went on. "Mrs. Enthwaite. Mr. and Miss Tracy. Billings, our major-domo, as you may term him. Mrs. Enthwaite's personal maid, a Mrs. Ramsbottom. Jarlsson, the cook, and Mathews and Peake, the two maids. To the best of my recollection, that is all."

Enthwaite spelt out the name. "Of Swedish origin, but her parents were naturalized English," he said. "She has been here twelve years."

"And two gardeners, none of whom live in the house," Enthwaite snapped back acidly. "There are also five farmers, tenants on the estate, and their employees. A county directory will give you the rest of the population of Carden. Shall I fetch you one?"

"Not yet, thank you," Wadden said gravely. "You, Mr. Enthwaite, have by your own account to Mr. Head just suffered a loss which means much to you, and Mr. Head has found out that the man who was murdered the night before last was connected with that loss. Do you think this sneering bitterness of yours will help either Mr. Head or myself—or you—to our aims? I am here, in effect, to ask the help of law-abiding people in investigating a crime. You seem determined to—"

Wadden smiled faintly as he shook his head. "Because of your position as a landowner and man of some importance in the district, and mine as a mere police Superintendent?" he suggested. "I assure you, Mr. Enthwaite, that your position does not weigh one iota with me for the purposes of this case. I am here as an official, not in any private capacity, and it is your duty to assist, not hinder me."

Enthwaite took a turn up and down the room, and returned to face his visitor again. "I am bitter," he said. "Facing utter disgrace—I am bitter, and if either you or your Inspector had responded to my call yesterday—but you did not. You would not help me, and now, it seems, I am to help you—"

"One moment, Mr. Enthwaite," Wadden interrupted. "Since you make a personal matter of it, I tell you that personally, after what I have seen of you, I would not come to you for help to save my own life. You will not help me, but the maintenance of the law under which you live. Now do I go and subpoena every person in this house as witnesses at the inquest this afternoon, or carry on here?"

"Very well, I choose to carry on. With you, first, unless you see fit to refuse to answer any more questions."

"No." Impressed in spite of himself by the Superintendent's coolly impersonal manner, and possibly feeling that there was some justice in the reproof that had been dealt him, Enthwaite spoke far more calmly, now. "But I think I have told you all I can, Superintendent."

"Yes, nearly every one does, far too soon," Wadden remarked. "This matter of telephone calls on Tuesday, for a beginning. The first, a London call, at ten-thirty in the morning. Do you remember it?"

"Yes. Mrs. Enthwaite's maid happened to be passing this door at the time—the main instrument is in here, with extensions to Mrs. Enthwaite's room, my dressing-room, and the front entrance hall where orders are telephoned to tradespeople. Mrs. Enthwaite's maid put the call through to her mistress's room, and went and told Mrs. Enthwaite of it."

"For me, from my chambers in London, asking when I should be back there. It came just after we had returned from my niece's wedding."

"Thank you," Wadden said patiently. "Do you know of a local call, put through from the Carden Arms, between seven o'clock and half-past?"

"Mr. Enthwaite," Wadden asked, "are any of your extension lines habitually left switched through from here—from this main instrument?"

"Not during the day," Enthwaite answered. "As a rule, I switch through so that the bell in my dressing-room shall ring before I go up to bed, in case there should be a call during the night."

"Not to my knowledge. No, because they were all switched off when I came in to look round the room before locking the door, after dinner."

"And might have been switched on and off before then," Wadden reflected. "Next, a call at seven-fifteen P.M., from the Westingborough exchange." Although he knew the origin of that call, he would not localize it more fully, since he wanted to test Enthwaite's memory.

"Yes," Enthwaite said. "Taken in here by Peake, the parlourmaid, who went up to Mrs. Enthwaite and told her Mrs. Nevile wished to speak to her. That is Mrs. Nevile of Long Ridge, whom Mrs. Enthwaite knows."

"Then why didn't the maid put the call through to Mrs. Enthwaite's room, instead of summoning her down here, since there is an extension?"

"But unless you suspect Mrs. Nevile of being concerned in this murder—the call was by her, as you can prove by asking her."

"All in good time," Wadden said cheerfully. "Did Mrs. Enthwaite go back up to her room after talking to Mrs. Nevile?"

"I have not yet descended to spying on Mrs. Enthwaite's movements," her husband answered caustically. "I don't know."

"And you know nothing of a call from this house to the Duke of York at Westingborough, made at a quarter to ten that evening."

"You own two cars, Mr. Enthwaite, and returned from that wedding in the large one at about three o'clock on Tuesday. That is, you, Mrs. Enthwaite, and Mr. and Miss Tracy returned in that car?"

"Was the small car, the coupé, taken out later by Miss Tracy, or by Mrs. Enthwaite? Which of the two, do you know?"

"Probably not. After he brought us back I gave him the rest of the day off, knowing that none of us would need him again."

"I see. Thank you, Mr. Enthwaite. Now, have you mentioned your loss of this document to Mrs. Enthwaite yet?"

"Everyone who was in the house on Tuesday, I said," Wadden countered inflexibly. "For information, not for accusation or suspicion."

"Very well," Enthwaite said slowly after a pause. "But I stipulate that you shall not mention the loss of the document to her."

"Please—no!" Wadden interposed. "I'd rather you rang and sent for her. You, you see, know the drift of my questioning."

For some moments Enthwaite's expression indicated a wrathful outburst, but then, without replying, he went to a bell push and pressed it. A smart, cap-and-aproned maid appeared in reply to the ring.

The two men waited in silence until she appeared, and then Wadden, who had kept on his feet since entering the room, saw that her eyes lacked barely two inches of being on a level with his own. Deep-blue, beautiful eyes, now expressing curiosity—or was it anxiety?—over this summons, and set in a lovely face under a crown of silky, golden hair. She was slenderly-formed, and very graceful of movement as she advanced into the room, her gaze passing from her husband to Wadden and back.

"My dear," Enthwaite said, "I'm very sorry to be compelled to call on you over a rather complex inquiry Superintendent Wadden here is engaged in. He wants all the information we can give him about some telephone calls to and from this house on Tuesday—purely a routine matter, but I am anxious to help him in any possible way, and if you don't mind supplementing what I myself have been able to tell him—" He broke off his rather abject apology—as it sounded to Wadden—and gazed at her as if anxious that she should blame the Superintendent rather than him for calling on her.

"Telephone calls?" she echoed—and Wadden mentally registered her voice as far from the least of her charms. "Why—Tuesday—that was the day of the wedding, of course. Yes, Superintendent?" She turned to him, perfectly at her ease. "What do you want to know?"

"The telephone calls are part of it, madam," he answered. "The first of them, from London at about ten-thirty on Tuesday morning, and I understand that your maid put the call through to you."

"Yes, I remember," she assented. "From the firm of tailors and dressmakers who make for me, about a fitting appointment."

"Ye-es, that will be the call, since it was the only London call to this number on Tuesday morning," he said. "And—do you mind giving me the name of the firm, madam?"

"Why, certainly," she answered. "Hattersley and Cummins—I have dealt with them for years. Why—do you mean to—" She left the question unfinished, and cast a glance of appeal at Enthwaite.

"I'm rather puzzled about that call," Wadden said. "Do you happen to know, madam, whether the representatives of this firm usually ring you up from a call-box at Euston station?"

Though, as he knew by now, she had herself under almost perfect control, the question staggered her momentarily, and into Enthwaite's face came a look of bewilderment as he gazed at her. But, recovering her composure almost instantly, she shook her head.

"I haven't the faintest idea," she said. "They serve me very well and I don't question what telephones they use."

"No, naturally," he said, with a dry inflection. "They may be able to explain it, when we investigate that end. The next"—he gave her no time even to assimilate that statement, let alone contest it—"is a call at a quarter past seven in the evening, from Westingborough."

"Westingborough?" she echoed, momentarily puzzled. "Oh, yes, I remember. Mrs. Nevile rang me, and I spoke to her in here."

"And then another call came through while you were still in the room," he said quickly, still pressing her hard.

"Another—" She broke off, and he knew if it were not fear that he saw in her lovely eyes then, he had never seen fear. "Ralph," she said to Enthwaite, "there's a terrible draught, in this room from somewhere—isn't one of the windows unfastened? Yes, Superintendent," she went on to Wadden, and he knew that she would have denied this other call if she had dared, as well as that Feilding had spoken to her from the Carden Arms, "that was from the happy bride whom we had seen married earlier in the day, to say she had found a pendant she thought she had lost, before—before she got beyond reach of telephoning."

"Yes, madam," Wadden said gravely, and admired the swift improvisation. "Do you know where she was when she rang you?"

"No, I've no idea. They are on the Riviera, now—it may have been from London. I expect it was from London."

But his record told him that no call had been put through from London, or from any toll or trunk exchange except Westingborough, to Enthwaite House at anywhere near that time. She was plainly lying—and doing it well, too.

"Both the windows are fastened, my dear," Enthwaite said, returning from his inspection. "Is that all you want from Mrs. Enthwaite, Superintendent? She cannot possibly know of that later call—"

"A call," Wadden broke in, to put an end to this revelation, "made from this house to the Duke of York at Westingborough at a quarter to ten that night, Mrs. Enthwaite. Do you know anything about it?"

"The principal hotel—most people know it by repute," he said dryly, almost certain that she knew it as well as did others.

"I know nothing about any call to such a place," she said, "nor why anyone here should—unless possibly Harry—that is, Mr. Tracy."

"Mrs. Enthwaite," he asked, "where did you go when you took the coupé out from here, and over the railway crossing, on Tuesday afternoon? After you came back in the saloon from the wedding?"

She essayed a laugh, but it did not ring true in Wadden's ears. "Isn't that rather like the famous question—'When did you leave off beating your wife?' or something like that?" she asked.

"I don't see the resemblance," Wadden said gravely, and knew that she was playing for time with this diversion from his inquiry.

"Can that possibly be of importance, Superintendent?" Enthwaite put in, and so gave her still more time to consider her reply.

"Since I did not take the coupé out at all," she said, "I cannot tell you, Superintendent. Whoever told you I did is mistaken."

"Must have been," he agreed as gravely as ever. "Just one other thing, madam. Can you remember when you last saw Mr. Haussbrandt?"

That shot went home, he saw. For a moment, stark terror showed in her eyes as she stared at him, but it was only for the moment, and he had to admire the control with which she answered.

"Haussbrandt? To the best of my knowledge, I have never even heard the name before, Superintendent. Haussbrandt? Who is Mr. Haussbrandt?"

"But who is this Mr. Haussbrandt?" Enthwaite insisted. "You heard what Mrs. Enthwaite asked you, Superintendent!"

"He is evidently a mistake on my part," Wadden answered, and, moving with a rapidity not to be expected from one of his height and bulk, reached the door ahead of Enthwaite and opened it for Mrs. Enthwaite to pass out. Then, closing it again, he faced Enthwaite.

"I should like to see this Mrs. Ramsbottom, next," he said. "I don't like your methods, Superintendent," Enthwaite remarked acidly, as he pressed the bell push.

"I'm not in love with them myself," Wadden confessed meditatively, "but they get results."

Chapter IX
Hidden, at Both Ends

THIN-LIPPED, hostile, watchful as a terrier at a rat hole after a ferret has been sent down, the dumpy, middle-aged woman who faced the Superintendent interlaced her fingers primly before her, and stood looking up at him. He had got little truth from her mistress, he knew, and, seeing her, he hoped for little from her. Were all witnesses in this house to prove hostile, he wondered?

"Prudence, Superintendent Wadden wishes to ask you a few questions in connection with a police inquiry," Enthwaite said.

Staring up at him, she opened her mouth, and so kept it for some seconds. Then: "When did I last see Mrs. Enthwaite, sir?" she echoed.

Asking no permission from Enthwaite, Wadden moved to the bell-push and pressed it. He was facing the door when it opened to reveal Peake, the parlour-maid, who gazed expectantly at Enthwaite.

"Peake," Wadden said, "when you went to tell Mrs. Ramsbottom she was wanted just now, where did you find her?"

"She was, sir, but she stopped when I went in and asked me what I wanted, and then Mrs. Ramsbottom came down here."

"Thank you, Peake—don't go for a moment, for I want to ask you a question or two. As for you, woman"—he addressed the discomfited Prudence—"you can get out. I have no use for liars, and I hope to see you in court as a witness in this case of mine and watch you for perjury there. Now, Mr. Enthwaite, with your permission I'll see what Miss Peake can tell me."

Reluctant admiration for the methods he had so lately condemned, or for the insight to character revealed by the man who used them, showed in Enthwaite's face as he nodded assent and Prudence Ramsbottom sneaked out from the room. The girl Peake closed the door on her, and came forward a step or two into the room.

"I don't know if you'd care to sit down, Superintendent?" Enthwaite asked, tardily enough, as he seated himself on the arm of a big chair.

"Now, Miss Peake, I'll give you as little trouble as possible. You remember Mr. Haussbrandt coming here, of course?"

"Haussbrandt, sir?" she echoed doubtfully. "No, I can't say I ever heard such a name—and it's not one you'd forget, either."

"Ah, that's just what I wanted to hear from you, Miss Peake. Now you remember Tuesday—day before yesterday, the day of the wedding?"

"Well"—she smiled, attractively—"what is it you want me to remember, sir? I might not remember quite everything off-hand."

"Yes, sir, everyone. That is, the master and mistress, and Mr. and Miss Tracy. And cook and Mathews and I had ours, and so did Billings."

"Ah, I'd forgotten that!" But he had not. "And after tea, which of the two ladies took the small car out—the coupé?"

"No? Well, never mind. Now, did you make a telephone call to anyone at all after dinner, Miss Peake? To someone at Westingborough, say?"

"Oh, no, sir," she answered, as if such a thing were an utter impossibility. "If I had, I should have paid Billings for the call."

"By my instructions, Superintendent, the maids have to ask permission from Billings to use the telephone, and pay for their calls," Enthwaite put in. "I had to do it, to check abuse of a privilege."

"Thank you, Mr. Enthwaite. Miss Peake, did you hear or see anyone at any telephone instrument in this house after dinner on Tuesday?"

She reflected over it. Then: "No, sir, I'm certain I didn't. I could only have seen anyone or heard them when I went to turn down the beds about nine o'clock, because I was in the kitchen with the others the rest of the evening. And I didn't see or hear anyone then."

"I really couldn't say, sir. I've no idea at all, unless she was listening to the music in the drawing-room, with Mrs. Enthwaite."

"Mrs. Ramsbottom asked me not to go in and disturb her, because of the music, when I went to put the hot water bottle in her bed—in Mrs. Enthwaite's bed, I mean, not Mrs. Ramsbottom's. So I didn't actually see either Mrs. Enthwaite or Miss Tracy after dinner that evening."

"In the kitchen, both of them. I did the beds for Mathews, because she wasn't feeling very well all Tuesday."

"Oh, no, sir! She's far too—" the girl broke off with a sudden glance at Enthwaite—"she never spends an evening in the kitchen."

"Thank you very much, Miss Peake—you've cleared one bit of ground for me. Now will you ask Miss Tracy, if she'd be so good as to see me?"

"Nina, this is Police-Superintendent Wadden," Enthwaite announced when yet another tall, fair-haired girl appeared, and Wadden noted that he sounded far more tolerant of the inquiry, now. "He wants to question everyone in the house about what happened here on Tuesday, so will you see what you can tell him?"

"I might," she answered cautiously, and gave Wadden an intent stare. "What is it you want to know, Police-Superintendent Wadden?"

"Where did you go in the small coupé on Tuesday afternoon, Miss Tracy?" Wadden asked without preface of any kind.

"Nowhere," she answered, composedly. "I didn't take it out on Tuesday at all. We went to a wedding that day, and after that I stayed in."

"What makes you think the coupé went out with anyone in it, Superintendent—that any of us took it out?" Enthwaite asked.

"It was seen," Wadden answered, and watched the face of the girl before him. "Did your brother take it out, Miss Tracy?"

"Did you make any telephone calls after dinner on Tuesday evening, Miss Tracy?" Wadden asked, ignoring Enthwaite's comment.

"None whatever," she answered. "We finished one rubber of bridge, and then I went up to my room to write some letters."

"But you were not in that room when the maid came up to turn down the bed," he pointed out. "At least, she says you were not."

"No," she answered negligently. "I expect she came up after I had gone out to post the letters. I went about half-past nine."

She gave him a long look as if doubtful of the intent behind that question, and hesitated long over her answer. Then: "No," she said.

"One moment, Nina," Enthwaite put in. "To save perpetually summoning Peake, Superintendent—the girl has her work to do in the mornings. Whom do you wish to interview next?"

"Tell him he's wanted here, Nina, please, to save all the time we can. This is taking much longer than I thought it would."

"People don't lie as Mrs. Ramsbottom did without cause," the Superintendent answered gravely. "I am a little, a very little, nearer to that cause by virtue of her lying, and may get nearer yet."

He said no more, nor did Enthwaite speak again until Billings, old and white-haired, but still active, and a gentleman's gentleman every inch of him, appeared, when Enthwaite bade him answer the Superintendent's questions as he had bidden Prudence Ramsbottom.

"Billings," Wadden began, "I suppose you answered the door when Mr. Haussbrandt called here, since Peake says she did not?"

"Mr. Haussbrandt, sir?" Billings echoed. "I do not recall ever having heard of the gentleman."

"Well, I may be mistaken over him," Wadden admitted. "But—on Tuesday, the day of the wedding, do you know who took the coupé out after the party returned from the wedding?"

"No? Well, between nine and ten o'clock on Tuesday evening, did you telephone the Duke of York at Westingborough?"

"No, sir. From eight o'clock onward on Tuesday evening, I remember, I was up in my bedroom reading Montaigne's essays, as Mr. Enthwaite had told me he would not require my services any more for the evening."

"With Mr. Enthwaite's permission, sir," Billings said, respectfully but firmly, and glancing at Enthwaite.

"A fine specimen of a nearly extinct genus, the old family servant," he remarked when Billings had gone out. "He has his faults, but lack of loyalty is not one of them—to the family, rather than to me or any individual. He has been here practically all his working life."

"A negative witness as far as I'm concerned," Wadden observed. "I wonder who did take that car out after tea?"

The girl Mathews, a strongly-built, honest-looking country lass, appeared while Enthwaite considered the conjecture, and looked rather apprehensive over facing a fierce-looking police Superintendent.

"About Tuesday afternoon and evening, the day of the wedding, Mathews," Wadden explained to her. "After Mr. Enthwaite and his party came back here from the wedding, do you know who took the small car out?"

"No, sir, I don't. I happened to go up to my room, and saw it go out from the garage, but I don't know who was in it. It was closed up, and I was looking down on the top of it."

"No, sir. I was in the kitchen till dinner time, and the window there doesn't look on to the yard, or anywhere where the car would be seen. And I didn't hear it come back, either."

"Oh, yes, sir. I saw it go, quite plainly, and thought it would be either Miss Tracy or Mr. Tracy. She generally drives it."

"No, sir, and Edmunds—the chauffeur—had the afternoon off, what was left of it after he got back here with the saloon."

"Yes, so I understand. To come forward to the evening, Mathews—Tuesday evening, I mean. Did you use the telephone that evening?"

"No, sir. Neither me nor cook went out of the kitchen the whole evening, after the dinner table had been cleared, and we hadn't got a telephone in there. We've got a wireless that Mr. Enthwaite put in for us, but cook didn't turn it on that evening, because I had a bad headache, and Peake did most of my work for me."

She glanced inquiringly at Enthwaite, who merely nodded, and she went out and closed the door. Then Enthwaite rose from his seat on the chair arm, and stood gazing at Wadden, frowning slightly.

"I think I should describe him as the nigger in the wood pile," Wadden answered thoughtfully. "Yes. And that telephone call—" He broke off, and gazed out from the window at the tower of Anger.

"May not have been from here at all—the exchange may have made a mistake," Enthwaite said. "That is, if you heard of it from the exchange—and I don't see where else you could have heard of it."

"I never thought of that," Enthwaite confessed. "But you have not seen the cook, Jarlsson. Shall I send for her?"

"No, thank you. She couldn't see the coupé from the kitchen window, and she was in the kitchen all the evening after dinner."

"Far from it," Wadden dissented. "I don't think I'd keep a woman like that Mrs. Ramsbottom in the house, Mr. Enthwaite. A liar of that type is always dangerous."

"Whatever her faults, the woman is devoted to Mrs. Enthwaite, who will do as she chooses about her," Enthwaite retorted, with a stiffness that indicated resentment of the remark. "I take it, Superintendent, that you have finished all the inquiries you wish to make here."

"For the present, yes," Wadden answered, well pleased at the result of his comment on Mrs. Ramsbottom. "Except that I should like Mr. Tracy's London address, if you can let me have it."

"My chambers—five, Marks' Court, Lincoln's Inn Fields," Enthwaite answered. "You will find it under my name in the London telephone directory. He occupies the bedroom there—Mrs. Enthwaite and I stay at her flat in St. John's Wood when we are in London."

"But you were rung from the chambers on Tuesday morning," Wadden pointed out. "With reference to the time of your return, you said."

"By my man there. Although I do very little legal work now, I have kept him on, and shall go on doing so."

"He probably knew there was something of the sort, since he answered the telephone when Sir Osbert Macclesfield asked me to call on him over a matter of urgency. But that I had it, or that I brought it here with me—no. He could not possibly know that."

"And therefore may be useful—no pun intended, sir," Wadden said, adding the last statement hastily. "That's all, I think, Mr. Enthwaite, for the present, and thank you very much for it. If I have any news at all for you, I won't fail to let you know at once."

He went out, and bade Jeffries drive back to Westingborough. Mr. Hawk, on the alert as the saloon passed, observed with regret that the Superintendent was returning without having made an arrest.

"Put the car away, Jeffries—I'm going across to the Duke of York for a minute or two. If a call should come through from Mr. Head while I'm there, get him to hold on and send over for me at once. Oh, and get on to Messrs. Hobson and Tanner of Wolverhampton and tell them we want their traveller, A. J. Smith, sent back here at once. Explain that it's for evidence in a murder case, and they'll refuse at their peril, though I expect they'll make no bones about sending him back."

He crossed the street to the hotel and, entering, saw Nell in her office at the back of the entrance hall. When he filled the doorway of the office, she shook her head at him.

"Sorry, Mr. Wadden, but I haven't been able to find out anything about that telephone call," she said.

"Apparently nobody does. It's strange, I know. Someone in the lounge might have come away from the bar and telephoned—"

"But it was an incoming call," he pointed out, "and you say you never leave that call-box there switched through."

"Yes, I know. But if someone had been expecting the call, and had slipped in here and switched the extension through to the box?"

"Not likely, certainly, Mr. Wadden. But I don't know how else to account for it. I've questioned all the staff, and they don't know."

"Well! Hidden at both ends, eh? And it's a million to one the exchange is making no mistake about it—not over both ends, that is. An impossibility. Your man Parker, the head waiter—what does he say?"

"Like all the others, he knows nothing," she answered. "Is it—do you consider it very important, then?"

"I'm beginning to consider," he said impressively, "that when we've got the full story of that telephone call, we shall be able to lay our hands on the murderer of this man Feilding—as he called himself here. That's how important I consider it, Nell."

"Well, I don't know of anyone else I can ask about it," she said thoughtfully. "I can hardly go questioning the people who came into the lounge last night. It would look as if I suspected them of stealing telephone calls—and I shouldn't get the right one, then."

"Rather sullen in his manner, but quite capable," she answered. "He has been here the best part of two years, and—I don't think he's in any way connected with this, Mr. Wadden. He's good at his work."

"Look here, Nell," Wadden said with good-humoured reproof, "that man came into this town about two years ago, as I remember it, in rags and half-starved, and you took him on and put him on his feet again—and now you'd die rather than say a word against the down-and-out you befriended. Honestly, now, isn't that the case?"

"Mr. Wadden, I honestly believe that Parker had nothing to do with what happened here on Tuesday night," she said earnestly. "If I suspected him of being concerned in it, I'd tell you so."

"Maybe," he remarked, "but there it is. You'd help a lame dog to dash past Peter on the golden gate, if you had the chance, but don't go shielding anyone over a thing like this. It might be dangerous for you, if you did anything of the sort, and I'd hate to see you in trouble."

"I don't think you will," she answered with a smile. "And I'll do my best over this telephone call for you, Mr. Wadden—though I don't see what more I can do in the way of inquiries. Still—"

"All right—I know you'll do your best," he said in the pause. "I expect I shall be looking in on you again later in the day."

Back at the police station, he summoned Jeffries into his office, instructing him to bring a note-book.

"Hobson and Tanner are ordering the man Smith to report back here some time to-morrow morning, sir, and want to know about his expenses," Jeffries reported as he seated, himself with pencil poised.

"Expenses, but no commission," Wadden said. "Now take down—this is to be read out to Mr. Head, if he rings up when I am not available."

"Put that in about Smith. Then, result of inquiries at Enthwaite House. Coupé taken out by either Harry Tracy, Nina Tracy, or Mrs. Enthwaite. As I got out of Mrs. Enthwaite that she took a telephone call immediately after talking to Mrs. Nevile at seven-fifteen, I conclude that she took the coupé to keep the Carden call-box appointment which some confederate of Feilding's made by telephone from Euston at ten-thirty A.M. It must have been a confederate, for judging by the time Feilding arrived at Westingborough, he was in the train at ten-thirty.

"The call from Enthwaite House to the Duke of York at nine-forty-five P.M. is hidden at both ends. I consider it of vital importance. Mrs. Enthwaite may have made it, though I cannot see why. Nell cannot trace it at the hotel for me, but is going on trying. Nobody at Enthwaite House owns to knowing anything about it.

"Haussbraudt's name frightened Mrs. Enthwaite. All other reactions to it were negative. Get all you can about her before returning. Unless this Haussbrandt had some hold over her, I cannot see her motive. I advise you investigate Harry Tracy, of whom we know nothing yet, and particularly Mrs. Enthwaite, before returning.

"Enthwaite's lost property was returned to him this morning, posted from Westingborough seven-fifteen P.M. yesterday. I have the envelope for you. Just remembered Mrs. Enthwaite's maid, Prudence Ramsbottom, a rather clumsy liar, and according to Enthwaite devoted to her mistress, who is not such a clumsy one. A beauty with a past, I think. Enthwaite defers to her more than I like to see.

"You will find Harry Tracy by looking up Enthwaite's Lincoln's Inn Fields address in the telephone directory. Harry lives there."

"That's all, Jeffries. Type it out and keep it handy in case Mr. Head rings through when I am not here."

Chapter X
Gloria

"CHAIRS, uncomfortable, police inspectors, for the use of," Head remarked, after seating himself beside the desk in Detective-Inspector Byrne's office. "Also, Jerry, the devil's own draught down the back of my neck."

"What d'you expect—the bridal suite at Claridge's?" Byrne inquired unsympathetically. "Also the object of that chair is to prevent callers from wasting my time. And now what d'you want?" He produced a cigarette case and offered it, and Head took one. "Stands Westingborough where it did, and how is the wurzel crop this year?"

Head lighted his cigarette, and held the match for Byrne. "Jimmy Weeds sends you his regards," he said, ignoring the questions.

"Ah! Keeps the most potent and seductive whisky I know, and won't tell me where he gets it," Byrne remarked. "I suspect an illicit still somewhere in the Highlands. And what did you want with Jimmy?"

"Too late, my son. She threw up her career to a man named Enthwaite, and believe me, it looked like being some career if she'd had the sense to keep on. Enthwaite succeeded to—yes, somewhere down your way. Ah! I begin to see a gleam. Tell me the rest, Jerry."

"She's a side-line, because I couldn't get on to anyone else at that time of night," Head explained. "It's a mix-up, till I get it sorted out. I'm looking for someone who killed a man who called himself Feilding when he booked a room at the Duke of York at Westingborough on Tuesday, Harden when he made love to Sir Osbert Macclesfield's secretary and persuaded the poor dump he meant to marry her, and Haussbrandt occasionally, and I'm not sure, yet, whether Gloria Kingsley or Enthwaite comes into it, but her husband certainly does."

"Now put it all down on the floor and let's sort it out," Byrne advised. "Begin at the curtain-raiser, and give me all the play."

So, turning up his coat collar because of the draught, Head told the story as far as he knew it, and Byrne listened, putting in a question from time to time to get a point clear. Then he shook his head.

"You need the Special Branch over that treaty, or whatever it was that Macclesfield entrusted to Enthwaite," he said. "It's political, obviously. Half a minute"—he reached for his telephone—"I'll see if Liversedge is in. He's your man for a thing like this—"

"Don't," Head demurred. "I've no right to give away Enthwaite's confidence. If you hand this on to anyone on the Special Branch, it goes to Macclesfield that the document is lost, and Enthwaite's last chance of saving himself is gone. Meanwhile, if the one who stole the document from the murdered man is passing it on to some foreign power, it's too late for the Special Branch to stop him—twenty-eight hours and more too late. He's out of the country by this time."

"True, brother, true," Byrne said, and put the telephone receiver back. "Which is to say, you may have to chase from here to the Caspian Sea for your murderer. I would ask, why did you come to London at all to look for him? except that you appear to have uncovered a pretty piece of what a fool a woman can make of herself when she loses her head over a man, and got some idea of the identity of the murdered man. But nowhere nearer the one who murdered him, as far as I can see. How do you think ferreting into Gloria Kingsley's sticky past is going to help you? From what you say, she or somebody at Enthwaite House was in cahoots with this Feilding, not with the man who killed him."

"And yet," Head urged, "I've just told you of a telephone call from Enthwaite House to the Duke of York at a quarter to ten on Tuesday evening, when Feilding was not in the place—and a six-minute call at that. What does it point to, if not to collusion with the man at the hotel who was lying in wait to kill Feilding? It looks to me as if whoever put that call through passed on the information that Feilding had secured the document, and would bring it back with him."

"Ah! Find the two people concerned in that call, and you're a long way on your road, Jerry. You ought to be there looking for them now."

"Wadden's attending to it." Head looked at his watch. "He'll be over at Enthwaite House and giving them all third degree at this moment. Terry, who was that man of the Special Branch you mentioned?"

"Without giving anything away, you might find out if he knows anything of Haussbrandt alias Harden alias Feilding—front name Arnold."

Again Byrne took off the telephone receiver and asked to be put through to Inspector Liversedge. "But your murderer is half-way across Europe by this time," he observed as he waited.

Then: "Oh, Liversedge? Byrne speaking. Could you run in here for a minute or two? A country cousin of mine is slightly up a tree, and you may have the ladder that would fetch him down."

He listened for the reply and, putting the receiver back, observed: "Coming round," and knitted his brows in reflection.

"Yes," he said at last, "you're right to follow up the fair Gloria, but don't neglect the Tracys either. I can't see why a woman should set to work to ruin her husband, after giving up her career to marry him, and your few brief remarks about this Harry Tracy don't make a Bayard of him. Did he climb over the back yard gate, do you think?"

"Possibly," Head replied thoughtfully. "So far, it's such a mass of unsupported guesses. If I hadn't come to London in such a hurry—"

"You wouldn't have uncovered the connection between the murdered man and Macclesfield's secretary," Byrne pointed out consolingly, "and so would have had no real reason to connect the theft of the document with the murder. Frankly, old chap, I don't think you'll find the murderer, in this case. It looks to me like very nearly the perfect crime we sometimes hear about—though he had luck over it, too."

"Ah! There's your key move," Byrne agreed. "Come in, Liversedge. My cousin, Inspector Head from Westingborough. Inspector Liversedge, Jerry. What do you know of a man named Arnold Haussbrandt, or Harden, or Feilding—Arnold in every case? Anything on him?"

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Head," Liversedge, who looked more like a Harley Street specialist than a detective, said, shaking hands. "Give me time to get my breath, Byrne. Yes, I will have a cigarette, thanks. Haussbrandt, eh? Not Arnold, though—he's never appeared over anything. Haussbrandt and Co., with Jerome Haussbrandt as the head of the firm, and naturalized at that, is a firm of importers of beads and fancy goods with offices in Aldgate, and they're on our list."

"Meaning?" Byrne asked. "You can tell it all in front of Head, here—all you'd tell me, that is. He's looking up this man."

"Well, then," Liversedge said. "I don't know if you know, Mr. Head, that all the alien spies in this country got given away before the last war by a highly-placed German's visit to a barber up King's Cross way when the Kaiser paid a visit to this country?"

"I know the story," Head assented. "And on that, every spy was rounded up and put where he couldn't do any mischief as soon as war broke out—the whole organization was killed."

"I see you've got it—yes. Well, the game goes on, and I assure you we have a pretty little list in readiness for the next war. All correspondence tapped, cyphers translated—everything in readiness for another roundup, and meanwhile they're useful in giving us information we couldn't get in any other way. The firm of Haussbrandt will close down the instant war is declared, if it should be, and Jerome, Leopold, and a gentleman named Oscar Adler will go inside, they being active agents. Arnold is a nephew of Jerome's, but we have nothing against him. Naturalized—his parents were, rather—and an idle man-about-town in his forties, but still with an eye for a pretty woman. He draws a good income from the firm, which is a prosperous affair, and never goes near the office. Educated at Oxford, by the way. We kept a close eye on him for a long time, but—well, the Special Branch is not exactly over-staffed, and we have to concentrate mainly on the people we know need watching. Arnold never appears among them."

"You haven't kept an eye on him since, say, last November?" Head suggested, remembering the flat in Mosewald Mansions had been taken then, according to the lift-attendant's information.

"Not to my knowledge," Liversedge confessed. "Why—do you think we've been missing something?"

"Since he's dead, you can't miss anything now," Head said evasively. "An eye for a pretty woman, you say. Do you know any of the women?"

Liversedge shook his head. "Haven't trailed him closely enough," he said. "I might find out for you if it's important. Dead, eh?"

"Yes. I'm looking for the man who killed him at Westingborough, where he went under the name of Feilding last Tuesday," Head explained.

"Under the name of—Tuesday—I say, you've been swift, haven't you? That is—was there anything on him to prove him Haussbrandt?"

"Nothing, and I haven't fully proved it, yet. Do you know anything about the way Arnold Haussbrandt dressed?"

"Odd you should ask that, now—I was going to mention it," Liversedge answered. "Grey, always, and a distinctive shade of grey at that. Which helped to put us off following him up, since we couldn't connect him with any activities useful to us. A man who wants to do secret service work doesn't render himself conspicuous as this Arnold did."

"Obviously," Head agreed. "Supposing, though, that he were roped in, by his uncle or someone, for a special piece of work?"

"There are no confidences in the game," Liversedge pointed out. "You've got to be ready to sell your own mother, if necessary."

"It looks to me, Jerry," Byrne put in, "that you're letting a personal welfare stand in front of a national interest. What you tell Liversedge will no more go beyond these four walls than what you have already told me—that is to say, it won't come back on the head of the man you're keeping out of it, and he's due for the high jump tomorrow in any case, by what you've told me. I'd advise, tell it all, and Liversedge may be able to put you straight on to your killer."

"That doesn't square with what Mr. Liversedge just said," Head objected. "If there are no confidences in the game—"

"If you're shielding anyone, I'll promise them immunity," Liversedge interrupted. "I'll risk its cramping my style."

Head considered the suggestion, and the man who had made it. He decided to risk telling all the story, for, as Byrne had pointed out, national interest must stand before that of an individual, and, from what Enthwaite had told him, the lost document was of grave importance.

"Very well," he said, "but to you, Mr. Liversedge, I shall call the people most concerned by their occupations, not by their names. One, say, is a civil servant, and the other his lawyer."

So, for the second time, Head related the full story, and Liversedge listened without interrupting. At its end he nodded thoughtfully.

"Of national importance, you said, Byrne," he commented. "Then the document will be the result of the Toulouse conference, the civil servant is Sir Osbert Macclesfield, and you've got a Mr. Ralph Enthwaite living down in your part of the world, Mr. Head. All clear."

"And Enthwaite married Gloria Kingsley a bit more than two years ago," Byrne put in. "At least, I think it was over two years."

"Since she gave up her stage career to marry a mere country squire, I don't see her in the picture," Liversedge observed. "Still, you never can tell what a woman will do. And by what you say, Mr. Head, her husband has to produce the document by noon tomorrow, or else his name is mud of the first water. Therefore, any time after noon tomorrow, I can use this information any way I like."

"Since you've got to wait twenty-four hours and more," Byrne said, "what about giving Head a hand as far as you can in the meantime? It's worth that to you, surely, seeing as how he's given you a line on the case that you wouldn't have had without what he's told you."

"Ye-es," Liversedge agreed thoughtfully. "You say, Mr. Head, you've got the Westingborough end of it covered till you get back?"

"And not much gets past Bulgy Wadden," Byrne added. "There are no flies on him, especially at this time of year."

"Well, it boils down to this," Liversedge said decidedly. "Harden and Feilding are one and the same, with the orchid bill found in the hotel at Westingborough, the name Arnold in both cases, and Harden's haring off to Westingborough as soon as he had learned from Macclesfield's secretary that the document was in Enthwaite's possession, to prove it. Harden and Haussbrandt are the same, but with less grounds for the assumption—there is the name Arnold in both cases again, and the distinctive grey clothing, and the fact that he wanted the letter addressed to Haussbrandt—who was never seen as a separate person at that Chelsea flat. And that's all as evidence of it being the same man. Having deduced from what Macclesfield's secretary told or implied that the document was in Enthwaite's possession, he knew Enthwaite would not leave it in London when he went to his home at Carden, but would take it with him, since Macclesfield is not available to receive it back until tomorrow—he is in Paris, as a matter of fact, till tomorrow, and I'll find out what time he's due back. Harden, to go on calling him that, had an ally in Enthwaite's household: the telephone calls to the Carden call-box and from the Carden Arms just before dinner go to prove that, and also, by what you have told me, Mr. Head, he did not enter the house to steal the document himself, but somebody stole it for him. I should say that in speaking to his ally in the call-box he gave the information that Enthwaite had the document, and orders to steal it, and that in telephoning from the Carden Arms he asked if it had been stolen, and arranged for it to be handed over to him before he went back to the hotel at Westingborough. And Enthwaite told you, Mr. Head, that his wife came into his library, or whatever he calls the room, before he went to dress for dinner, and caught him studying the document, which makes a tolerably black case against the lady. I think you were quite right to begin investigating her, Mr. Head. There is, of course, this Mr. Harry Tracy, whose name I have never heard before, but who bolted back to London the next morning in a way that looks suspicious; and who might have telephoned the hotel at Westingborough at nine-forty-five on Tuesday evening to inform the man who murdered Feilding and got over the back yard gate next morning that Feilding had the document—or, on the other hand, Harry Tracy might have telephoned somebody to let him into the hotel by the back door, and might himself be the man who murdered Feilding and climbed over that gate. But, if so, he went back to Enthwaite House, and at that hour, of course, he might both go and come without being seen. Against that, how did he know Enthwaite had the document there, know that it had been stolen, and that it had been passed to Feilding?"

"He's probably done the same thing scores of times before, and relied on—as he thought—nobody knowing that the document was even in his possession," Liversedge pointed out. "By gum, but tomorrow will be a black day for Sir Osbert Macclesfield. He'll have to resign."

"I don't know," Liversedge said thoughtfully. "I don't see what they can do to him. None of it will be made public, but—war, almost at once, before the fusion that was to have come out of the Toulouse conference and some other talks can take effect. Which makes your mere hunt for the man who killed Feilding look rather small, Mr. Head."

"You wouldn't say only a possibility if you knew everything," Liversedge said grimly. "Well, we've got to do our best at our job, and I suppose you'll go on doing the same over yours. I'd say, follow up this Mrs. Enthwaite, learn all you can about her before you go back to Westingborough, for if she were the one who put through that call to the hotel at Westingborough at nine-forty-five, then a thousand to one on it she talked to Feilding's murderer. Why she did it—why she did any of it, is for you to find out, for I can't see it. And I'll look up Harry Tracy for you. When do you expect to go back to Westingborough? We ought to get in touch again before you do."

"Four o'clock—no, make it four-thirty, though—in the entrance hall of the Piccadilly hotel—the Piccadilly side," Liversedge said.

Standing before the window of the drawing-room at Enthwaite House, gazing across the parkland at the old tower of Anger, Gloria Enthwaite faced about as her husband spoke her name. Engrossed as he was in his own anxiety, he did not observe the suddenness of the movement, or the acute, fearful questioning with which she gazed at him as he closed the door of the room and advanced toward her.

"My dear, since you married me," he said, with a hesitation that proved he found it difficult to speak what he meant to say, "I have—kept you from all worries—you have had a happy life, haven't you?"

"Very happy, Ralph," she answered, with sudden, visible emotion. "Always—since I first knew you—you have been—everything."

"Oh, my dear, that hurts!" she exclaimed. "You, yourself—I'm so proud of my husband—I love my husband, more and more—"

He lifted her hands to his shoulders and, holding them there, looked into her eyes as she faced him, tall as himself.

"Something has happened, Gloria," he said gravely, "which may spoil any pride you have in me, which is why I have made up my mind to—"

"Ralph, darling, nothing could do that," she interrupted. "Nothing could make you other than what you are to me—"

"Wait, my dear," he interrupted in turn. "You know, I believe, that in my small way I have been concerned in things of far greater importance than this estate of mine, things of national significance?"

"Out of that," he went on, "something may happen, tomorrow or in the next few days, which will make an outcast of me—in my own sight as well as in that of everyone who knows how terribly I have failed in a trust. I, Gloria, your husband, may be responsible for bringing war on this country—not wilfully, but through my criminal carelessness and folly. I cannot excuse myself, and this may happen."

"I don't believe it—of you," she said. "Everyone who knows you knows what you are. But why—why do you tell me this, Ralph?"

"Took you from your career," he persisted, "believing that my love, and the position I could give you as my wife, would mean more to you than you had then. But now, if you have no position, if I am disgraced in the sight of all men as already I am in my own—"

"Ralph," she interrupted again, "you make one mistake. I didn't give up the stage and come to you because of any position you could offer, nor altogether, because of your love—but because of my own for you. I saw in you not the best man, nor the one who could give me an assured position, but the one who meant happiness for me—and still I see that in you. I was not a child when we married, Ralph, but a woman capable of knowing my own mind, and all the change in me since that day is that my life has grown completely one with yours. I could have said Ruth's words then, and I can say them even more truly now. And if you were cast out from here tomorrow or any day, disgraced and ruined as to money and position, still I should say them: 'Whither thou goest I will go, thy people shall be my people, The Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.' So do I love you, Ralph, and—I am your wife."

"God bless you, dear," he said reverently, as he took her close in his arms and kissed her.

Chapter IX
The Landlady's Story

OBSERVING the frontage of 222c from the opposite side of Kennington Road, Head noted that it was one in a terrace of narrow-fronted buildings—one room and a staircase width, and probably two rooms in depth from front to back, with kitchen and other necessary accommodation built out behind from the lower floors—consisting of five floors over the basements, and set back from the pavement, above which the whole terrace level was raised some three or four feet, with a dingy, uncared-for pretence of front gardens intervening. The whole frontage was of unrelieved griminess, looking as if it had been neither painted nor cleaned for the past twenty years; the windows, of a uniform sash pattern for every floor of the full length of the terrace, were small and deeply sunk in the wall—those of 222c were all closed, though some others on either side were opened a slit or so. Age renders some edifices interesting: it had made this terrace merely dreary.

Head crossed the road and went up to the front door of 222c, observing as he pressed the lowest of five bell pushes that there was a flyblown card bearing the word "Apartments" behind the transom. The door opened to reveal a woman, dingily clad, and with iron-grey hair drawn back tightly over her head, except for a little wisp that was allowed a certain amount of freedom behind each ear: she appeared nearer seventy than sixty as she blocked the entrance, one work-roughened and laundry-tub-wrinkled hand on the door-post.

"If it's about the room, it's let, half an hour ago," she said before he could speak. "I'd 'a took the card down off the fanlight, but it means bringin' the kitchen steps up from the basement, an' I ain't 'ad time for that yet. But I ain't got any rooms to let now."

"If it's insurance," she interrupted, with visible hostility this time, "I ain't got no time to waste talkin', an' all my lodgers are out. If it's instalments, it's no use askin' me when you'd best call to get the money, because I wouldn't tell you if I knew."

"Yes, want to sell me somethin'," she interrupted again. "Try next door—I ain't got time to waste over hawkers' trash."

And, drawing back, she slammed the door, and Head heard her footfalls recede along the oilcloth of the passage within.

Smiling to himself, he put his thumb on the bell-push again and kept it there, even when he heard the footfalls returning. When, with wrath in her old eyes, the woman flung the door open again, she found herself looking at a card that Head held out to her.

"Police?" she echoed in a scared way. "But—but my lodgers are all respectable people—most respectable, I assure you! I don't have none o' the other sort here. You must be wantin' nex' door—222b. There's some flighty ones there if you like, but—"

"Not about your present lodgers, but past ones," he interrupted. "To begin with, now, how long have you been here, madam?"

"I took the 'ouse in 'nineteen for lettin, an' I'm sure I've kep' it respectable ever since—most respectable, I assure you—"

"Nineteen-nineteen," he interrupted again. "That goes farther back than I need trouble you. I want... but do you mind if I come in to talk? This doorstep is none too warm a place for what I want to ask."

"All right, sir." She backed a pace or two, and he stepped into the claustrophobically designed passageway—facing along it, his shoulders just missed touching both walls. The woman opened a door and revealed a sitting-room, with a horrid brackety mirrored over-mantel, a bird's nest on a twig under a glass shade in front of the centre mirror, and all the rest of the furniture, gone shabby, to match.

"My ground-floor won't mind me usin' 'is parlour," she said as she backed into the room, so as to keep her eyes on Head. "'E don't get back till six, any'ow. I ain't 'ad time to do the room out to-day, as yet. 'E's in a darnce band—second saxophone. It ain't 'im, is it?"

"It's a lady whom you will probably know as Miss Gloria Kingsley," he answered. "Probably ten years ago—"

"You don't mean—Miss Gloria?" she asked whisperingly. "You ain't after—the police ain't after 'er, are they?"

"If you mean to arrest her, no," he answered. "Someone—a man called Haussbrandt"—he risked trying the name on her, though as an Open Sesame it had failed with all others—"whom we believe she knew while she lived here, say, and with knowledge of her—of whom she knew and what her life was then—we may get at that person. So if you knew her, as obviously you do, and can tell me anything about her—anything at all—it may help. May help her as well as me." He ventured the last statement as reassurance, not with any belief in it.

"I see-e," she breathed—but very evidently she did not see. "Will you—would you like to take a seat, sir? I'm sure, if it ain't goin' to do 'er no 'arm, I'll tell you anything I can—'er an' 'er sister. They was both 'ere at first, an' then the other one—'Elen, 'er name was—she went first. Down into the country. South—south-somethin'-or-other, but I just can't remember what South it was."

She shook her head. "Not any of them," she said. "P'raps it'll come back to me mind. Yes, they come 'ere together—beginnin' of the winter, it was, an' I could see then Miss Gloria looked ill—all peaky, but I didn't suspect. Miss 'Elen told me straight they was 'ard up, an' I let 'em 'ave the two attics for sixteen bob, eight bob each, any meals they wanted extra. I'm a-tellin' you the straight truth, sir, but it ain't goin' to 'arm either of 'em, is it?"

"Ah, well, they ain't, see? Only I know you got to tell the police everything, an' I trust you not to let this go no further if I do tell it, because Miss Gloria—but I never knew all of it. Only, as I say, they 'ad the attics at eight bob apiece, an' at first they never 'ad no meals, no breakfast, no nuthin'. Miss Gloria never went out, but Miss 'Elen she'd go out—you could see they was ladies, though they was so 'ard up, an' they was both so nice in their manners you couldn't 'elp likin' both of 'em, but specially Miss Gloria. An' I tell you straight, sir, I did like 'em. Used to give 'em a scuttle o' coals now an' agin, because it was bitter cold up there, an' I never said nuthin' about it when rent day come round, an' I'd go up when they 'adn't done no cookin' all day an' I knew they must be next to starvin', an' ask 'em wouldn't they like a cuppa tea, an' I'd give 'em bread an' butter with it, an' once Miss Gloria put 'er arms round my neck an' kissed me. I couldn't let 'em altogether starve. An' they'd been 'ere about two months, an' Miss 'Elen got to comin' back lookin' desperate after she'd been out, an' I got afraid, because when a girl gets lookin' like that you can reckon 'unger is temptin' of 'er to go all the way to ruin, an' there was 'er sister to think about as well as 'erself. Then when they was two weeks be'ind with the rent, she comes to me, an' she says: 'Mrs. 'Uggins,' she says, 'it's best to be honest with you,' she says. 'I'm doin' my very best to get work,' she says, 'an' if you'll trust us just a little longer,' she says, 'the tide must turn an' then I shall pay you every penny.' An' I dunno 'ow it was, but they'd got round me some'ow with their ladylike ways an' niceness, an' I told 'er sixteen bob a week wasn't everything in life, because I 'ad the 'ouse quite full an' was doin' well, then. An' I said if it run on for another month I'd trust 'er, for even then I 'adn't guessed what was wrong with Miss Gloria, an' she was such a sweet young lady."

"Well, it went on an' on, till one week Miss 'Elen took to comin' in late of nights, an' I tell you that fair frightened me. I dasn't ask 'er whether she 'ad taken the turn most of 'em take, for if there'd been a row I should 'ave 'ad to turn 'er out, an' Miss Gloria wasn't in no state to be turned out. But the end of that week she comes to me an' 'ands me a pound note, an'—'Mrs. 'Uggins,' she says, 'the tide 'as tumed, an' I've got a job. It's seven days a week an' only We'ns'd'y afternoons off, but I'm thankful for that.' 'So'm I, Miss 'Elen,' I says, an' I was, too, because by the way she spoke I knew she was still straight, an' I could of gone down on me betided knees an' give thanks to know it. She never told me what the job was, an' I didn't ask."

"No more'n the dead, sir. Well, time went on, an' by an' by I knew what it was with Miss Gloria, an' I 'ad a 'ard time with meself. Because I'd always kep' the 'ouse respectable, an'—but when I went up one day an' seen 'er in that little attic—well, I tell you, sir, I fair broke down an' cried with 'er, an' 'adn't the 'eart to say anything, only to go an' get 'er some tea, an' a chop I'd got in for meself, an' take 'em up an' tell 'er to 'ave a good 'eart, an' not ask 'er what I'd meant to ask, whether it'd be born in wedlock, because I knew she'd never worn no ring. Maybe I was too soft—they always say round 'ere that old 'Uggins is a softy, but I dunno where she'd 'ave gone, or what she'd 'ave done—an' I reckoned I could 'ush it up so the 'ouse wouldn't be any the less respectable. Maybe I was a softy, but them two was different to the lodgers I generly get. I dunno."

"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me," Head quoted softly.

"Never mind, Mrs. Huggins," he said. "The world would be all the better for a few more softies like you, though. Now go on with the tale. Did they leave here before the baby was born?"

"No, sir. It was fixed for Miss Gloria to go into the infirmary for it to be born, but it was premature—'appened one night quite sudden, an' a nurse come round from the infirmary an' the doctor come in—such a fuss an' scurry there was, right up the top o' the 'ouse, as you may imagine. A peaky little thing, not more'n six pounds, it wasn't, an' Miss 'Elen got three days off from 'er job, but she said they wouldn't let 'er 'ave more, an' I got nearly wore out climbin' up an' down all them stairs the way I did, to look after 'er an' cook little dainties because she was nursin' the child an' 'ad to be fed for that. Up to the next winter she kep' it, an' the doctor didn't stop comin', because there was somethin' wrong with the baby, though I dunno what it was, an' all that time Miss 'Elen never 'ad one new dress, I know. She'd 'a starved 'erself for 'er sister, that girl would. Then the doctor brought another doctor to see the baby, an' it was took away. Miss Gloria took to goin' out, an' one day—I'd been frightened about 'er, because she'd been out even later'n Miss 'Elen 'ad to be over 'er job—one day she comes to me an' tells me she's got a job, as a chorus girl. She 'adn't been at that many weeks before Miss 'Elen went off to this South place that I can't remember the name of, an' then she went too. But she sent me five pounds, which she said was to buy a dress, an' two tickets for the show at the theatre where she was actin', an' I went, an' she wasn't no chorus girl, neither, but a real actress an' they clapped 'er like anything. An' whether it's a wicked life like they say I don't know, but I ain't ever goin' to believe any wickedness about them two. They wasn't the sort to turn wicked, I know."

"I don't think so," Mrs. Huggins answered slowly. "Unless— I've often thought about it, but never liked to ask either of 'em. You know, sir, with my lady lodgers I never let any gentleman come in an' go to their rooms, not if it was ever so. It was when they first come 'ere, one day when Miss 'Elen was out lookin' for work, a young gentleman come to the door just as you come just now—an' 'e asked for Miss Kingsley. An' I says which Miss Kingsley, an' 'e says Miss Gloria Kingsley. An' I asks 'im to wait an' goes up an' tells 'er 'is name, an' she goes all shuddery an' says 'e should 'ave thought to come before, an' she didn't want to see 'im neither now nor ever any more, an' she would not come down to the door to speak to 'im. So I reckon that was the father of the child, an' 'e'd deceived 'er. Fine-lookin' man 'e was, but I didn't like 'is eyes. I remember it as if it was yesterday, 'ow she looked when I told 'er 'oo it was wanted to speak to 'er."

"I don't exactly remember. I believe you said it at first, though, when you begun arskin' me. 'Ouse somethin'-or-other—'Ouse—'Ouse—no, I can't remember, but I know it begun with 'Ouse."

"That was 'im!" she exclaimed. "Well, I never! Fancy you knowin' it! But there, they always say there ain't much the police don't get to know, when they put their minds to it. Yes, that was 'is name."

"Only that once," she assented, "an' she asked me not to tell Miss 'Elen about it, an' I didn't, neither."

"Do you know where I can find that doctor who attended her?" he inquired after a pause for thought over the story.

"Doctor Todgers—I forget the number, but it's this side the road as you go up to'rds Westminster, an' it's in the one 'undreds. There's a brass plate—'e's still at the same place 'e was then."

"Never a word, sir. You'd 'a thought she might of dropped me a line to say 'ow she was goin' on, but I s'pose it was outer sight outer mind, as the sayin' is. Ah, well, they come an' they go, an' I don't get any younger. But real ladies, them two was, even if they was on the stage, an' I don't care 'oo 'ears me say it."

"They was both tall, an' blonde, rather like each other to look at, only Miss Gloria was the best-lookin' by a long way—that was, after she'd 'ad the baby an' got over it. Lovely, she was—I expect you've seen 'er on the stage, though. Miss 'Elen wasn't much different but a bit more keep-offish in 'er ways. She never said, but I reckon she was on the stage too somewhere, which was why she was always late nights after she got that job. I'll never believe anything wrong about 'er."

"More near eleven, sir. Let me see, now. It was—yes, ten year ago last July since she left, an' I forget how long it was after when Miss Gloria left too. Some time in the winter—or maybe late autumn."

"And I suppose a good many people talked about the affair—about the girl having the baby here like that?" he suggested.

"Why, no, sir. Things like that is too common down this way for anyone to take much notice, an' Miss Gloria didn't go out much—Miss 'Elen got all the things in they wanted, an' after the baby was took away them as did know forgot. People round 'ere is mostly too busy gettin' a livin' to do more'n pass a few remarks at the time, if they know, an' 'cept for me an' the doctor, there wasn't many knew what reely 'appened. An' the baby was took away some while before she left 'ere, so I reckon she didn't 'ave to let nobody know where she went."

"Well, I did 'ave the address when she sent me the five pound an' the tickets, but it got lost. Somewhere up north, it was—north London, I mean. But it's a long while ago, an' I don't remember. So many come an' go, an' I don't get no younger. But I'd like a few more lodgers like them two, I would. I ain't never forgot 'em."

The sisters, he reflected, would not willingly remember that time. Attic lodgings in the grimy house, poverty that verged on the starvation line even after "Miss Helen" had got work, whatever that work may have been, and the girl-mother hiding herself until the baby had been taken from her, then beginning life anew as a chorus girl. No wonder Jimmy Weeds had seen in her one who, as he expressed it, had known the full gamut of human emotion. And the sister—

"But Miss 'Elen was the best," Mrs. Huggins said, as if carrying on his thought. "Fair idolized 'er sister, she did—she was the oldest, an' never thought nuthin' of 'erself alongside of 'er sister. Gloria this an' Gloria that, it was, always. Gloria gotter 'ave this an' Gloria gotter 'ave that—you don't often see it between sisters."

"I suppose not," he said, rather absently. Had Feilding—Haussbrandt—been vile enough to use that incident in Gloria Kingsley's life as a lever with which to compel Gloria Enthwaite to compass her husband's ruin, threatening to reveal the story to Enthwaite if she refused to do as he asked? But then, had he even so much as known of the existence of a child, since she had refused to see him? Yet, when she had come to prominence as an actress, he might have sought her again, and by some means learned the story of that time in the Kennington Road lodgings. But, even so, had he—?

Head pulled himself up. Conjectures of this sort were futile, and even now, though he had learned a little more of Gloria Kingsley and Haussbrandt, he was apparently as far off as ever from Haussbrandt's murderer. He moved toward the door of the room.

"Thank you very much for all you have told me, Mrs. Huggins, and I assure you it shall do no harm to Miss Gloria Kingsley," he said.

"Don't mention it, sir," she said. "'Ud you like a cuppa tea before you go, because I can soon make one?"

Turning northward along the Kennington Road after emerging from the house, he found Doctor Ronald Todgers' brass plate and rang the doctor's bell. The grey-haired, rather shabby man who answered the summons appeared no more inclined to admit him than Mrs. Huggins had been at first.

Head offered a card. "An inquiry about one of your patients—a confinement case you attended some while ago," he explained.

"Well—er—detective-inspector, eh? I suppose you know, Mr. Head, that you cannot compel revelations from a doctor about his patients?"

"I don't intend to try, doctor. Tell what you choose, and keep back what you choose. I promise not to take up much of your time."

"You'd better come in, I think," the doctor said, standing back from the door. "Unfortunately, such practice as I have does not take up all my time, by a long way." He led the way into a consulting room in which a spring cleaning was long overdue. "What is it you want to know?" he asked as he pointed to the chair evidently kept for patients' use, and prepared to seat himself at his old roll-top desk.

"The confinement of a lady named Kingsley, at number 222c in this road, kept then and still kept by a Mrs. Huggins," Head said.

"Ah!" The doctor made a long pause. "That is a long time ago, Mr.—er—Mr. Head. What is it you want to know about it?"

"I don't see why you should make such an assumption," Todgers said with some asperity. "I have not said anything of the kind."

"No, but considering all circumstances, you would have told me instantly if it were not," Head pointed out quietly.

"I see. Well, that alters the case, of course. Yes. Yes. The mother. And you know who she is, I take it? Very few people here know it, if any, beside myself and Mrs. Huggins. A most estimable woman, Mrs. Huggins, Mr. Head. A rough diamond, certainly, but a heart of gold."

"And blackmail, you say. After all this time, too! That would be in consequence of the lady's marrying, I take it. Yes. An attempt at extracting money by threatening to bring to light this—er—this unfortunate episode. Yes. If I can do anything to thwart such an abominable attempt, I shall be only too glad. In confidence, of course."

"There were features about it which impressed it on my memory," the doctor said. "Not least among them was the munificence—I am justified in calling it that—which Miss Kingsley displayed toward me when she became successful on the stage. A very rare thing, that, Mr. Head. Ladies who have had such an experience as hers, as a general rule, try not only to forget the experience, but also to forget those who may have helped them at the time. Miss Kingsley remembered me, handsomely!"

"I am glad to hear it," Head told him. "Do you know anything of—well, of what led up to the experience, as you call it? The man in the case—do you know anything at all about him?"

The doctor shook his head. "Nothing whatever," he said. "Nothing whatever! Since I was in attendance on both mother and child over an unusually long period, I learned a little about her. It appears that some man—I have no idea who it was—some man persuaded her to go away with him. Away, that is, from theatrical work—she was very young at the time, and probably very impressionable. Then he deserted her, and she came back to her sister in—in a certain condition. The sister befriended her in every way, and was in fact her sole support when I was called in for the premature birth of the child. She was to have gone to an infirmary, but that was impossible, and I attended her at Mrs. Huggins' house, in conjunction with the district nurse. From my point of view, a most interesting case. Yes, most interesting."

"Oh, the child, certainly. Yes, the child. A—er—a very tragic case, Mr. Head—very. From the first I had my suspicions, and at the age of seven months I called in a consultant at my own expense, since the mother was quite unable to consider such a step. He agreed with me, and with the mother's consent the child was taken away and placed in an institution. Subsequently, when Miss Kingsley achieved her success, she had it removed to a private establishment where it would be well cared-for, and where—this is in confidence, Mr. Head—where it still is, at her expense."

"For the simple reason that it is a hopeless, vacuous imbecile, incapable of either memory or recognition in the human sense," Todgers said gravely. "And so, as long as it lives, it will remain."

Chapter XII
Calder, Cummins, and Calder

Sergeant Wells, having taken the trunk call that Head had put through after leaving Doctor Todgers' consulting room, had read out the typed results of inquiries that Jeffries had left ready. Now, after a preliminary clanking, Head heard the Superintendent's voice:

"As you gave it him," Head answered. "Chief, that envelope—and the postmark. It's the most astounding thing in the case yet, and I've had a shock or two since I last talked to you. Also, it seems to indicate that our murderer was still in Westingborough yesterday."

"Can you see him trusting an accessory? No, himself. Have you made any inquiries about the envelope at the post office?"

"Here, laddie, you haven't got all the brains!" Wadden objected, and blew into his transmitter in a way that made a roar in Head's ear. "The chief sorter, or whatever he calls himself, informed me that the boxes are all cleared nominally at two-thirty, actually some time between two-thirty and three P.M., for letters which go out postmarked four-fifteen P.M. The next lot, all that get posted after that collection, get postmarked seven-fifteen, so it was posted after two-thirty yesterday afternoon. He couldn't identify it, though, or tell me any more than that about it."

"I'm probably coming back some time to-day," Head answered, "but having found where Feilding lived as Harden, I want to get in there and have a look round first. And, Chief, you're quite right—it was the married lady, not the other. About the vilest piece of blackmail that has ever been done, if my last long shot is correct."

"Don't make one long shot too many," Wadden advised. "Also, what about leaving the lady and Feilding alone, now, and getting after the man who did the deed? It's he you want, after all."

"Apart from sitting on the back yard gate of the hotel and waiting for him to climb over it again, can you tell me how to go after him?" Head demanded acidly. "I may get some line on him in Harden's flat, for all that I know. Also Harry Tracy is being investigated for me, and there may be news in that quarter. One side of it has gone so smoothly that there was bound to be a bad snag in it somewhere, and that consists in the lack of any sign that would point us to the man who did it. That envelope tells nothing, I suppose?"

"I thought so. Now, that man Smith—if he turns up when I'm not there. He may have something to tell you about the vital telephone call—the nine-forty-five one from Enthwaite House. I don't see what else you've got to ask him when you get him there, though if he can tell us who answered that call he'll be more than worth while."

"One whale of a lie, my son. Having checked it up, I didn't ask for any more. Mrs. Enthwaite had got at her, and she was ready to deny everything till she went black in the face and blew up. Knowing I couldn't believe a thing, I didn't ask for it."

"A pity. I should have led her on, if I'd been handling her. Still, you've seen her, and I haven't. All right, Chief—I expect I shall be seeing you in the morning, if I'm too late to-night to catch you."

"Orright, my son. Oh, in case you want it, Hattersley and Cummins is the name of Mrs. Enthwaite's tailors, and she claims they rang her from the Euston call-box at ten-thirty Tuesday morning. Some claim, that! You might like to ask them about it—Hattersley and Cummins."

"I will take it as read, Chief. I'm just going along to get Byrne to pull some wires and let me into Feilding's flat without the formality of an official application—he can do it, I know. And for your inquest this afternoon, make it brief and formal and adjourn for further investigation—tell Payne-Garland we don't want anything at all given away at this stage, and he'll do it for you. So long, Chief."

And, since he managed to find Byrne and get the wires pulled, Head arrived at Mosewald Mansions by half-past two that afternoon in company with a uniformed sergeant and constable who lent an official flavour to the proceedings. Head got the lift attendant to take him up to the fifth floor, and, as soon as the lift gate had closed, the sergeant and constable entered the building and went up the staircase. A bunch of keys that the sergeant produced proved to contain one which acted on the lock of number 102, and the three entered and closed the door, unnoted by any other occupants on the block.

"Which goes to prove what an easy game burglary is," the sergeant remarked, as Head stooped to pick up three letters that had been pushed under the door since Harden, alias Feilding, set out for Westingborough.

While the pair of them began a systematic search—the flat consisted of one very large room with an alcove which contained a divan bed, a bathroom, and a minute kitchen—Head inspected the letters he had found. One was an account from a car hire firm in an unsealed envelope, another contained two theatre tickets for the preceding evening—one of those tickets, Head felt certain, had been intended to frank Miss Kaye into the stalls—and the third contained a very stiff and rustly sheet of paper from a firm of solicitors styled Calder, Cummins, and Calder, with a Chancery Lane address. Head read their letter:

Pursuant to your call at this office yesterday afternoon, and in connection with the proposal you outlined to us, we find ourselves, after due consideration of the proposal, quite unable to act on your behalf. We are convinced that there is not the slightest chance of such an action as you outlined to us succeeding, and therefore we are regretfully compelled to decline to undertake it.

Pocketing this, Head went to see how his assistants were progressing at their work. The sergeant took his head out of a wardrobe, in which Head could see two lounge coats of that distinctive shade of grey.

"Precious little paper, sir," he observed. "I've done his desk, and what was in it is on it. A couple of love letters, one from some lawyers, and the rest is bills and receipts and that sort of junk."

An inspection of the junk revealed that the love letters, as the sergeant styled them—Head pocketed them without reading, for the time—were on paper headed "40, Inchester Gardens". The lawyer's letter was from Calder, Cummins, and Calder, making an appointment for 2.45 on the preceding Monday at their office. There were sundry notes scribbled in pencil on the back, and Head stopped to read them:

Claim paternity. Allege lack of care. Cruelty?
Do not tell CCC action is not intended to succeed.
Get them to draw up on paper—particulars of claim.
Recovery of boy from home. Public action essential.
State G. has already refused, therefore legal remedy.
Offer deposit all costs in advance.
£5,000 at least to withdraw.

"Yes," Head murmured to himself as he put this too in his pocket, "and I have every sympathy with the man who murdered him. How goes it, sergeant?" he raised his voice to ask. "Found anything more?"

"It looks to me as if that's the lot, sir," the sergeant answered. "Mr. Byrne told me what he reckoned this chap was, and that sort don't leave any evidence lying about. Generally, they carry everything in their heads except the cypher key, and they sleep with that on 'em."

"It looks as if this one slept with everything on him." Head remarked when, half an hour later, they had as a final measure ascertained that the occupant of the flat had hidden nothing under the carpet.

"Well, we'll go back the way we came," Head suggested. "You two can start down the stairs while I ring for the lift, and make your own explanations if anyone questions you on the way."

"Most people shy at questioning a uniform, sir," the sergeant observed as he opened the door carefully and looked out. "Come on, Harry, all clear," he added. "You'll shut the door, sir."

They were standing, an innocent-looking pair, at the edge of the pavement when Head, released from the lift, emerged from the building. The sergeant gave him a look that implied suspicion of a complete stranger rather than recognition, and went on talking to the constable while Head waved a taxi to a standstill and gave the driver the Chancery Lane address. With the pencilled notes that he had read, he had little need to make this call, but there was time to burn before he was due to meet Liversedge at the Piccadilly Hotel. At his destination he asked for Mr. Cummins, and followed his card into the presence of a tall, sandy-haired, freckle-faced man, who invited him to be seated and then waited.

"The proposal, as I understand it, was to institute an action for the recovery of an illegitimate child from its mother by the father," Head said. "Is that the case?"

Cummins inclined his head in assent. "Rather, he wanted an outline of the way in which we should institute such an action for him," he said. "But what is your motive in this, Inspector?"

"I want the man who murdered him," Head stated frankly, "and with your confirmation of my own view of Harden's motive over this, I shall be sorry to find my man, for if ever anyone deserved—" He broke off.

"Intended to be," Head assented, and after he had spoken realized that Harden, as Feilding, had accomplished the main part of his object, though he had not had time to bleed Gloria Enthwaite of the five thousand pounds pencilled on the back of the solicitors' letter.

"He was insistent that an outline of the action should reach him by the first post on Tuesday morning," Cummins said. "It did not. We wrote declining to have anything to do with it on Tuesday morning. I dare say he might have got some shyster or other to take it up—such exist, to the discredit of our profession. But"—he looked closely at his finger nails—"we keep our hands clean, here."

"Never saw him—never heard of him, until he rang up from his Chelsea address and asked for an appointment, which I personally made by post. And now, murdered, eh? Well, the world is well rid of him."

"I agree with you, Mr. Cummins." Head rose to his feet. "Sorry to have taken up so much of your time—"

"Not at all, Inspector—not at all! Only too glad to help you, though I fear I have not been much help. And"—he smiled—"after your confirmation of my own belief as to what this man contemplated doing, I do not wish you success in your search for the one who killed him, though knowing what police methods are, I fear you will succeed."

Out in the street again, he found he had time to walk to Piccadilly to keep his appointment with Liversedge, and made his way to Fleet Street and along past the Law Courts, thinking deeply over the case. He had to find the murderer, as he had said, but...

He saw all that old story of Gloria Kingsley being dragged to light by a defending counsel—revelation of the telephone call from Enthwaite House to the Duke of York on Wednesday night would probably pull the Enthwaite side of it in as evidence, and then the defence would strain at everything which might mitigate the case against their man. There was, now, no doubt in Head's mind that Feilding had used the threat of publishing that old story to force Gloria to steal the document for him, and at the very least it would be impossible to keep Enthwaite from knowledge of the theft. Ruin for those two lives, past question. The prosecution would demand the motive for the murder, and whatever agent of whatever power had been out to thwart the power that Feilding had represented would be credited with that motive, the more so as there appeared to be so little direct evidence of the crime. And surely Harry Tracy would be revealed as the one who had got in touch with the murderer at the Duke of York? Or had Gloria herself, in a fever of repentance, had some ally there—the man whom Nell had seen climbing over the gate in the first of the rainy dawn?

And why had the document been returned? Had it been copied, photographed down to microscopic size, perhaps, for safer concealment in transit out of the country, and then the original sent back to Enthwaite as a derisive gesture—or, more probably, that he might return it to Macclesfield with no word of having lost it for a time, and so delay discovery of the leakage of its contents? That, as Head thought over it, appeared the most likely reason for returning it: in Macclesfield's absence, this second set of conspirators would reason, Enthwaite had probably kept his own counsel over the loss; with the document returned to him he might for his own sake conceal the fact that it had ever been out of his possession, for then the leakage could not be traced back to him. That he might, as a man of honour, be willing to admit his culpability was not likely to occur to such secret agents as had murdered a man to get hold of the document.

Yes, Head decided, there was their motive for returning it. If, as they hoped, Enthwaite returned the corrected document to Macclesfield and said nothing about its having been out of his possession, then whatever power these agents represented would be able to mature its plans in secret, and launch its thunderbolt at the moment that best suited its purpose. And, as Byrne had said, the murderer of Feilding might be half-way across Europe by this time, even though he had stayed in Westingborough long enough to post the document back to Enthwaite the preceding afternoon. That he, and no other, had posted it, Head felt certain: he would not hand that envelope with Enthwaite's name and address on it to anyone else for posting, lest some chance remark might reveal his identity before he could get clear away.

So Head saw it as he walked into the Piccadilly and saw Liversedge standing just inside. They greeted each other casually, and moved away from the tea-room entrance to a point where they could talk without being overheard. Two reasonably well-dressed men, meeting in such a place, attracted no undue attention from others there.

"Nothing conclusive," Liversedge answered, "but you've given us one more to go on our list. I don't despise the foreign agent over here and working for his own country, Mr. Head—in fact, sometimes I have to admire his sort, though they give me the damndest amount of trouble. But the dirty devil who works against his country—well!"

"Mind, I'm not sure—yet," Liversedge counselled. "The way of it was this. I went along to Enthwaite's chambers—in Lincoln's Inn Fields, they are—to see if I could get a line on this Harry Tracy, and found him there. I'd got my eye on a nice plot of land out Pinner way and wanted to build. Heard he was in the architect line and thought maybe he would give me a few ideas as to costs and how to set about plans, because I didn't want to spend too much. He fell for it easily enough, and I suggested lunch together to talk it over. He fell for that too, and I took him to the Savoy and did him well to get him expansive. Switched on to my travels in Europe, sounding him carefully, till he asked me if I'd ever been to Soviet Russia. That was on the third liqueur brandy, and I owned I'd never seen that country. Then he told me—remember, I was a moneyed man with no more interest in politics than a pig has in the Einstein theory—he told me he'd just been seeing a friend off to Soviet Russia, which was why he'd hustled up from the country instead of staying down over the week-end, and he was glad of it now, because of the pretty little piece of business I was looking like putting his way. Said friend was a man named Demetrius Andreev. Tracy and he spent yesterday together, and Andreev went off from the Surrey Commercial docks at eleven last night in the Tatiana Ulianov, Soviet steamer. In case you don't know, Ulianov was Lenin's name before he changed it, but that doesn't interest us now."

"Then—was Tracy the one who made that telephone call from Enthwaite House to the Duke of York, and this Andreev the one who took it?" Head asked—of himself more than of his companion.

"As much as if he'd been fired off this planet to Mars," Liversedge assented, rather gloomily. "Short of getting a destroyer to go after this Tatiana Ulianov and take him off, which since he's a Soviet subject would rank as an act of war and can't be done, there's no means of stopping him. The boat goes straight to Leningrad. I've had Andreev looked up, since he's not on our list, and he shows as an innocent Russian citizen who had come over here on a six months' visit for nothing in particular. Perfectly harmless—but that document went with him."

"I go on the evidence—on your story," Liversedge said. "He put Harry Tracy wise to the fact that Enthwaite had it, and by some means Tracy got to know that it had been passed to Haussbrandt—don't ask me what those means were, for all this is guesswork, in reality, and I can't touch Tracy to verify any of the guesses. Neither can you. That document must not be mentioned in your case—even if you get your man, you'll find the public prosecutor will not allow it to be brought into the case, because, if it were, there'd be hell's own row in the Westminster cackle-shop over an attempt at secret diplomacy behind the backs of the great elected—probably the fall of the Government."

"The document, by the way, has been returned to Enthwaite," Head said, after a few moments of reflection over the other's statement.

"Returned to Enthwaite, by the seven-fifteen post from Westingborough yesterday, with no hint of the sender's identity," Head amplified his original statement. "I got this by telephone after seeing you."

"Then—wait a bit," Liversedge said. "Yes, I get it. Andreev or some other of them sent it back. If Enthwaite says nothing to Macclesfield when he hands it over to-morrow, Andreev reckons on getting to Leningrad before the loss is discovered. He's taken a photostat."

"Obviously—it's the only one possible," Liversedge said. "But now to go back a bit. Could anyone hide in this hotel of yours?"

"Not mine," Head objected, "but—over twenty unoccupied bedrooms at the present time. The proprietress is an old friend, practically."

"Useful, at times," Liversedge commented. "And empty rooms—plenty of chance for Andreev or anyone else to conceal himself. But then, he wouldn't know the geography of the place, unless—"

"Tracy has stayed in the room Feilding occupied," Head pointed out. Wadden had been careful to pass on that piece of information, as he remembered now. Liversedge nodded in a satisfied way.

"Ah, well, all clear," he remarked, "and there's your two ends of the telephone call that's been puzzling you. But I do not want you to question Tracy about that call—I'd rather you didn't question him about anything, as a matter of fact, for the present."

"Give him rope—plenty of rope. If we assume, as think we may, that this Andreev killed Feilding—or somebody working in concert with Andreev did it—then until you get your man you can't do a thing against Tracy, and frankly, Mr. Head, your chance of making that arrest looks to me on a level with Hitler's of being crowned in the Kremlin. Even if you do get your murderer, I don't see that you can prove Tracy an accessory, for you will not be allowed to bring that document into your case, as I have already told you. And without it, even if Tracy did ring up to tell a man he knew that Feilding was staying in the hotel, what is there in that? You see, you're in this thing from one angle, that of getting your man in the interests of abstract justice, while I come into it from a totally different side, and don't care one hoot in a coal yard how many of Feilding's sort get put out of the way. The more the better, as a matter of fact, for it saves me trouble, though if they all got extinguished I should be out of a job. But that's not likely. Oh, a little bit of news for you! As you may guess, we keep a man of our own in the firm of Haussbrandt and Co., and I got the latest from him to see if it bore on this problem. It does in a way, for he reports that Jerome Haussbrandt—that's the managing director of the firm, you may remember—had one hell of a row with this Arnold a bit less than a fortnight ago. Told him he'd been a lazy, womanizing skunk all his life while the rest of the family slaved their little tummies sore, and he—Jerome, that is—wasn't going on weighing out good profits to a man who never did anything to earn them. Which, you see, accounts for Arnold coming in on the game with the rest of them, after living his life of gay idleness for so long."

Accounted, too, Head thought but did not say, for that pencilled notation, "£5,000," on the back of the solicitors' letter that he still had in his pocket. To compensate for any possible loss of his share of the firm's profits, Haussbrandt had intended to bleed Gloria Enthwaite of that sum, past question, in addition to getting the document.

"Volunteering to come in," Head remarked, "on account of certain special knowledge that he had, a dirty episode in his own past that he counted on turning to his advantage—at a woman's expense."

"That was it, eh?" Liversedge commented thoughtfully. "By gosh, I've just thought of something! You say that document went back to Enthwaite by the seven-fifteen post last night?"

"Then Andreev didn't post it. While I was talking to Tracy in Enthwaite's chambers, a man who looked like a clerk came in and told Tracy that Mr. Demetrius Andreev had called the afternoon before and asked for him, and Tracy said he'd seen the man. Now, if Andreev called at Enthwaite's chambers any time that afternoon, he couldn't have been in Westingborough at the possible time to post that document to Enthwaite at Carden. Further to that—yes, it's coming clear—further to that, Andreev was not the one who went to Westingborough to kill Feilding and get the document from him. If he had been, he wouldn't have handed it to somebody else to post. No, but that somebody else who posted it was the one who killed Feilding to get it. That somebody else, Mr. Head, handed the photostat on to Tracy yesterday morning, before he started for London—probably at Westingborough station—and since it looks as if he might be in Westingborough yet you may get your man after all."

"Plenty of time," he said. "My next train is at six-twenty, except for a slow that gets in after it, and I've got to find him."

"Ye-es," Liversedge reflected, "with all the way to go, it appears. I don't envy you the job. But—and I'll go on impressing this on you till I get too thirsty to talk—if you do get him, impute any motive you like except the right one. Say that Feilding had halitosis and this chap did him in because he couldn't stand it, call him a homicidal lunatic or allege what you like, but don't think you can mention that stolen script and keep your job, because you can't, and any mention you try to make of it will be squashed as flat as you will. That's final."

"Possibly not, but I want it quite clear. When the trouble begins, nobody will know the reason for Sir Osbert Macclesfield's resignation, and he'll probably get patted on the back as an example of rectitude and all that at his job—regrets at losing one so valuable and all that sort of eyewash. The existence of the document that got out of and back into Enthwaite's hands must not be made known."

"I think that's all I can tell you. Now I must be off—it isn't open yet, so I can't suggest your having one with me. Good luck, Mr. Head, and if I hear anything at all that might be useful to you, I know where to get you. Similarly, if you hear, a word to Byrne—"

And he went off, while Head, watching him through the doorway, wondered what could be the contents of that document, and who were the contracting parties other than those whom men like Liversedge served. That, he realized, was something which in all probability he would never know.

Chapter XIII
Accident, or—?

REALIZING that Liversedge wished to go off alone, Head gave him time to get clear of the hotel, and then followed him out to Piccadilly unhurriedly, intending to make a leisurely progress to his train and get some tea on the way, since he had nothing more to do in London and over an hour yet to spare. But, just outside the hotel, he came on the inevitable crowd that gathers instantly in a London street over any untoward occurrence. By the edge of the pavement, he could see, two policemen were keeping a clear space about something that the momentarily thickening crowd concealed, while a third tried to keep the road clear for traffic and move on the would-be sightseers. There was a honking of klaxons and baa-ing of bus horns; beside the pavement, a feature of the incident round which the crowd stared, stood a big Austin saloon with an elderly, well-dressed man and a white-faced chauffeur together by the bonnet. A thin drizzle of rain was falling, but nobody heeded it. Head caught a voice: "Shoved right on to it," someone said. "I heard the chauffer tell that pleeceman. No, I didn't actually see."

"I did, though," said another. "He come outer there—" nodding toward the hotel entrance. "What's become o' the one that shoved him, though—I reckon he was scared when he'd seen what he done."

"That there car," the man answered. "Killed a man, it have—at least, I reckon he's dead. It was cumin' along, an' another chap sort of bumped up against this man an' knocked him right in front of it, clean off the pavement. Come runnin' out from there"—he pointed toward the corner of Air Street—"an' didn't stop after he'd hit against this man. Went right across the street all among the traffic—it's a fair miracle he didn't get hisself killed as well."

"Constable?" Head addressed the policeman who was adjuring people to keep moving though with little success, "here is a witness who saw what happened, one who may be useful to you—"

"Oh, move along!" the man interrupted impatiently. "Who might you be, anyhow?" he added, as Head showed no signs of obeying the order.

"Detective-Inspector Head." He had no sooner spoken his name than the constable darted after the man to whom he had been talking, and who was now attempting to get away.

"Here, you!" the constable bade sharply. "Stop where you are, in case you're wanted. Sorry, sir." He turned to address Head again. "Did you see it happen yourself?"

"I did not," Head answered, as his informant bleated something about not wanting to be dragged into it. "Is the man dead?"

"Killed instantly, sir—move along there—now then—move along, I say! Ah, shove 'em along, Jimmy, while I keep an eye on this chap." This last to one of the two who had left his fellow to stand over the body pending the arrival of an ambulance, and now, his overcoat hiding the body on the pavement, began to help in keeping the crowd on the move. Then, outside this area of morbid curiosity, a clanging bell called for clearance for a white vehicle among the traffic. The ambulance drew to a standstill ahead of the big Austin, and its two attendants appeared, one of them carrying a stretcher. The crowd made way for them.

"I want to see him," Head said to the constable. "I think I may possibly be able to recognize him—I am afraid so."

"Follow the stretcher bearers, sir— Oh, Beatty?" This to another constable who appeared. "This gentleman thinks he may know the body. Let him have a look before they go off, just in case."

With his way thus made clear, Head followed the man to where the body lay, and, removing his hat as he looked down, saw that, although some part of the car had struck on the face and terribly disfigured it, Liversedge was the victim. He looked up at the man who had guided him as the ambulance men, covering the corpse again, lifted it on to their stretcher, and one of the policemen retrieved his companion's coat.

"Get on to Detective-Inspector Byrne about this, will you?" he asked the man. "I expect you know where to find him."

"His cousin—Detective-Inspector Head. The dead man is Special Branch, and Byrne knows him well. Get him here, to see what he can get out of that man who saw it happen. The sooner the better."

The man took one glance at the warrant card which Head held out for his scrutiny, and then went off. With a warning clangour of its bell the ambulance too went away, and Head reflected that, from the moment he had sighted the crowd, the quiet efficiency of these few policemen had been a thing at which to marvel. Now, taking all things in their order, they had begun on the chauffeur and the elderly man with him, and one of them was already taking particulars from the chauffeur's licence, while another was putting down the elderly man's name and address. The chauffeur broke out desperately:

"I'd defy Malcolm Campbell himself to help it! He was pushed off the pavement right in front of me, as if it'd been on purpose. I was doin' no more than fifteen at the most, but he fell right in front of the bumper. You can't pull a car like that up in a couple of feet—nobody on earth could have stopped it in time—"

"Brown, keep quiet!" the elderly man snapped at him testily. "You will be given opportunity to make a statement, and I shall be there to testify on your behalf. But the man responsible—" He gazed at the ring of curious faces about him. "Pah, the morbid fools! Can't you clear them off, officer? Here, let's get inside the hotel while you finish asking us all you want. Come along, Brown."

"Well—Brown, take it round to the nearest garage and then come back here—come into the hotel and ask for me. I simply refuse to say another word with all these fools gaping round me like this. Take the car away and come back, Brown, and be quick about it!"

Unhindered by the police, the chauffeur went to obey, and a constable got in beside the driving seat to ensure the man's return. A procession consisting of the owner of the car, three policemen, and the man who through Head's action had been detained as a witness, entered the hotel, while, holding on to two more witnesses of the occurrence, the rest of the police cleared off the sightseers, who dispersed fairly rapidly now that there was nothing left to see, except for certain dark stains on the wood-block street surface that they pointed out to each other. And, indifferent now as to whether he caught the six-twenty or a later train, Head waited by the hotel entrance for Byrne to appear.

Then, remembering that there was another entrance to the hotel in Regent Street, he went inside and took up a position near the tea-room doorway, from which he could command both entrances. He saw the chauffeur return by way of Regent Street, unaccompanied, now, and saw that the man questioned an attendant who pointed toward the staircase. Then for awhile Head went on waiting, reflecting that, if he had accompanied Liversedge out to Piccadilly at the end of their talk, this would not have happened, in all probability. Too late even to regret it, now.

He went on waiting, brooding over the strange byways into which his quest was leading him, questioning whether he were not letting himself be diverted from his real purpose by the many side issues that opened out from the murder of Arnold Feilding, and then Byrne, moving with a sort of inconspicuous haste, entered from the Regent Street side and came straight to him. Head nodded in response to the unspoken question that he saw in Byrne's grave eyes.

"Yes, Liversedge," he said. "They are somewhere up there—the owner of the car and his driver. Not to blame, I think."

"Probably not," Byrne said. "He knew—it's not a month ago since he told me he thought they'd get him sooner or later— Gosh, Jerry! I wouldn't take on special branch work at five thousand a year. I'd sooner tackle a covey of good, honest burglars every night of my life than take on his job. The average criminal will do anything but kill, but the birds he chased stop at nothing. How—shoved in front of a car?"

"Off his guard for the moment," Byrne said. "There'd be a dozen of 'em waiting for him to come out, and the one nearest seized his chance. They didn't get him, did they?"

"If they haven't already, they won't," Byrne averred emphatically. "Come on—let's sit in on it and find out if it's your little lot, if we can—the lot that included your Haussbrandt, I mean. Because, if so, you've got to watch your step, in case they saw him with you."

Inquiring of an attendant, he learned how to find the room in which the owner of the car had sought refuge from the crowd, and, disregarding the lift, the pair of them went up the staircase, and in the room to which Byrne led the way found four policemen, three witnesses to the accident—as they considered it—and the car owner and Brown, the chauffeur. One of the constables, seated at a table by the window, stood up as Byrne entered: the rest were already on their feet. Byrne made for the table, and gazed down, at the notes taken on hotel paper.

"I am Detective-Inspector Byrne, gentlemen," he said, mainly addressing the owner of the car. "Just one minute while I look through, this."

He took up the papers and scanned the notes. Then: "Adams?" he asked, looking round the group, and a small man said: "Yes, sir."

"You can go. You'll be notified as to where and when you will be required to give evidence. Roberts?"

"The same holds good for you—attend where and when notified that you will be wanted. Now, Hallam?"

"I can take oath to that, sir," said the shabby-looking man whom Head had prevented from slipping away outside.

"Oh, you can, can you?" Byrne said, giving him an intent look. "Well, your turn will come presently. Now, Mr. Hallam, from your point of view, what happened? Tell me as clearly as you can, please."

"I am not sure of all of it," Hallam answered. "I looked up in time to see a man—rather, I should say I looked ahead, for at the moment I was looking at the shop windows as we passed them—I looked ahead, then, in time to see one man dart out into the street among the traffic, and to my horror another falling in front of the car—immediately in front of it. I was so horrified by that that I haven't the slightest idea what became of the other man—the one whose clumsiness appears to have caused the accident."

"Naturally, sir," Byrne agreed gravely. "But have you any idea at all as to what that other man was like?"

"None whatever," Hallam answered emphatically. "A figure passing within my range of sight—if it had been anyone present in this room at this moment, I should not know it. I have no idea."

"And he's gone," Byrne half-soliloquised. "Now you—" he turned to the chauffeur—"what's your story. What did you see?"

"One man falling in front of the car, and another looking as if he wanted to commit suicide among the traffic—but he cleared my bumper and got away with it," Brown answered. "But who he was, or where he went, is more than I know. When you're doing your very best to keep from killing a man that's dropped in front of your car, you don't count the hairs in another man's eyelashes, I can assure you. And that blasted fool who did the mischief shoved him right on to the bumper—there wasn't a yard between hum and the front wheels when he hit the ground. If I could tell you anything about the other one, I would. But I can't, except that he cleared off after letting the other one in for it."

"Now you—Betts, I see your name is." Byrne turned to the shabby-looking man. "What do you know about it?"

"Goin' along toward the Circus, I was," Betts said, "not hurryin' meself, because there wasn't no need. The tall gent—the one what got knocked down, come outer the hotel doorway just ahead o' me, an' slants across to the edge o' the pavement, goin' toward the Circus too, keepin' ahead o' me, gainin' on me, he was. All of a sudden this other comes fair flyin' outer Air Street, right across the pavement between people, fair goin' it, he was, an' instead o' dodgin' the tall man, cannons into him just like chargin' at a cup-tie match. Reg'lar fierce, he hit 'im, an' it looked to me he swerved so as to catch the other one more from behind than in front, though I wouldn't be sure o' that. It was all unexpected, like. Down goes the tall man in front o' the car, an' seein' what was happenin' to him, I only sees the other after that outer the tail o' me eye till he was outer sight with a bus hidin' him from me—straight across the street, he dodged—"

Betts shook his head. "Now you're askin' me," he, said. "I'd say not very big, youngish, an' dark. Got either a rainproof or waterproof on, an' a black soft hat. But I wouldn't know him again—there's dozens just like him in any street. Ordinary sort of youngish bloke."

"Maybe. I'm not sure. It was the other one I couldn't help lookin' at, though it was a terrible sight. An' they're right about it—nobody on earth could 'a stopped the car before it was on him—the driver ain't to blame. He was goin' easy enough, close in an' keepin' his place in the traffic, an' when that man fell in front o' him he hadn't six foot to go before the wheel was over the man's head. Not six foot, he hadn't, I'll take my oath, an' on a wet road, a car that size don't pull up in six foot, if it's doin' anything over ten mile an hour. I know 'em. Over a ton, they weigh, them twenties."

"That's all," Byrne said abruptly. "You men can get anything you need for your purpose—the dead man, in case you don't know, is Inspector Liversedge of the Special Branch—and then get along and make your report. You'll be cleared at the inquiry, Brown. Come on, Head."

He went out, and Head, who had not spoken a word in the room, followed him. Out in the corridor he paused to ask: "Are you in a hurry to catch any particular train?"

"No," Head answered. "The first one I can catch lands me at Westingborough at nine-forty, which means nothing doing to-night."

"Ah! That's just as well. Because we might as well look along and see if your little gang—the Haussbrandt, gang, I mean—are likely to be responsible for bumping poor Liversedge off."

"I can't, entirely," Byrne confessed. "But we can go along and see that Miss Kaye, find out from her if anyone has been questioning her about her future husband and other things since you saw her last night. Because, if she's been giving things away to any of that crowd, they'd decide that Liversedge had got on to Arnold's bit of dirty work, and if they could put him away nobody else would be likely to know Arnold had been after the document that's caused all the trouble. Get it?"

"Rather thin reasoning, isn't it?" Head inquired as they went down the stairs. "Would he be the only one to know about it?"

"Pretty nearly," Byrne said. "And"—he got outside on the Piccadilly side of the hotel, and then continued—"she may give us more enlightenment. She may have met some of his pals, under different names, but we might get descriptions that Liversedge's section would recognize. Every little bit of knowledge may be useful, Jerry." He lifted and crooked a finger, and a taxi drew in to the pavement edge. "Give him the address, will you? I'm assuming you'll come along with me."

"It's a bad, bad business," Byrne said gravely as the taxi gathered way. "Another traffic accident to go on the Hore-Belisha list, and no more an accident than a politician is honest. Poor old Liversedge! He knew they meant it—not the Haussbrandt lot, but some bigger fish he was playing."

In rather gloomy silence they reached the address Head had given, where Byrne paid off the taxi while Head rang the bell.

"It's your spiel, Jerry," Byrne said, as he came to the doorstep to wait. "If we see her, I'll chip in only if I think you're missing something. Otherwise, I'll just stand and look important."

The woman who had admitted to Head the preceding evening promised to see if Miss Kaye were, in, and left them waiting. They heard her voice raised complainingly upstairs, but could not distinguish what she said. Then she returned, and addressed Head ungraciously.

They went up, Head leading. Miss Kaye, her door open, stood just inside her room, and backed farther into it for them to enter.

"Not an arrest, Miss Kaye," Head said. His gaze went past her to an occasional table in the corner of the room, on which stood a photograph that had not been visible when he called the evening before. He saw the face of the man he had last seen lying with the spike driven through his heart at Westingborough, and the frame that contained the photograph was hidden by a swathing of some black fabric. "Merely to ask if you have had any other inquiries of any kind since I last saw you. Whether anyone has called, or you have been rung up."

"I should advise you not to do that, for your own sake," he answered. "You can refuse, of course, if you choose."

She thought over it, her gaze travelling from Head to Byrne, who stood, "looking important", as he had said, which for him meant looking even more mournful than he did usually. Then she looked at Head again.

"A man rang up this morning," she said, "and asked me if I had seen my fiancé last night. Since he would not give his name, I put the receiver back without telling him anything."

"Do you mind telling me if Mr. Harden ever mentioned any of his friends or acquaintances to you, or if you met any of them?" he asked.

"He never mentioned any other person's name—except for people in plays or films we saw together, or public personages—nor did I ever meet anyone he knew," she answered with careful exactness.

"That is, if you regard Mr. Enthwaite as a public personage," he observed quietly. "Personally, I do not."

Anger flooded her face with colour. "Now will you go, please?" she controlled herself to ask. "I have answered your questions, but I have no intention of submitting to your insults."

Head turned to glance at Byrne, who nodded his head slightly in reply to the questioning look. "Yes," he said. "We will go."

"He is dead," Head answered. Angry though she might be, he was angrier, though he gave no sign of it. For the wreathed photograph was a token that the spell the dead man had cast over her still held, and, knowing what he did of the man, this folly of the woman seemed to him an utterly evil thing. That she had helped to ruin Enthwaite by it was patent, and she must know it, yet she craved, evidently, for the man who had made the ruin, tried to hope for his return.

"Because," she said, "it would have been in the papers—I should have seen something, surely. I have only your word for it."

"Macclesfield will have to resign," he said. "Else, I think he ought to know she is not to be trusted."

"That's for you, old chap," Head answered. He felt suddenly tired, and knew an abrupt gust of distaste for carrying on this case, though he knew too that he had to carry on. "I'll get a taxi to the station, I think. There's nothing more at this end, is there?"

"Not from my point of view. I'll come and see you off, Jerry—I haven't anything special on hand. If there's time, we'll hold up the bar in the station buffet and have a stiff one apiece. By the look of you, two stiff ones wouldn't do you any harm. Oh, taxi! The very man we want. Climb in, Jerry—I'll direct him."

Chapter XIV
Deadlock

BY missing out on the visit to the station buffet that Byrne had proposed, Head caught the six-twenty as he had first intended, though with only a minute to spare. Byrne came with him to the platform, and stood by the window of his compartment.

"Get him, Jerry," he bade. "By what you say about the paper being posted back to Enthwaite, he's probably still in or near Westingborough waiting for you to pick him up. Afraid to give himself away by bolting, perhaps. Get him, and we may be a step on the way to reprisal for what they've done to Liversedge, for all we can tell."

"Possibly, but I'm a long way from finding him yet," Head answered. "All I've found up here has concerned Feilding, not the man who killed him—I have nothing at all to lead me to him, as yet, remember. In fact Terry, I haven't much hope of finding him."

"Keep on plugging, and the way will open," Byrne urged, and reached up a hand as the train began to move. "Good luck, and regards to Bulgy!"

When, with a final wave of his hand, he turned away, Head drew up the window and seated himself. He had the compartment to himself, and, having told the inquiring lad to reserve him a seat for the second dinner, he settled to a review of his time in London, a process which involved a mental survey of the whole case from the minute when Little Nell had come into the police station to report the murder.

No papers of any kind—naturally. Those who engaged in such enterprises as Feilding's never carried papers, and he had been killed for the sake of the one paper that would otherwise have been on him, the typescript which, Head felt sure now, Mrs. Enthwaite had stolen for him, handed on to him at some time before that telephone call from Enthwaite House had told somebody at the Duke of York that Feilding was returning with the typescript on him—if he returned at all. Someone who, hidden in the hotel, or perhaps mingling freely with others against the bar in the lounge at that time, had, managed to take the call unobserved, and then, after killing Feilding, had climbed over the back gate in the first of the dawn. But for Nell's wakening and going to her window to look out, he would have got away entirely unseen, and her sight of him appeared to be useless as far as tracing him was concerned.

His method of entry—Head considered it for a long time. Feilding had locked his door—it was odd that he had not assured himself that entry by the door communicating with room number eight was impossible. Probably, finding no key in the lock on his side, he had taken it for granted that the key had been removed, for with number eight in darkness he would not be able to see it in the lock. Possibly, believing that nobody in the hotel could know of his purpose or that he had the typescript, he had merely assured himself that the door was locked and troubled no more about it before getting into bed.

Doctor Bennett's fixing the time of death so late went to show that the murderer had waited all night before making his entry to the room. The delay was easily explainable, for if he had carried out this intent during the night, and his victim had contrived to make noise enough to raise an alarm, getting away in the black darkness of an April night and a rainy one at that, in a locality of which he probably knew little, might have proved impossible, in addition to which he would reason that Feilding would sleep most soundly just before the dawn, as most men do. He had planned well, and, beyond doubt, had either surveyed his ground or had minute information as to how to get into number seven. If the latter, had Harry Tracy primed him? Liversedge's report on Tracy went far toward implicating him, yet not far enough. Tracy might have come in contact with this Andreev, become friendly with him, and eventually seen him off on the Soviet steamer, all without complicity in the murder of Feilding. Andreev might turn out to be a perfectly innocent Russian subject, with no motive other than the ones he had declared on his passport for visiting England. Over that, nothing could be learned, now, but Tracy remained—and Liversedge had said that he wanted the man left alone. But Liversedge was dead—would those who succeeded him in his work know of his suspicions of Tracy?

And, if Tracy had not given the murderer a full description of number seven and how to gain entry from the adjoining room, then the guilty one must either have been in touch with someone who knew all about the hotel, or else must have stayed in it himself—and in either number seven or eight at that. Not a Westingborough man, then, for the people of the town had no need to stay at the Duke of York, and their knowledge of it was confined to the public rooms, all of which were on the ground floor. The staff knew all about the upper floors, of course, and Head's thoughts went to Parker, who had tried to get hold of the spike, and remained with him for awhile. parker, one of Nell's "lame dogs" about whom little or nothing was known, reputed to have come from Manchester in quest of work. What was he—principal, accessory, or innocent? Head realized that if parker had not attempted to get hold of the spike, he himself would have given no more thought to the man than to any other of those he had questioned. But then, Parker had tried to take up the spike, which might have had fingerprints on it.

The rest of the staff—Wadden had interviewed most of them, a fact that Head regretted, now. Not that he doubted the Superintendent's ability to handle them, but he himself had not the personal view of them all that interrogation might have given him. It would be worth while to get from Nell a list of all who had been in the hotel on Tuesday night and study it for pointers, possibly go over it with her. He had respect for Nell's judgment, as had Wadden, and she could tell him all she knew about her staff and any others who might figure on such a list, as, in view of the damage to her business if the murderer remained undiscovered, she would be only too glad to do.

The man Smith, possibly useful in respect of the telephone call at a quarter to ten. If he could point out the one who had taken it, he would be more useful than anyone else had proved, so far. Otherwise, he could go about his business: now, as at first, Head acquitted him entirely of participation in the crime. Some men declare themselves, transparently, on first sight, and of this type was Smith.

Enthwaite and his loss, London—Head went on with his mental survey, and came again to Miss Kaye and his own astoundingly easy linking up of Enthwaite's loss with Feilding and with his murderer—the first a certainty, the other an extreme probability. He might dismiss her from his mind, for he would learn no more from her that would help him. Jimmy Weeds, the pompous, ponderous, almost grotesque figure that he was, yet in his way clever, could be dismissed too: he was a mere signpost on the way to the Kennington Road and Mrs. Huggins.

There again, an unusual figure. Recall of the Kingsley sisters to her mind had caused her to pour forth their story, and to a stranger at that. She relied, apparently, on the fact that the police must be told everything they asked, and on their discretion, and she had remembered Haussbrandt's name, thus clinching his identity with that of Feilding. Todgers, supplying the grounds for Feilding's blackmail of the girl he had deserted—again Head felt that whoever had put an end to such a one deserved to escape the consequences of his crime—except that he had not committed it by reason of Haussbrandt's villainy, but as an accessory act to his own theft. He had gone into that room to get the document, Feilding had been roused by his entry, and, to prevent outcry, he had held Feilding down by the throat while he stabbed him and so silenced him for all time. But—the point occurred to Head as he went over these other features of the case—how came that spike into the murderer's hand in readiness for the killing? The marks on Feilding's throat did not indicate that he had been choked into unconsciousness, but merely held down for the stabbing: since his murderer had approached him with the spike ready in his hand, it looked as if the killing had been intended before the murderer entered the room, not done as a necessary act of self-preservation. Curious, that, for surely, if the man could have got away with the document without rousing Feilding, he would not have killed for the sake of it. Would he?

That, Head reflected, was a point that would always remain obscure, like several others which he could not explain to himself. As instance, who had been responsible for the telephone call to Mrs. Enthwaite which she had tried to say was from her dressmakers? It had been put in at a call-box at Euston while Feilding had been in the train taking him to Westingborough, and, as nearly as Head could see it, had made the appointment by which she had gone to the Carden call-box to take Feilding's call from the Duke of York at a quarter to six, and probably to receive orders to steal the typescript under threat of exposure of that imbecile child's existence if she failed. But who had put it in, and how they had known that Carden 92 was a call-box, Head could not see. Mrs. Enthwaite did not appear to have suggested such a rendezvous, for there was no record of communication between her and Feilding after his arrival at the Duke of York until he rang Carden 92 and, according to the operator, a woman spoke from the call-box. Mrs. Enthwaite, of course.

At that point, Head got up and went along to the dining-car, and, as he seated himself, the clattering of the wheels on the rails forced itself on his attention. As he listened, it shaped to a word:

"Guesswork—guesswork—guesswork!" Over and over again, always the same word. Half-obliterated by the roar of the express as it passed through wayside stations, or under bridges, and then again rising to dominance, a comment on all that he had done since yesterday.

No certainty, anywhere. Feilding was Harden and Haussbrandt too, but beyond that the accusation of the wheels was justified. Had Feilding talked to Mrs. Enthwaite, or to some other? Had that telephone call at a quarter to ten at night been to Feilding's murderer, or to some other? Had Harry Tracy and the man Andreev any connection with the case at all, or no? Had Mrs. Enthwaite been responsible for the loss of the document, or had Feilding himself got into the house and stolen it?

The express pulled into Westingborough station on time, and Head got out and turned up his coat collar as he went out from the station to the rainy night. He made his way to Market Street, though it was not on his direct homeward route, and entered the lounge of the Duke of York ten minutes before bar-closing time. Ethel Andrews, on duty behind the bar for the evening, took his order for a small Haig and gave him a smile with it, together with the remark that it was a nasty night. He agreed to the proposal, gathered up his change, and turned to survey the other occupants of the lounge, nearly all of whom were against the bar. The murder appeared to have made no difference to the regular habitués of the place, who were all there as usual, and who eyed Head as if they would have liked to ask him for news, but would not risk a rebuff. And, mentally arraigning them, he tried and acquitted them all. Well-to-do tradesmen, most of them, they all had too much at stake to risk all that complicity in such a crime would involve. Ednam, the grocer, went so far as to say: "Nasty night, Mr. Head," after a brief interval in which they seemed to have abandoned a discussion that had been flourishing until he entered the place.

"I wonder," he said in a way that was audible to them all, "since you seem to have been talking about the murder, whether any of you saw or heard anyone using the telephone when you were in here on Tuesday evening. Toward the end of the evening, it would be."

There was a general shaking of heads among the group, and glances passed between them as if each sought to find out whether his fellows knew anything about it. Ednam spoke again.

"I don't know, until I find out if there were a call, and what it was about," Head answered. "Merely—there might have been one."

"Well, if so, most likely we wouldn't notice it, in here," Ednam. observed. "Anyhow, I didn't go near the telephone."

A general chorus of "Nor me!" hastily uttered, proved that everyone was anxious to clear himself of whatever guilt was implied in use of the instrument, and with a nod of acknowledgment Head turned from them to face Nell as she entered the lounge and came toward him.

"Nothing whatever," he answered. "But"—he nodded toward the doorway—"something to ask you, if you can spare a minute."

He put down his empty glass on the bar, and followed her out to the entrance hall, where she turned to face him again.

"I want you to make me a list of everyone who was in here on Tuesday night," he explained. "Make it up in your room, for preference, for I don't want a soul to know that I have even asked you for such a thing, and hand it either to the Superintendent or myself when one of us comes in to-morrow. Everyone in the place, every member of the staff, and everyone you can remember as being in the lounge or in any of the other bars. Then, after I've looked it over, I may want to go over it with you. Can you do that for me?"

"Why, of course!" she said and smiled. "Not that—you suspect anyone? No, though, or you wouldn't want them all like that."

"No, but I want to be sure that none of them is worth suspecting," he pointed out. "Oh, and when you're putting down the staff, put in length of service here and where they come from, will you?"

"No more than of the rest," he assured her. "I—well, to tell the truth, Nell, the train told me I was a fool, all the way back from London to-night. You won't understand, perhaps, but the very rattle of it accused me of guessing instead of going on facts, and now I'm going to collect facts, even if they seem irrelevant. Here's two days gone, and I've nothing whatever to show for them. I'm fed-up with myself."

"Sleep on it," she advised. "You shall have the list—it will be ready first thing in the morning. I'll do it as soon as I get up to my room and put it in an envelope ready for you, I promise."

"Not to-night—many thanks, all same," he dissented. Then he smiled. "I'll come along and claim it when I've solved this puzzle."

A promise, he reflected as he went out, that she would be glad to see him keep, since an unsolved murder mystery in an hotel is the surest deterrent to its popularity, and she had worked up the Duke of York from comparative disfavour to its present position as the leading hotel in the town. Then, sure that the list for which he had asked would be forthcoming on the morrow, he dismissed it from his mind for the time and, late though it was, turned toward Wadden's home before going to his own. The Superintendent might have some information to pass on to him, and he wanted to bring the case up to the minute before he slept.

The Superintendent himself, slippered and at his ease in a gaudy dressing-gown over shirt and trousers, came to the door.

"Come in," he bade, "but tread gently, because the old woman's gone to bed outside a big hot whisky and two aspirins. The common cold, and she'll give it to me as sure as you live. I thought you'd look in, unless you came down by the midnight. Come along to the fire."

He led the way to his sitting-room, and Head took off coat and hat and put them down in the tiny hallway with his suit-case before entering. Wadden pointed him to an arm-chair beside the fire, and seated himself in its fellow, beside which lay a heap of pamphlets and papers.

"Greenhouses, hothouses," he explained. "For when I retire and start growing tomatoes under glass. All I've got to do is to find the bit of land that suits me, and then in goes my resignation. Meanwhile I'm counting up costs of starting in—they're going to be worth talking about, my tomatoes, when I get started on growing 'em."

"Yes," Head said, and stretched out his hands to the fire, "they've been that for quite a while, now, to my knowledge."

"Devil a one of them will you ever see!" Wadden retorted, and blew at him, long and softly. "Not if you go down on your knees to me."

"I don't really expect to see any," Head said. "But—what news, Chief. That's what I looked in to ask, before going home."

"No, thanks all the same, I looked in at the Duke of York on my way and had one there—and asked about that final telephone call. It seems to me, if we could only find the people concerned in that—"

"Quite right, laddie. It's your key move, I feel sure too. But—news? Nothing more than I told you when you rang me to-day. What have you? Anything bearing on it to be found in London?"

"Lots bearing on the Enthwaite end, and on Feilding—named also Harden and Haussbrandt, but we'll call him Feilding for the present, I think. But not a line of any sort on the man who climbed over the gate on Wednesday morning, or anyone else who might have killed him."

"It'll come—yes, it'll come. This is only the second day. But what have you unearthed? Best to post me up to date before you go."

With a glance at his watch Head began his tale with the visit to the Knightsbridge florists' shop, and took it on, omitting nothing, until after the recital of Liversedge's death he told how he had left Byrne on the platform, and gave a summary of his reflections in the train. At the end of the long story Wadden nodded repeatedly, gravely.

"Yes," he said, "you've had a busy day, little man, but as you say, it doesn't appear to take you one step nearer the man who did it. You appear to me to have been side-tracking—or side-tracked, rather. His past life, and Mrs. Enthwaite's, might have yielded something, but they didn't. The murderer may be still in Westingborough, but how to pick him out, how to get a line on him, even—well, it beats me."

"That envelope you got from Enthwaite?" Head asked after a thoughtful pause. "Did you leave it at the station, or have you got it here?"

"It's here, in case you looked in," Wadden answered. "Half a minute, and I'll get it for you. It's in my overcoat pocket."

He went out and returned with a long pigskin case, from which he took the envelope to hand it to Head. "I put it in that to save creasing," he observed. "That's just as I took it from Enthwaite."

Head gave the envelope a long scrutiny, back and front, and, rising, held it under the light pendent in the middle of the room.

"That's not too good a bulb you've got," he remarked, "but—yes, it shows enough when you hold the envelope directly under it. Shows, that is, that this tells us next to nothing. We've nothing to help us to identify the writer of those capital letters, and you've already investigated the postmark, you said. If it had been typed, now—there are recognizable peculiarities in typescript, and you can tie it up to the machine—"

"I believe I implied that it wasn't," Head continued. "As it is—Enthwaite, probably, muddled any finger prints the sorters and postmen may have left. No. An ordinary envelope of its kind—"

"And that sorter couldn't tell me whether it got posted at the main office or in a pillar box, even," Wadden interposed.

"It will not, Chief. I am forbidden to mention that typescript in connection with my case. It must not appear, under any circumstances."

"Oh, sacred pigs!" Wadden ejaculated, and blew a fierce gust. "Will you have to get an order from the House of Lords before you can arrest your man? Or get an act of Parliament passed to produce evidence?"

"Well, what's the next step, then? You'll do something, I suppose? They don't want to suppress the case and let the man go, do they?"

"It's not as bad as that," Head said with a smile. "No. It seems to me—still seems to me—that the most important thing of all is the telephone call from Enthwaite House to the Duke of York at a quarter to ten. I didn't ask Nell directly if she'd heard anything about it yet, but she'd have told me if she had. And that reminds me, Chief, I asked her for a list of everyone in the hotel on Tuesday night, so if you see her before I do to-morrow and she hands you something quietly, that will be it. She promised me she'd do it to-night and have it ready."

"Good for her—though I don't see how it's going to be any good to you. But you know why you want it, I expect. And now—it's all very well for you to say that telephone call is your first concern, but how d'you think you're going to get at it?"

"Yes, but I've already done that, man! And she'll lie to you as she lied to me—more, she's on her guard about that call now, if she knows anything at all about it. Further to that, she probably doesn't know anything. All her calls were either to or from Feilding, and as you know as well as I do, he wasn't in the Duke of York when that call was taken there. Tracy, perhaps, as you suggested just now—and he wouldn't let her know anything about his making the call."

"All the same," Head insisted, "she may have been in a position to overhear if Tracy made it—besides, according to Enthwaite he and Tracy were playing chess at the time that call was put through."

"Chess is a slow game," Wadden urged. "Tracy may have left Enthwaite puzzling over a move on some excuse or other, and gone out of the room and made the call. Moral, question Enthwaite on the point."

"Possibly I shall not. But now I've remembered. Enthwaite will go to London to-morrow to hand that document back to Sir Osbert Macclesfield, and probably she will go with him, so I've got to catch her before they start." He glanced at his watch again. "It's not too late to make an appointment with her to-night, if I can use your 'phone."

"It's—you know where it is, behind the front door," Wadden said. "But"—he blew softly—"I've had a go at her, and I can tell you in advance that you might as well save yourself the trouble."

"That," Head remarked as he moved toward the door, "remains to be seen, as the monkey said. I'll ring her now, in any case."

He went out, and Wadden, standing by the fire with his lips pursed to blow, heard the "Ting!" of the telephone bell as Head removed the receiver.

Chapter XV
Appointment

RAIN slapped with a vicious surr-r-r on the windows of the big drawing-room at Enthwaite House, and Nina Tracy, seated by the fire and reading, looked up from her novel and covered a yawn. Mrs. Enthwaite, seated opposite, put down the book she held, and of which she had not turned two pages in the past half-hour, and, rising to her feet, went to draw back the curtains from one of the windows and stand holding it. The panes revealed only blackness, with streaks of rain on their outer sides, and she dropped the curtain and came back to the fire-place.

She went to the radiogram behind her chair, lifted the lid, and reached down to the switch. Nina closed her book. "Are you switching on?" she asked.

"No. I thought—" Gloria released her hold on the switch and closed the lid again without ending the sentence. She returned to the fire-place and stood looking down at the red caverns among the coals.

"Gloria, what is wrong?" Nina demanded impatiently. "Since we came down from London on Tuesday daddy has been too preoccupied for me to talk to him, and you—one would think you had something on your mind, or on your minds, both of you. Has anything happened—you haven't been quarrelling, have you?" She stood up as she put the final question.

"Of course not, dear!" Gloria answered, as if such a thing were an impossibility. "I believe Ralph has some important commission on his mind—you know he still gets them occasionally—and I—just feel restless, that's all. But as for quarrelling, that's absurd."

"I suppose it is," Nina remarked thoughtfully. "Yes, he does rather idolize you, doesn't he? I think I'll get a little beauty sleep—it's getting late, and I don't care if I never finish this book. And Harry won't be down for the weekend—I've a good mind to come back to London with you tomorrow, instead of staying the weekend down here."

"But I've changed my mind," Gloria said. "I shall stay when Ralph goes tomorrow. He'll be back on Saturday."

"You've told him you're not going?" Nina asked. "I mean, by what he was saying at dinner you hadn't told him then."

"Well, good night, dear. I shall go straight to bed, and you're sure to be in there some time with him. Bid him good night for me."

Hiding another yawn as Gloria answered, she put down her book and went out, and, after a minute or two of moody gazing into the fire, Gloria followed her and entered the room in which Enthwaite sat at his bureau. He had finished whatever he had been doing there; the lowered flap was cleared and all the drawers closed, and, turning his head at her entry, he stood up and closed the bureau, turning the key of the flap in the lock and pocketing it.

"You're late to-night, dear," he remarked, and turned an arm-chair toward the fire. "Coming to sit here for awhile?"

"Well, just a little while," she assented. "Ralph, I don't want to go to London with you tomorrow. Couldn't you get back on Saturday so that we have the weekend here instead of at the flat?"

"Why, yes, if you wish it," he said, with surprise evident in his tone. "But—I thought you were looking forward to Covent Garden on Saturday night. I got the tickets specially, you remember."

"I know, but—" she seated herself in the arm-chair, so that he could not see her face as he stood beside her. "I don't feel like it. Nina would go up with you tomorrow and be glad of the tickets, if you like to let her have them. I—I'd rather you came back on Saturday and we had the weekend here, if you can get back then."

"Yes, I could," he agreed, though disappointment showed in the way he said it. "I've only got to see Sir Osbert for a little while. I thought we'd go up by the mid-day train, and you could go on to the flat while I meet him at Victoria—he's coming back from Paris by the Golden Arrow, due at Victoria at five-twenty. Then—but if you wish to stay behind, and for me to come back on Saturday—"

"I think I do," she insisted. "It's—" she looked up at him with a smile—"you know, Ralph, don't you?"

"Yes." She seized on it as a feasible cause for her change of mind. "To have you all myself here, instead of—what we'd planned."

He seated himself on the chair arm, and with his hand caressed her shining golden head. "It—it may not happen," he said. "I don't know altogether, but it may not happen. There is a chance."

"Darling, believe that it won't happen," she said earnestly. "Try to think nothing will happen, as I try to think it—"

She broke off with a start, for the telephone bell burred a question at them. Enthwaite started up and turned toward the instrument, on a small occasional table beside his bureau.

"I wonder—this time of night—" he said as he removed the receiver and put it to his ear. "Hullo—who is it?"

Another pause, and then: "I'll see, if you hold on." He put his hand over the transmitter and turned to his wife, whose face had gone a shade paler at hearing the word "Inspector."

"Inspector Head is asking if he can speak to you, dear," he said. "I suppose it's something to do with their inquiry—the one Superintendent Wadden questioned you about yesterday. Will you speak to him?"

"Yes." Rising, she went over to him and took the receiver from him. "Mrs. Enthwaite speaking," she said. "Who is it—what do you want?" She glanced momentarily at Enthwaite, and then looked away from him, turning her head so that he could not see her face.

"Inspector Head, Mrs. Enthwaite. Superintendent Wadden has already seen you about the matter I want to see you over, but there have been some fresh developments, and if you could spare me a few minutes tomorrow—I understood from Mr. Enthwaite that he is going to London, and in case you are going with him, I should like to see you before you go."

"But I am not," she said. "In addition to that, Inspector, I have already told Superintendent Wadden all I know, which is practically nothing. It is not the slightest use your questioning me again."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Enthwaite," she heard, "but as I say there have been developments—several developments, in fact—since Superintendent Wadden spoke to you, and I want very much to ask you about them."

"Developments," he repeated, "that include statements by a Mrs. Huggins and a Doctor Todgers, both of whom I saw to-day, and now—"

"Wait!" The word was a cry, almost, and as he heard it Enthwaite moved close beside her, his eyes hard with anger.

"No—just a minute, Ralph." Her face, still averted so that he could not see it, was entirely devoid of colour now, and she placed her free hand on the occasional table as if to support herself. Since she had not troubled to place her hand over the receiver of the microphone, Head must have heard her words—and perhaps heard Enthwaite's condemnation of himself, too. Again, after a long pause, she spoke:

"But I shall be gone, then," Enthwaite said in her ear. "That is, if I am to meet Sir Osbert at Victoria, as I planned."

She motioned him to silence. "Here, at half-past eleven," she repeated. "I understand—yes, I will see you then."

For a little while longer she held the receiver to her ear. Enthwaite touched her on the shoulder, at which she shook her head.

But she put the microphone back on its rest. "He has gone," she said and, still without looking at him, went back to the arm-chair and stood by it, both her hands laid on its back.

"He told me—things he learned in London—about—about the telephone calls that the Superintendent asked me about—you remember?" she said uncertainly. "Nothing—nothing to do with me, Ralph, but he was so insistent—I thought it would be better to see him. Finish it—I suppose they have to ferret out something. It was—it is a murder case, and they won't be satisfied unless—you see, Ralph?" She turned toward him then, trying to smile, but her lips were tremulous.

"They think— Oh, I don't know what they think!" she said vaguely. "But it's best—see him and get it over, and then—" she broke off.

"If you think it best to see him, I wish you'd arranged it while I am here. I could catch a later train, though, and—"

"No, no, Ralph, it really isn't necessary," she interrupted. "You have arranged to meet Sir Osbert, and—and the sooner you go the sooner you will get back. The—the weekend here together—"

"Gloria, you don't know anything about these telephone calls they seem to regard as so important, do you?" he asked anxiously.

"How could I?" she prevaricated. "You know all that I was doing at the time, darling—you know I couldn't possibly but they—" Again she averted her face, and, moving from beside the chair, went to the fire-place and stood facing it. "They have to do it, I suppose. Ralph—I think—" she faced about abruptly. "I think I'll go to bed, and say good night here. I don't know why, but I feel utterly tired—"

"You look tired, darling. It's—I'm sorry I said what I did to upset you, about my fears for what may happen. It is that, isn't it?"

"Perhaps it is, but don't blame yourself, Ralph." She moved quite close to him. "Such a wonderful husband you've been—such a wonderful lover-friend—everything! I've been so happy with you."

"Am happy with you, then. Meet Sir Osbert at Victoria, Ralph, and come back tomorrow night, if you can, instead of staying up till Saturday. You might catch the six-twenty and be here by ten."

"Good night, my Gloria. Don't get up for breakfast unless you feel quite rested. I needn't leave the house till after eleven."

"I'll see, Ralph. And—don't worry about—about what you told me. I'm sure it will all come right, whatever it is."

Holding the door after she had gone out from the room, he watched her on her way up the staircase, and then closed the door and went back to the fire-place. For a minute or more he stood turned toward the telephone, gazing at the instrument, and then, shaking his head, reached up and placed both hands on the high mantel to stand gazing into the red mass in the grate. An inner vision showed him the slender, drooped figure of his wife as she went up the staircase, her shining golden head bent forward. Not for a moment did he doubt her truth or her love for him, but did she sometimes look back to the life from which he had taken her—were these fits of restlessness and depression caused by thought of the possible triumphs she had forgone to marry him?

And, still fully dressed, Gloria Enthwaite lay on her bed, face downward, her closed eyes pressed against her folded arms.

"Look out for another murder, Chief," Head said as he returned to Wadden's sitting-room after having replaced the telephone receiver.

"Enthwaite, with me for the victim," Head explained. "He was there while I talked to Mrs. Enthwaite just now, and there's nothing he wouldn't do to me if he could. I don't blame him, either."

"No—her only. He's got to go to see Macclesfield, to hand back his document, and she's not going with him. I'm to be there at half-past eleven. Now let me have everything she told you, will you?"

"Here, have a heart, man!" Wadden protested. "Tomorrow morning will be time enough for that. It's past eleven already."

"All right, then. Tomorrow morning, before I go. Your questions and her replies, as nearly as you can remember them."

"I shan't forget them during the night," Wadden said. "Gosh, Head, this is a sticky business! No need to drag her past to light, is there? It would be ruination for them if you had to do that."

"No," Head said decidedly. "That could only become necessary if she had killed the man, and as that is altogether impossible—"

"Is it, though?" Wadden interrupted. "When you come to think of it, who had so much cause to put him out of the way? What was to prevent her from putting on, say, a suit of Tracy's clothes, getting that small car out of their garage in the small hours, driving over here—"

"But—she knew he was staying here," Wadden persisted, eager to justify his suggestion. "She daren't refuse to get the document for him, but then, guessing it meant ruin for Enthwaite, and knowing that merely getting it back and leaving Feilding alive would keep that sword hanging over her head—don't you see, man? It's a smash-up of everything you've built up round the case so far, I know, and you've got to readjust your mind, turn everything round to fit it, but—" He broke off, gazing intently at Head with a certain eagerness in his eyes.

"I can't see it, Chief," Head dissented. "Would Mrs. Enthwaite of Enthwaite House know her way into room number seven by that communicating door from number eight—who would let her into the hotel, or how would she know that, with a cook who drinks, the back door might be left unfastened? It isn't as if Feilding had been staying there a week, giving her time to survey the ground, for he'd only come there that day. I'll admit the strength of the motive, but—no, I can't see it."

"Someone connected with the murder was still in Westingborough yesterday afternoon, to post this envelope." Wadden took up the envelope and replaced it in his leather case as he spoke. "You haven't got a suspect of any sort, yet. And if she made that telephone call, man! If she asked somebody—Parker, as a suggestion—which room Feilding was in, and told him to keep his mouth shut about the call—"

"She no more knows Parker than she does anyone else there," Head interrupted. "I might keep this in mind in questioning her—"

"How do you know she doesn't know the man?" Wadden interrupted in turn. "We've got tolerably conclusive knowledge of all the rest of the staff, and know their past histories—I do of those I tackled for you, in any case. But that man—we don't know he came from Manchester, nor anything else about him beyond his coming there two years ago—which was not far off the time of her marriage. She might—"

"Chief," Head interrupted yet again, "on my way down in the train to-night, the very wheels shouted at me for indulging in guesswork over this case. I want something tangible, something to work on beyond speculation. And—I have an appointment with the lady for eleven-thirty tomorrow morning. Till I've kept it I refuse to consider her or anyone else as the one I want. Oh, what about your inquest?"

"As dull as a laundry window," Wadden answered. "Adjourned for further evidence, as you suggested. I fobbed off the press, what there were of them. The Universal had sent Percy Butters down for it."

"Then he must have gone back," Head said. "He wasn't in the Duke of York when I went into the lounge to-night, and he'd have been tapping local wisdom about it if he had been in Westingborough."

"Quite so. But about this idea of mine—the more I think of it the more it appears to fit, Don't you see? When he went to Carden to get that document, she had to give it to him. She daren't do a thing against him there, but she realized it meant ruin to her husband. Then, even if she got the document back, with Feilding alive she wasn't safe. While he drew breath, she'd go in fear of the existence of that imbecile child coming to her husband's knowledge—and there was the spike lying there ready to her hand when she went into his bedroom! Out again, over that back yard gate—in a suit of either Tracy's or her husband's clothes, as I said—and that small car parked handy just where Market Street runs out to open country, or at the corner of Maggs Lane. Think it over, man. It's almost irresistible as a solution."

"I've not seen her, yet," Head said non-committally, "and I went over every aspect of it coming down in the train without this idea occurring to me. I'm in no mood to go back to the beginning of it again and trace all the way along to-night, Chief, to see what flaws there are in your idea. Before I go, though—has Plender given you any report at all, on the woman in the Carden call-box, as I asked him?"

"Reported that he can find out nothing whatever about her, and also can't find anyone who remembers seeing the coupé that afternoon."

"Nor will he, now. Tuesday afternoon, and this is Thursday. Bed, I think, and a fresh mind to it in the morning."

"Ye-es," Wadden agreed thoughtfully. "That man Smith should be along, too. He may have some news for us—may have been in a position to see or hear somebody taking that telephone call in the hotel."

"And may not," Head said, rather tiredly. "Chief, I'll take that envelope, I think. Not that I expect it to be any use."

He opened Wadden's case, took out the envelope, and placed it carefully in the inside breast pocket of his overcoat, which he had put on again after telephoning Mrs. Enthwaite. Then he turned to go.

"Tracy is likelier," he said. "Neither of us has seen him yet, remember, and by what Liversedge told me of him and Andreev—"

"But Liversedge is dead," Head pointed out, "and by the look of it murdered just as surely as was Feilding. If Tracy doesn't come to Enthwaite House for the weekend, I'm going after him."

He went out, then, and took up his suit-case in the little hallway. Wadden went with him to the door, and looked out.

"Rain stopped, and stars coming out," he remarked. "But it's cold. Still, with that Edmundson system of heating glasshouses, the tomato plants wouldn't suffer. I think I'll write to the firm—"

Chapter XVI
Driven Hard

"THERE you are, lad. I should have thought you'd have gone in and got it yourself, since you asked her for it. She had it all ready."

Wadden, standing beside Head's desk, dropped an envelope on it as he spoke. Head took up the envelope, opened it, and extracted the list for which he had asked Nell the preceding evening. Unfolding it, he saw a neatly-written succession of names, with particulars against each, and "Eleanor Cummins" headed the list as proprietress of the Duke of York. A line was drawn under Annie Green's name, and beneath it was the legend "Frequenters of the hotel" as a heading for such Westingborough men as made a club of the long bar in the lounge, with, among them, Mr. A. W. Smith of Wolverhampton, commercial traveller.

"No," Head said, "I didn't trouble about it on my way here. Meant to look in for it before starting for Carden. Proprietress—yes, and deserved it, too. She looked after old Bragg like a daughter till he died, and now you won't find a better-conducted place anywhere in the county. Thanks for getting it for me, Chief. I wonder—will A. W. Smith get here before it's time for me to start, or won't he?"

"'Pends on his starting point," Wadden said. "Now those chaps all have cars, they get about a bit. I looked up his firm. Hardware—pots and pans, I expect. Never heard of them before, though."

Head looked up at the clock and saw that it was already past ten o'clock. Jeffries had got out the small car in readiness for him, and had left it by the kerb outside the police station. Now, while he talked to Wadden, another car drew up just behind his, while from it descended Mr. Smith, just as Constable Williams emerged from the doorway.

"Oh, can't I?" Smith retorted explosively. "What about that one, then?" He pointed at the car Jeffries had left there.

"Take it there if you like, sir," Williams said with judicial reflectiveness, "but if I was you, I should put it just outside the hotel there across the road, where the width makes a parking place."

Having acted on the suggestion, Smith returned in no good temper, and was conducted to Head's room, which Wadden had not yet left. He ranged himself beside the desk and gazed down at Head, frowningly.

"I don't want to sit down—I don't want to waste one more minute here than I can help," Smith retorted. "Here I've been dragged a good fifty miles across country, and I want to get back to my work just as soon as I can. This business is nothing whatever to do with me, and if I'm to go on getting a living, I've got to get orders. To-day, too."

Wadden, standing back from the desk, blew very gently. "I think I should take a seat, if I were you, Mr. Smith," he said.

"Oh, you would, would you?" Smith snapped back, facing toward him. "I've been sitting, since eight o'clock, behind a steering wheel to get here. Now tell me what you want, either of you, and let me get away again. If you two can afford to waste the day, I can't."

"With that attitude, Mr. Smith, you may find yourself wasting a good deal more than one day," Wadden told him, very gently indeed.

"Threats, eh?" Smith snapped back. "What are you going to do—put me inside? Then get on with it, and see what it'll cost you! What is this—Yankee third degree? I've come all the way back here—"

"Quite wrong," Wadden said. "We merely sent for you to get the answers to a few questions—the answer to one question in particular, in connection with the murder which I expect you've seen in your paper. But this—this impatience of yours—well!" He sounded gently reproving, and shook his head as he gazed at the man.

"Mr. Smith"—Head took up the interrogation—"you were, as we know, staying at the Duke of York—the hotel across the road, on Tuesday night. Did you, at any time during the evening, see or hear anyone using the telephone, probably between nine and ten o'clock?"

"As aid to your memory, Mr. Smith," Wadden put in as Head hesitated, "and without any suggestion of third degree, let me tell you that if you had said 'yes' instead of 'no', you would have been one of the most important witnesses in the case arising out of this murder. Still without any suggestion of third degree, I may tell you that we can keep even unimportant witnesses, or people who may not be wanted at all as witnesses, hanging about for days instead of driving about the country and getting orders. Not that we should dream of doing such a thing, of course. I merely point out that we could, if we had nasty tempers. Tempers like yours, if you'll forgive me for saying it."

"Oh!" Wilting visibly as he stood, Smith stared at the Superintendent. "Wu-wu-what do you want to know?" he inquired after a long pause.

"Whether you saw or heard anyone at the telephone on Tuesday evening," Wadden told him. "You have said that you did not."

"Then will you cast your mind back and tell us where you were during the evening—whether you were in a position to hear the telephone?"

"No, I couldn't have been," he said. "Generally, when I'm on the road, I have tea—commercials' tea—at the places I stop at, but they don't do it there, I found. Besides, I was late coming in, so I had the regular dinner. After that, I went into the big room on the right, the one with the bar along the back, and settled down at one of the tables to do my books. I ordered a drink or two, and went on sitting there, reading the paper, after I'd finished what I had to do—I remember it all, now. Then, when they closed the bar, I went straight up to my room and to bed. And heard no telephoning anywhere."

"Then I've come all the way back here for just that?" Smith demanded in an aggrieved tone, staring at Wadden.

The Superintendent blew at him, so suddenly and violently that he recoiled against the end of Head's desk, and began rubbing that part of his anatomy which had come in contact with the edge.

"Get away, man! Get away while you can!" Wadden bade with impressive urgency. "Orders—think of 'em, waiting for you! Look at the way you're wasting time— Oh, for heaven's sake get back on the road and don't waste another minute! People screaming for hardware—can't you hear 'em? Stop rubbing—there's the door!"

"It's no use, Head," Wadden observed sadly. "He's here for the day, by the look of it. Then another two days for police court proceedings, and three more at least for the trial. Oh, I forgot about the adjourned inquest. That will mean another day for him."

"Meanwhile"—Head stood up, and put Little Nell's list in his pocket—"it's time I started for Carden. Thank you very much for the information you have so kindly given us, Mr. Smith. Good morning."

Mr. Hawk, shouting, emerged from his booking office at a run as Head was about to drive over the crossing at Carden station. As the car became stationary, Mr. Hawk reached its side and laid a hand on the top of the door, as if he would hold it until he had delivered his message.

"Just to tell you—I haven't seen any more of that man in grey," he said. "I assure you I've kept my eyes open, but not a trace."

"No. But now, as a bit of news—I'm glad to say the company have recognized my services at last. They offered me Crandon—actually offered me a main line station like that! Shows what they think of me."

"It does," Head agreed gravely. "You'll be leaving here almost at once, I suppose—bidding good-bye to Carden?"

"Well, no," Mr. Hawk confessed. "Me and the wife went over to look at it yesterday—took the afternoon bus. And I couldn't get her to even consider it. Not that she's not got a certain amount of reason on her side. Y'see, Mr. Head, the whole station there is practically built up on an embankment, and the stationmaster's quarters are over the booking office and waiting-rooms. And up on an embankment, with these here heavy expresses literally roarin' through—well, if you put a clock on your mantelpiece, it'd shake off about once a day, and you can see the pictures shiver on the walls—literally see 'em shiver, you can! So the wife said not at any price she wouldn't consider it, being next to rattled outer her bed about twice a night. But they made me the offer, which goes to show merit tells in the long run."

"Why, yes," Head agreed. To him, the offer showed that nobody else would take the place, but he could not suggest that explanation to Mr. Hawk. A glance at the clock on his dash-board informed him that he had time in hand for his interview with Mrs. Enthwaite. "Then, I suppose, you'll stay on here?'

"I dunno." Mr. Hawk's expression grew gloomy. "I s'pose, when they get my refusal of that, they ain't likely to offer me anything else. I did hear they're going to rebuild there, and I pointed that out to the wife, but—well, she was just adamant. Fair got her Westinghouse on about it, she have. Says she knows what it means when they talk about rebuilding, and it'd be done in time for our grandchildren, if we'd ever been likely to have any, which seeing we ain't got no children, we ain't. The station master there now sticks it because both him and his wife are Pentecostal Devotionalists, and Crandon is about the only place in the country where that sect's got any hold worth talking about. And he's got to the retiring age. But there it is. I've had the offer made to me, and now, I s'pose, my bones'll moulder in this place after I'm dead. But they made me the offer, better emoluments, better everything except the quarters, which prevent the wife from even so much as thinking about it. So here we are—for life, I s'pose."

"No, I s'pose not. I've made the garden what it is, and there's the philharmonic'd suffer a great loss if I was to go, but—well, no scope, Mr. Head, no scope. No chance to show what I could do—organizing, introducing reforms, putting the wind up shirkers—getting things done. All the years I've been here there's been no scope—no scope."

Again Head glanced at his clock, and then at Enthwaite House half-hidden among the trees beyond the level crossing.

"Well, I don't want to keep you," Mr. Hawk said. "I thought you'd like to know I hadn't seen any more of that man in grey, but if I do happen to catch sight of him, I'll be sure to let Plender know."

With such acknowledgment as was fitting to such a promise, Head released his clutch, and the car went on toward Enthwaite House.

Regarding him as the door closed and he advanced into the room, Gloria Enthwaite realized that she had to do with an entirely different type of man from that which Wadden had represented. The Superintendent had fenced with her so cleverly as to get in more than one home-thrust, but this grave, kind-looking man, she realized, was more intuitive, and therefore more dangerous. Standing by the drawing-room fire-place when he entered, she kept on her feet: seated, she would be at a disadvantage, and she foresaw that she could afford to concede no points, even so small a one as that of letting him look down at her.

"If you mean the Kennington Road—yes, madam," he answered. "There was a connection that I discovered between a certain theft from this house—I think you know of it—and the man who was murdered at Westingborough on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning—"

"And, before you begin on that," she interrupted, "I want to know why you should think I am able to give you any information—any more information, rather, than I have already given your Superintendent."

"Because," he answered quietly, "I have discovered that there was also a connection between this man and yourself, and that—as nearly as I can tell—he meant to make use of it. Or rather, that he did make use of it, and that not in any creditable way."

Which told her less than half of what she wanted to know. She realized that implications would not avail her: to get all she wanted from him, she must be frank herself. And, on what he might say, all her future depended. If he knew all, intended to use all.

"You mentioned two names, when you spoke to me last night," she said. "One was that of the woman who had been my landlady—that you know, of course—and the other that of a doctor. Before I tell you one single thing, Inspector, I want to know how much they told you."

"I should say, the full story," he answered. "Of—of what resulted from your intimacy with the man who called himself Feilding, here, but who then called himself by his right name—Haussbrandt."

"The full story," she repeated. It was difficult, with his gaze on her, to retain full composure. And, since he had dragged that old story to light, how long would it be before her husband knew it? The end of all things for her, if he should learn it. "That old woman—why she should do me this wrong—I did her no harm—"

"She did not regard it as a wrong," he said in the pause. "Like many of her class, she believed that you must keep nothing back from the police. In addition, I think she felt that the story was so old, more than ten years old, and she had no idea what had become of you."

"Why should you go in search of that old story?" she demanded, a note of anger in her voice. "What is it to you? Do you for one moment think that I killed the man, that you pry into my life?"

"I think, from what I have learned, that you had good motive for killing him," he answered gravely. "But I did not come to accuse—"

"Still, I want you to tell me more before you begin to accuse or ask of me," she interrupted. "This. You say you know all that old story. In that case, you must know what it would mean for me if it came to my husband's ears—I am speaking quite plainly now, Inspector Head. Now, tell me—must it become public? Do you need it, for your case?"

Waiting for his reply, she almost held her breath with tension, and felt despair as he shook his head before speaking.

"That is impossible to say, madam," he answered. "If I could, I would spare you that, but, frankly, I know so little of the probable course this inquiry will take, or where it may lead me, that I cannot say what will be needed as evidence. Obviously, Haussbrandt used as vile a form of blackmail against you as one can well imagine, and if that fact has to be brought to light, then the whole story must come out, or at least as much of it as will show the hold over you that he used. I know without your telling what this would mean to you—"

"The end of everything," she interrupted. "My husband's is an old name, and he is a proud man. It is too late to tell me that I had no right to conceal that story when I married him, and as I expect you know, my punishment for that lapse goes on—will go on, while I live."

She heard in the reply a note of compassion, definite enough to determine her in risking an appeal, and took a step toward him.

"Then"—chilled by the reply, she drew herself up, regretting her momentary descent from cool aloofness—"I am sorry I suggested such a thing. Now as to what you want to know, the object of your calling here. Your Superintendent has already questioned me fully—more than fully—over anything that could possibly concern this man's death."

"Questioned you—yes, madam," he assented evenly, "but in the light of all I have learned since he was here, I think you will realize that your answers to those questions, if I ask them, must be different from the answers you gave him. Most of them, that is."

For some few seconds, facing him and meeting his gaze steadily, she questioned herself as to whether to order him out of the house. But the brief period of reflection convinced her that she dared not do it. As she saw it then, there remained just a chance that by placating him, appearing to be willing to tell him all she knew, she might yet keep her secret from Enthwaite. Just a chance, but worth the effort.

"Such as a telephone call that you took on Tuesday morning, one which you said was from a firm called Hattersley and Cummins. That, as both you and I know, madam, was not the origin of the call."

"No," she answered. By frank confession, she might yet attain the end to which she was working. "It was from someone—I don't know whom even now—someone who told me that Haussbrandt was on his way here. I had no previous knowledge of his intent. It was a demand that I should see him, and I pointed out that it was impossible, because we were going to a wedding, starting within an hour. And then—I don't know how either this man or Haussbrandt knew, but he told me to be at the telephone box where I subsequently went to take a call at a quarter to six. That second call was from Haussbrandt himself, threatening a legal action which would reveal everything to my husband, unless I secured something for him. That is the truth, Inspector, which I would not tell your Superintendent because, knowing this man was dead, I felt that all chance of the story coming to light had died with him."

"And the next call, which you took immediately after you had finished speaking to Mrs. Nevile?" he asked.

"Was from Haussbrandt again, to this house," she answered. "I had told him in the call-box when to ring me, and was expecting it. To tell him I had done what I did—because I was afraid of him."

Watching his face, she saw that this frank acknowledgment had its effect: it was coincident with his own deductions, and he did not doubt that she was speaking the truth. And now, waiting, she summoned all her powers of acting, for he had not finished with her yet.

"One other call," he said, "not made to you, but made from this house to the Duke of York at Westingborough. To whom did you make it?"

"To nobody," she answered. "For the simple reason that I knew nothing about that call until your Superintendent asked about it."

"Willing to take oath on it. Quite, quite sure. If it were made from this house, as you say it was, then someone else made it."

Again, over that most important point of all, he was baffled. She could see it in his eyes, a momentary gleam of disappointment.

"You see," she said, "since you have learned what you did learn in London, I have no longer an object in concealing anything from you. My only reason was the necessity for concealing that old story, and since you have learned it there is an end—if you use it, a more serious end, for me. Complete ruin, as you must surely realize."

"I do realize it," he said, "and wish it were possible to assure you that it will not be brought to light. But I cannot give any such assurance. You must understand that, no matter how much this man deserved punishment for such a deed as his, no human being has the right to mete out that punishment as an individual, and his death sets working a machine of which I am only a part—if I retired from the case, and kept your secret, some other would take it up, follow as far as I have already gone, and possibly have less scruple over using it than I have. I do not see, in fact, how it can be kept a secret, altogether. The motive for killing him—whoever is guilty of it—must be stated, and then his hold over you is almost certain to come out. Not through my agency, but it will be used for the defence, traced by the defence, who will get from the murderer all the facts they can that might bear in his favour. Almost certainly, an attempt at proving you guilty of having killed him, as having had a stronger motive than anyone."

She did not answer. The strength of a case against her occurred to her with the question, and she saw that, by a course which she had considered as possible, and which now appeared an inevitability, she would render the case even stronger. She tried to read from Head's expression whether he suspected her of the crime at this moment, but might as well have tried to tell what lay behind Mona Lisa's smile.

As for him, he had failed again to uncover that vital piece of evidence, and questioned inwardly whether he would ever discover who had been at either end of the wires on Tuesday night. There remained Harry Tracy, as yet a totally unknown quantity, except that he numbered one Demetrius Andreev, not less an unknown quantity, among his friends.

When he had left the room, she stood looking out from the window until his car had passed from sight. Then, moving slowly, she went to the room that Enthwaite used as a study, and stood gazing at his bureau until, because of tears that gathered and fell from her eyes, she could no longer see it. Seating herself in Enthwaite's chair, she gave way to her emotion for a time, and then, growing calmer, went to the bureau again and unlocked it, drawing down the flap and seating herself before it. One of the drawers yielded a writing-pad and envelopes, and, slowly, with long pauses between sentences, she wrote for a long time.

After lunch, she put what she had written and enclosed in an envelope on the table in Enthwaite's dressing-room, propping it against a pair of hair brushes so that he could not fail to see it soon after his return from London, at ten o'clock or a little later that night.

Hearing Head return, Superintendent Wadden went to his room and gazed at him as he sat, idle for the minute, before his desk.

"Did you see her?" Wadden asked, as Head took no notice of his entry, but sat, frowning slightly, and gazing straight before him.

"Eh? Oh, yes, I saw her. Got the truth about those telephone calls, all except the last one. And it appears that she knows nothing about that. The others were from Haussbrandt, as I had already felt sure, except the first of them, which was from a confederate who knew that Carden 92 is a call-box. Which, to me, indicates that someone in the gang knows this neighbourhood very well indeed—the Carden district of it."

"I'm casting him for the part of the one who made that final call, the one which will give us the whole mystery," Head replied dissentingly. "If he is that one, giving Feilding away to someone in the hotel, then he wouldn't be the one who informed Feilding and his gang about Carden 92 being a call-box. At least, would he? It's so complex, Chief, and the possible motives are so mixed, that I have to think twice every time, and then I'm not sure if I've thought right."

"I... think so," Head answered, very slowly. "So much so that I've not traced out the possibilities of it, yet. What do you think?"

"I think—remember, not only that Tracy stayed at the Duke of York and in the same room as the murdered man at that, but remember why he stayed there as well. Would you say there was anything in it? Had Enthwaite any cause for the jealousy that made him turf Tracy out?"

"What cause he had against Tracy, I've no idea," Head answered, "but as for cause against her, I should say none whatever. She seemed to me terribly anxious that old story should not come to her husband's knowledge, not only for her own sake, but for his too. There may, of course, have been a passing flash of attraction between her and this younger man, but my impression is that she's absolutely loyal and devoted to her husband. I don't base that on anything she said, for there was no word spoken of what her actual feelings may be for Enthwaite, but from observation."

"Well, let it go at that," Wadden said, "but—on Tracy's side, I postulate the sort of idealistic passion that a young man might feel for such a woman, and if he knew how this devil Feilding was threatening her with hell, he might go to any lengths to prevent it. Who's to say she didn't turn to him, trust in him in that extremity and beg of him to get the document back? That cuts out this Andreev business, I know, but that may have been utterly harmless, a mere acquaintance and interest between the two men. Tracy may have got the document back, and killed Feilding for the sake of her good name. Quixotic, yes, but, a youngster will do quixotic things for a woman like her."

"Impossible, Chief. He wasn't here to post that document back from Westingborough to Enthwaite. He'd left first thing on Wednesday."

"Might have got someone else to post it," Wadden urged, reluctant to loosen his hold on this new theory. "Anyhow, over that going off so early, it looks suspicious to me. Puts him in it, in fact, with both feet. Running away before news of the murder could get about, probably because he feared being questioned as to whether he'd climbed over that gate. Never mind what that poor chap Liversedge said about leaving Tracy alone, man. You've got your case to consider—you're not concerned with documents that may mean anything or nothing, and if the theft of that particular document is going to do any harm, your actions will neither prevent nor help it along. Your next move is to get after Tracy, turn him upside down and pump him dry—and make him tell you who it was that he talked to at nine-forty-five on Tuesday night."

"If it means the top of Everest it's your next move," Wadden insisted. "You've been along every other avenue—now have a look along this, and if you don't get anything direct from it, combine what you do get with what you've gleaned in the others, and see if you're not nearer your solution. It's not often I try to talk wisdom at you, but I can see as well as you can that everything you've done so far has resulted in information about the murdered man. Now get hold of Tracy, and get some information about the murderer."

He looked at his watch. "You can catch the one-twenty and have lunch on the train," he said. "Quite probably you can catch the late train back to-night, and bring Harry Tracy with you in handcuffs."

"As principal, maybe," Wadden replied acidly. "Hie along, laddie. There's nothing for you at this end, beyond what I can rake in if it shows itself."

"I'm not in love with the idea of going off again," Head said doubtfully. "There's that list I got—or rather, that you got for me—from Little Nell, and all unexamined as yet, even—"

"And will keep till you get back," Wadden interrupted. "Not one of the names on that list will be missing from this town without my knowing it, and if any of them should make a move, it may give us the line we need. Give 'em rope, man, plenty of rope, and meanwhile either exonerate this Harry Tracy and wipe him off your list, or else clinch the case he's made against himself by running away like that."

Chapter XVII
Flight

THE man who confronted Head in the doorway of Enthwaite's chambers that Friday afternoon was small and faded-looking. His black coat and vest, without being shabby or having lost colour, had an aged appearance; his striped trousers had long since lost their crease; his linen, though passably clean, looked aged; his hair had greyed to a point at which its original colour was matter for doubt, and his deeply-set grey eyes looked faded too. He regarded his visitor with a gaze that suggested some faint shadow of interest, but that of a lifeless, impersonal sort, for he seemed incapable of real interest in anything.

A staggering question, but Head concealed his surprise. Had Tracy, then, expected him, and warned this man of his coming?

"No, I didn't. Will you come in? But about half an hour ago—" he backed for Head to enter, and indicated an open doorway leading to a fairly large room, partly lined with legal-looking volumes and comfortably furnished as an office, though no signs of activity were visible—"I had a call for you from Westingborough—Superintendent Wadden was the name—and he said you'd be calling here this afternoon, and would you ring him—on reversed charges, as I suggested—as soon as you got here? I told him I'd give you the message, so if you care to ring—" He ended by pointing to the telephone instrument on a flat-topped desk.

Remembering to ask for the call to be charged to its recipient, he called trunks and got his number, hearing Wadden's voice.

"No," Head answered, glancing up at May, who made no move toward leaving the room, but stood, looking quite uninterested.

"No? Well, leave it to me to talk, then. My theory—the first of the two theories I put up to you, you remember?—pretty much justified. She drove the coupé to where London Road comes into Market Street, left it standing there by the kerb, got out with a small suitcase, walked to the railway station, and caught the three-twenty, which doesn't stop again between here and London. That's all."

"No. If so, would she have left that car standing there, man? In that case, she'd have ordered out their Rolls and had herself driven. No. Your questioning put the wind up her, and she's bolted."

"I've nothing to justify me in holding the person you speak of, apart from what you tell me," Head pointed out.

"No, but I'm getting you in time for you to meet that train and see what becomes of her, in case you do get enough for an arrest," Wadden said. "Harris saw her leave the car, and Peters was on duty at the station and saw her there—went to see what became of her, and saw her go off in the train. Plainly dressed in a dark grey costume, with a fairly small brown leather suitcase. Due at your end at six-forty-five—it's the fastest up train of the day, as you may remember."

"And it looks to me as if you'd better keep track of her," Wadden went on. "Nothing is likely to transpire at this end, and where you are you're practically sitting on the tails of our two suspects, but give me a call when you've settled where you're staying, so that I can advise you at once if there are any further developments here. Have you seen your man yet?"

"Right—now you can carry on, and there's still an hour before you have to meet that train—over an hour, in fact. That's all."

Head heard the clank of the replaced receiver, and looked at his watch: he had, he saw, an hour and a quarter before the train was due.

"I called," he said to May, putting back his own receiver and rising to his feet, "with a view to seeing Mr. Harry Tracy, who I understand lives here. Is he in, could you tell me?"

"Not yet," May answered. "He sleeps here, and I expect he'll be back some time this evening. As a rule, he comes in to dress for the evening and goes out again—sometimes he gets here before I leave at six, and sometimes he doesn't. You'd catch him about seven, I think."

"There is no possibility of his being here during the next half-hour?" Head asked after a pause for thought.

"Ah! Too late," Head said regretfully. He had no intention of telling the man that he would return as soon as he had met Mrs. Enthwaite and traced her to her destination, for, if Tracy knew of an impending visit, he might go into hiding to avoid it. "Do you know if it's possible to find him before six?" he added as an afterthought.

May shook his head. "It's doubtful," he said, "but I'll ring the people where he's articled, if you like, and find out."

But, after dialling and inquiring for Mr. Tracy, May put the receiver back and shook his head as he looked at his caller.

"Well, thank you for your trouble," Head said. "Now do you know of an hotel near here, one where I could put up for the night?"

"About the nearest I can recommend is the Strand Imperial," May answered without hesitation. "You'll find it just opposite the Gaiety."

Again thanking the man, Head went out and, finding he could get a room at the hotel named, left his suitcase there and rang Westingborough again to tell Wadden where to communicate in the event of further developments. Then he took a taxi and went in quest of his cousin, Inspector Byrne, who, since it was the end of the day, had just returned to his office and gazed rather frowningly at his caller.

"I thought I put you in a train for the wilds not so many hours ago, Jerry," he said. "What is it—can't you rest down there?"

"I want you to lend me a man for a piece of shadowing, Jerry," Head stated without preface. "There's not too much time, either—Euston at six-forty-five to pick up the shadowed person—a lady."

Byrne shook his head. "If you're going to use our men for the case, you ought to make official application—if you can't do it without us, call in Scotland Yard, as all the fiction writers have it," he counselled. "We're not overstaffed, you know."

"I do know," Head agreed, "but there's no time for an official application—the need has arisen too suddenly. Can you do it for me?"

"His name," Byrne said, and pressed a bell on his desk, "is Good. You're lucky for once, my son, but if I want him suddenly you'll have to let me have him back." He looked up as a constable entered the room. "Just see if Detective Good has come in yet, and tell him I want him here if he has," he bade, and the man retired. "Then you've got a definite line to work on?" he suggested, turning to Head again.

"Something in support of a theory that does not appeal to me," Head said. "It looks very much as if Mrs. Enthwaite were going into hiding, and I want your man to meet her with me and then keep trace of her, because, if I hung round myself, she'd probably recognize me. Also, I have another fish waiting to be fried, to-night, I hope."

"Clean it out well before you fry it," Byrne advised. "Oh, Good"—as a dark, youthful-looking man entered the room—"this is Inspector Head from Westingborough, who wants you to do a small piece of shadowing for him to-night—starting almost at once, that is. He'll explain it all to you, which by the look of things there's no time to do here. Report back to me in the morning—you'd better get started, Jerry."

A taxi took the pair to Euston, and on the way Head explained to his companion what was wanted of him. In the forecourt of the station he paid off their driver and, signalling another taxi to the kerb, handed the driver two half-crowns.

"That is to hold you for half an hour," he explained. "Wait, and watch for us, to follow another taxi if we come out within the half-hour. I'm going to inquire about the train we're meeting, and if it is due in late I'll come out and tell you. If we've neither of us appeared again when the half-hour is up, it will mean that I don't need you after all, and you can put your flag up and go. Is that all clear? If so, pull over there"—he indicated where he meant—"and wait."

"All clear, sir. I'll be waiting there for you," the man answered as he pulled his flag down and engaged gear for moving as directed.

Consulting the indicator, Head saw that no delay was marked against the train he wanted to meet, and together with Good he went along to the platform exit, since they had less than five minutes to wait. A pillar afforded partial concealment, and, standing by it, he watched the train draw in and decant its passengers. Presently he caught sight of Mrs. Enthwaite, with a porter carrying her suitcase.

"That one—the tall woman in grey," he told his companion. "Now does she get her taxi here, or go straight out? Have I muffed it by leaving that taxi in front? If so, we need another."

"That porter's going to make it as long a walk as he can," Good answered, "and he'll go out to the front to get one. Yes, I see her. If we keep behind, we can get into our taxi in plenty of time."

Watching Mrs. Enthwaite, Head saw that she took little or no notice of her surroundings, and, evidently, she had no thought of being followed at this stage of her journey. Unobserved by her, the pair gained their taxi, and Head pointed out to the driver the one he wanted followed.

Emerging from the station precincts, the leading vehicle turned westward, and then to the south, parallel with Tottenham Court Road, but taking less frequented ways. Crossing Oxford Street, they went by way of Long Acre and St. Martin's Lane to Trafalgar Square, and, following on along Whitehall, Head felt that he knew the point at which Mrs. Enthwaite was aiming. Over Westminster Bridge they went, and into the Kennington Road, when Head bade their driver increase the interval between himself and the taxi ahead, but keep it in sight. And, as he had felt sure would happen, the leading vehicle pulled up before the terrace which contained 222c, and Mrs. Enthwaite got out. Then Head rapped on the glass for his man to stop, and, together with Good, sat watching.

They saw her pay the driver, and then, suitcase in hand, walk slowly along the frontage of the terrace, her face turned toward it as if seeking something. Eventually, after a few moments of apparently irresolute pause, she went up to one of the doors, and they saw her lift her hand to the bell-push and then stand waiting.

"Yes," Head agreed. At that distance, he could not tell if it were Mrs. Huggins' door or another. "We'll give her time, though."

Too far away to see who opened to her, they saw that she conversed with somebody, and then entered the house. Head bade his driver go on slowly, and, observing the numbers of the houses, saw that they passed 222c, and that the door opposite the lamp-post was that of the fourth house beyond it. He noted, too, that there was now no "Apartments" card in the transom of Mrs. Huggins' house, but that there was one in the window beside the doorway that Mrs. Enthwaite had entered. He stopped the cab again.

"Yes," Head agreed, "but this is where you come in to make certain that she has gone to earth. Can you keep on watch till midnight?"

"Then you will," Head said, "unless I come to relieve you later on, as I may. But that depends on another line of inquiry I have to follow now. I think I may say that some time before midnight I shall be here to take over from you, and we can arrange about to-morrow then."

"But I've got to report to Inspector Byrne in the morning," Good pointed out. "He said nothing about keeping on at this after to-night."

"Quite true," Head assented, "but I'll answer to him for you, if necessary. Meanwhile, I'll leave you here for the present."

After Good had got out to begin his vigil, Head directed the driver to take him back to Lincoln's Inn Fields, in quest of Tracy.

"Inspector Head, eh? And what might you want at this time of night? I've heard your name, of course. Perhaps you'd better come in."

Thus none too graciously, the young man who stood in the outer doorway of Enthwaite's chambers answered Head's inquiry, and opened the door fully with his last sentence. He had on dress shirt and trousers, socks but no shoes, and, collar but no tie—evidently he was dressing for the evening. Though apparently still in his early twenties, he had a dissipated look; under his eyes the flesh appeared dark and pouchy, and the eyes themselves betrayed him as no stranger to alcohol and late nights, while his loose mouth indicated weakness.

"Better come in here, I think, if you don't mind talking while I finish dressing," he said as Head stepped inside, and indicated a door opposite that leading to the room Head already knew. "I can't give you too much time, whatever it is," he went on, "seeing that I'm going to be late for my appointment as it is. Sit on the bed, if you like—it looks about the only possible place. Now where did I put that cursed tie? It's— Oh, here we are! Now who the hell's that, I wonder? Half a minute—I must see who it is on the telephone."

Crossing the narrow passage, he entered the opposite room and left the door open while he answered the call. Head heard him perforce—"Hul-lo, Eliza! Yes, darling, it is Harry. And you—?

"Well, from ten onward, possibly. Full, till then—what's that? No, not full in that sense, though there's no telling. But if you really mean it, count on me any time after ten—yes, the Beetroot. I am a member, so that's all right. And—what's that?

"Yes, I promise most faithfully. Ta-ta, sweet—as near ten as I can get away. Yes, darling—ta-ta for now."

Returning to the bedroom, he took up a black tie and faced a mirror to tie it. "Sorry, Inspector Head," he said, "but I've no time for ceremony, especially after that call. Now what is it you want?"

"Information about the telephone call you made from Enthwaite House to the Duke of York at Westingborough, at a quarter to ten last Tuesday night," Head answered, having sight of Tracy's face in the mirror as he spoke, and watching it to note the effect of his words.

It registered blank astonishment, and with one end of his tie in each hand Tracy faced about. "Telephone call?" he echoed. "What on earth are you talking about, man? Tuesday night?"

"The night that a man was murdered at the Duke of York," Head said coolly. "You returned to London early on Wednesday—"

"Hell!" Tracy interjected sharply. "You're not saying I murdered him, are you? What the devil is all this to do with me?"

"Well, perish your liver, man! you'd better go looking somewhere else," Tracy said harshly. "Of all the damned impertinence!"

"I might have called on Andreev before coming to see you," Head observed quietly, "but that is impossible—he's too far away, now."

Staring, and letting his hands fall from the ends of the tie, Tracy moved close to the bed, an ugly look on his face. Seated, Head gazed up at him, and saw fear blended with his pugnacity.

"Andreev? What the hell do you know about him? And what do you want here with me? You'd better get out, while you can."

"I have no doubt of being able to get out when I feel like it," Head said, and remained seated. "You have not yet answered my question."

"Oh, don't be such a blasted idiot!" Tracy broke in fiercely. "If I did make a call, what the hell is it to do with you?"

"Then you did make it?" Head suggested, paying no heed whatever to the other's anger.

"I did not! No, I did not, Inspector Head, and if you want confirmation of that just ask Mr. Ralph Enthwaite, my stepfather. I was in his company long before and after the time you mention, and didn't leave him for as long as a telephone call would take. You ask him, and he'll tell you the same. Now will you get out and let me finish dressing?"

It was all harshly, offensively spoken, and the final question was more of threat than request. But Head did not move: Tracy might be playing for time with that suggestion of Enthwaite's confirming his assertion, and, past question, mention of Andreev's name had shaken him.

"It's a pity." Head spoke the words as if in deep reflection. "Too late, far too late to get hold of Andreev and recover what he took."

"Oh, coming into the open, are you?" Tracy queried, trying to maintain his angry attitude, but evidently badly scared, now. "Well, let me tell you that it's not only too late to get hold of him, but too late to do any more to me than get me fired by my firm, and that, I take it, is your idea. Well, get on with it, then. The plans weren't copyright, and I know, if you don't, that the money for the bridge isn't forthcoming yet. And I'm not the only one in it, either—since someone has given the show away, others might as well suffer as well as myself. I split the proceeds fairly enough, four hundred each, and I wish I hadn't, if this is to be the end of it. Honour among thieves—pah!"

"No, there isn't," Head concurred, puzzled as to what it was all about, but concealing the fact. "But, actually, your confederates did not give the show away, Mr. Tracy. I got my information from a totally different source, independently of them altogether—"

"If it's that blasted sneak May who's been spying on us, I'll break his damned neck!" Tracy exclaimed wrathfully.

"I can assure you that May knows nothing whatever about the bridge." Head risked the statement, though he knew nothing about it himself.

"Well, it doesn't matter who does, now," Tracy said. "I'm fed-up enough with that office in any case, and they can prove nothing against me—you can't prove anything against me, either, for all your bluffing." He appeared to gain confidence with the realization. "Andreev paid a good four times what the plans were worth, but by the way he went on his people over there have money to burn, though not enough brains to design a paltry cantilever bridge for themselves. He might have bought the set from my firm, if he'd chosen, but he preferred to work it underhand, and as I say, there's no copyright, and neither to you nor to anyone will I admit that I had anything to do with it."

"Ha! Where's your witness, clever devil?" Tracy jeered. "I'll deny every word I've said in here if you tax me with it in front of a witness, and then where are you? My word is as good as yours."

"Possibly." Head got on his feet, convinced now that Tracy and Andreev too had been concerned in no more than a piece of petty theft rather than in that which had led to the murder of Feilding, and not interested in the details of it. "D'you know, Mr. Tracy, I hoped you were going to hit me, before you got over the worst of your temper."

"Because it would have given mean excuse for letting you have what you deserve, a thrashing that would prevent you from meeting your Eliza or anyone else for a few days. There was once a particularly dirty cad named Haussbrandt, but you seem dirtier, even."

He watched for some sign of recognition of the name, but it evoked none. Tracy's gaze roved over him, took in his proportions, and came back to meet his own for a moment.

"Indeed!" Tracy made the word a caustic comment, and with a certain ostentatious indifference he turned toward his mirror again—but, as he once more took hold of his tie, his hands were none too steady. "That's your opinion—keep it. I'm going to finish dressing."

Chapter XVIII
Enthwaite

SINCE he would not keep his chauffeur out to so late an hour with no better reason than that of meeting a train, Enthwaite, reaching Westingborough station at twenty minutes to ten that Friday night, took a taxi to convey him the ten miles or so remaining between him and his home, for the last passenger train of the day between Westingborough and Carden had gone two hours earlier. In deep depression he sat the drive out, recalling Sir Osbert Macclesfield's comment on his confession of negligence—"We can do nothing but wait." Uttered, as Enthwaite realized, in no spirit of hasty condemnation, but rather with gravity induced by the tremendous results that might accrue if, as they both feared, the contents of the stolen and restored document had become known to other than the representatives of the powers who had framed it and had not yet agreed to be bound by its provisions.

If at any time Enthwaite had thought of hiding his defection, he had rejected the idea, and frankly, like an honourable man as he was, had told Macclesfield the truth. The confession, as he knew, had gone far in his favour, but even so, and at the best, Macclesfield would never trust him again. At the worst, he would be known to his former associates—perhaps to everyone—as the man whose carelessness had precipitated war. And then—the question had been uppermost in his mind since he had left Macclesfield's presence, and still was with him—what would Gloria think of him? She had, he knew, always regarded him as a very model of honour: would her love, her belief in him, endure beyond the moment of her learning what he had done? He dared not warn her in advance, any more than he had already done; this secret, which at any moment now might cease to be one, was not his own, not a thing that he dared tell even to his own wife. If the storm broke through his carelessness, she could learn no sooner than others that he had precipitated it, and so it would appear to her that he had not trusted her, but had wilfully left her in ignorance till the last moment—the moment of his open disgrace! so he saw it as he went homeward to face her—as he believed—at the journey's end.

But, when he descended from his taxi and paid the man, the long frontage of the house showed no light in any window, nothing but the oblong of the opened front door, with Billings, who had heard the taxi draw up, silhouetted against a solitary light in the hall.

"Miss Nina's gone up, sir," Billings answered. "But the mistress isn't here, as I expect you know—"

"Not here?" Enthwaite, interjected with sudden anxiety. "Why—where is she? She knew I was coming back to-night. Where is she?"

"She went off this afternoon in the small car, sir, and didn't come back," Billings said. "There was a telephone message from Westingborough police station to say the car had been left standing in the street this afternoon, and they'd taken it and put it in Parham's garage—"

"Left standing in the street?" Enthwaite interrupted again, incredulously. "Man, what on earth are you talking about?"

"That was the message, sir," Billings said stolidly. "But there's a letter propped on the table in your dressing-room, and I expect—"

For the very simple reason that Enthwaite was already half-way tip the staircase, Billings did not complete his sentence. Placidly, after his custom, he locked and bolted the front door for the night, for evidently Mrs. Enthwaite would not be returning, and by this hour all the rest of the household were in. And, as Billings did his final duty for the night, Enthwaite opened the letter his wife had left, and read:

I said: "Whither thou goest I will go—" but now I must leave you, go the rest of my way alone. Not by my wish, but for your sake. When, not long after you had gone this morning, I realized that this had to be, the ache of it was almost more than I could bear. It is a little easier now, and so—I write to you. Wishing I might see you, might if only for a little while longer know the love that I have forfeited.

I have wished, often, that you had not so much deferred to me, set me so high and—I can say it now—appeared to regard me as if you feared lest my love for you were less than yours for me. As if you had to be careful always, lest I should tire of you because of the difference in our ages. But, Ralph, I am old, very old, though not in years. I found in your love all I needed, and you might have been quite sure of me, as I have been of you. Quite sure that my love for you would last—will last—as long as my life. For me there is no other man on earth.

I came into your room last night, very late—it must have been near on morning. You were asleep, and I stood over you. I wanted to kneel and know your arms reaching out to hold me, as—is this self-pity? Because I shall never know that happiness again, but the sight of you, my husband, sleeping so quietly, will always stay in my mind. My dear, the ache is very terrible.

And I beg of you to make no effort to find me, for it will be quite useless. I am going beyond your finding, Ralph. If you knew all the reason, which even in writing I will not tell you, you would be glad that I take this step, glad to say: 'By her own will and act she is as if she had never been.' If my asking will not stop you from trying to find me, then, before you begin, ask the man who, as you know, was coming to see me this morning, to tell you what he knows. Then, for your own sake, you will not seek me.

It is as always. One holds back a confession at first, and then as time goes on it becomes more difficult to confess, in the end impossible. There, I know, I did wrong, in marrying you without confessing. Because from the very beginning I loved you, and was afraid that, if I told, your love for me would be killed. I want most terribly now that you should count it killed, that you should not torture yourself by trying to learn why I have gone, but to accept the fact—divorce me for desertion, if you wish, but in any case let me go.

And yet I have never loved you so deeply, so completely, as I do now. My very mirror of honour and of all that is best in life, my husband, my dear—my dear—

With his faculties half-benumbed by the shock of what he had read, Enthwaite had begun reading the letter a second time in an effort at comprehending it fully, when a knock sounded on the door of the room and he turned to see Billings standing in the doorway.

"Wanting—wait a minute, Billings. I think—yes"—he gazed at the letter he held, studied it, and came to the sentence—"the man who, as you know, was coming to see me this morning—" He stood for awhile reading and re-reading the words, while Billings waited.

"Yes," he said at last. "I want—go and turn Edmunds out. Tell him I want the Rolls, at once, and for him to drive me. To Westingborough, and after that I don't know. But he is to turn out at once."

"He'll be in bed, sir," Billings ventured, shaken out of his calm for the first time in Enthwaite's experience.

Instantly Billings vanished, and, standing with the letter in his hand, Enthwaite heard the front door being unbolted and unlocked, and then his man's footsteps on the gravel outside. He went to the window and looked out. The old moon was riding high, scattered clouds made transient blots among the stars. She had abandoned the car—where was she now? That she should think for one moment he would let her go like this, or rest without knowing the story that Head could tell him!

He went down, after a little while, to the room in which he had interviewed both Head and Wadden, and, thinking connectedly again now, switched on all the lights and stood gazing at the telephone. No, he would not use it. They might refuse to see him—Head might want him to wait till morning, when every minute counted, and to rest or remain here and wait was an utter impossibility. Where was she? "Beyond your finding." Did that mean—what did it mean? Not the last, worst evil of all, surely. Gloria would never take that step—or would she?

He must find her, bring her back. Whatever it might be that he would compel Head to tell him, he determined then, she should come back to him. His wife, the very centre of his life since he had known her, incapable of any wrong to him—a sudden fear assailed him then. Had she by some means learned of the wrong he had done, and so made this excuse to leave him? But he put that thought aside almost as it came to him. Gloria would not seek excuse for her act in that way—frank with him always, she would have accused, condemned, and faced him to utter the condemnation, he felt sure. No, but there was something that Head knew, something he would compel the man to tell him, that when he found her he could say that he knew all, forgave all, and loved her no less. She must come back—she must come back.

"He was in bed, sir, but he's dressing and turning the Rolls out as quickly as he can. Will there be anything more you want of me, sir?"

"No, Billings. I shall be back—I don't know what time I shall be back. Tell Prudence to have everything ready for Mrs. Enthwaite—she will come back with me. It—there has been a mistake—she understood that I was staying in London. I—that's all, Billings. You can go."

Again alone, he paced the room, for how long he did not know. Ever and again he looked at his watch, but it told him nothing—the action was mechanical, no more than a sign of his terrible impatience. And after certain eternities of suspense he heard the car draw up outside and hurried out to it, opening the door for himself before Edmunds could get down from the driving seat, and leaving the house door wide.

Billings, coming to close the door, gazed after the tail light of the car and shook his head at it as the red dot flickered among the tree trunks bordering the winding drive.

"Mistake, eh?" he muttered to himself. "Well, there's no more trains to London to-night, Mr. Enthwaite, so what you'll do about it—"

"Yes, sir, he's just driven over from Carden, it appears. Said he must see Mr. Head at once, and when I told him Mr. Head wasn't available he said he must see you. He won't tell me what it's about."

"All right, then." Wadden, barefooted and in pyjamas only, refrained from blowing at his telephone transmitter, though the cold oilcloth of his front hall was distinctly unfriendly. "Tell him to come round here, and if he doesn't know my address tell him. I'll see him."

He put his receiver back on its rest and pattered up to his bedroom, where Mrs. Wadden cocked an eye at him from her pillow as he began slipping on his trousers over his pyjamas.

"Internal combustion, poor devil," Wadden answered enigmatically. "You go to sleep, old lady—I'll be back in a very few minutes."

Though he stayed only to find his slippers and put on his gaudily-patterned dressing-gown, he had barely time to assure himself that the fire in the sitting-room was not quite out when a sustained ringing of the front door bell informed him that Enthwaite had arrived. He opened the door wide and stood back from it.

"Where can I find Inspector Head?" Enthwaite interrupted him, and did not move to respond to the invitation to enter.

"In London," Wadden answered. "If you'll be so good as to come inside, sir, I'll close this door. I haven't got enough on to face an April breeze in the middle of the night in comfort."

Enthwaite entered then, realizing that if he would learn more he must advance beyond the doorstep, and Wadden closed the door.

"Now, sir, if you'll come along—there isn't much fire, but the room is still warm." He moved toward his sitting-room, ushering Enthwaite along with him. "Anything I can do in Mr. Head's absence—"

"You can't," Enthwaite interrupted again, as he faced the Superintendent inside the room. "That is"—as a thought occurred to him—"unless you, too, know—Mrs. Enthwaite has said that there is a story I can get from Inspector Head, which is why I want to find him without any delay. But since he knows the story, I suppose it is common property between you—you work together. So, if you know it—" He broke off.

But Wadden shook his head gravely. He could read in the face of the man before him a terrible anxiety, and would not risk telling that story himself. Head could do as he liked about it, but Wadden did not envy him the task of telling. "No," he said, "I am afraid I couldn't."

"Then where is—" Enthwaite paused, and then changed the sentence. "I may as well tell you, Superintendent, that I am faced by the task of finding Mrs. Enthwaite. By some incredible misunderstanding she has left Enthwaite House to-day, and I must find her before I can rest—and wring this story at which she hints out of Inspector Head as well. That first, so that I can remove this misunderstanding when I see her. I am being quite frank with you about it, though I may tell you I blame you almost as much as Inspector Head over this—your badgering and harping on the possibility of her knowing anything that might be useful to you has helped to drive her to this step, I feel sure. And so—"

"One moment, Mr. Enthwaite," Wadden broke in. "If anything we have said or done has driven her to run away, then you cannot acquit her of some knowledge of what we are trying to find out. You are—"

"Don't dare suggest such a thing about her—against her!" Enthwaite interrupted angrily. "Do you mean to tell me—"

"I do," Wadden interrupted in turn, and, in spite of his dressing-gown and the unattired, visible bulk of him, there was a certain dignity in the way he faced his man. "You are running a grave risk of bringing greater trouble, greater anxiety on yourself, sir—I am very sorry indeed to have to say this to you, but enough facts of the case are in my knowledge to make me feel I ought to say it—"

"The hotel murder," Wadden answered. "We have come into possession of facts which prove that Mrs. Enthwaite knew the murdered man."

"Mrs. Enthwaite knew—" Enthwaite gasped out the words in little more than a whisper, and recoiled from Wadden as he uttered them.

"Yes, beyond a shadow of doubt," Wadden said decidedly. "But"—he saw the grey paleness that came over Enthwaite's face as the man's world rocked about him—"won't you sit down for a minute or two, sir? I can assure you I'm deeply sorry to have to tell you this—"

"Now," Enthwaite interrupted him yet again, and grasped at the edge of the centre table to steady himself, "tell me the rest, Superintendent. Do you see—you've driven me deeper down into hell than I was when I came here, and I can't rest without knowing—tell me the rest."

"I'm sorry, sir," Wadden answered, "but you'll have to go to Inspector Head for that, when he returns as I expect him to to-morrow—"

"Well, he's in London, and there are no more trains up to-night," Wadden said. "If you go to-morrow, you may cross each other—"

"Where in London is he?" Enthwaite asked, again giving the other no chance to complete his sentence.

"The Strand Imperial Hotel. And you can tell me no more of this story—I must go to him to get the rest of it?"

"That is so, sir. But as I was going to say, he's staying there but may not be there if you try to find him. He went to London in connection with the case, and may be anywhere—the hotel is merely his headquarters until he comes back. To-morrow, most probably."

The question came suddenly, but Wadden had been expecting it. Still, he hesitated before replying: on the one hand, to put Enthwaite on her trail would only aid him to knowledge that would be disastrous to his possible peace of mind, and, since she had fled, Wadden was more than half convinced that he had been right in believing her guilty of the murder: on the other hand, Enthwaite's present distress was so visibly, terribly acute that to withhold the knowledge was cruelty. "Yes. To London," he said at last.

"But he could!" Enthwaite caught the doubt in the Superintendent's tone, and drew his conclusion from it. "Inspector Head—Inspector Head! Facing me at every turn since he came to see me on Wednesday—for his own ends, not mine! Now for him, as means to finding her."

He went out without another word, and Wadden, hearing his front door slam, stood thoughtful for a minute or so and then made his way upstairs. He thought for a moment or two of ringing Head and warning him that Enthwaite would descend on him, but rejected the idea. It would make no difference: Head, like himself, would see that Enthwaite would not rest until he knew all the story of his wife.

"And then," Wadden said to himself, "God pity him, for as he put it, he'll be deeper in hell than he is now."

Over his solitary dinner Head reviewed his case: it was early, yet, and though he intended to relieve Good on watch over the house in Kennington Road well before midnight, he wanted time, first, to review all the facts that he had gleaned, and reach some conclusion. For now, as nearly as he could see, he had eliminated all possible suspects excepting an agent of some power desirous of getting hold of Enthwaite's mysterious document, whom he had no hope of finding at this length of time from the commission of the crime—and Gloria Enthwaite.

Like Wadden, he was beginning to lean to belief in her guilt, the more so since she had fled from Carden, a move which seemed to indicate that she feared further questioning. Certainly she had been absolutely frank over her replies to his questions about the telephone calls, but that, as he saw it now, was merely her way of persuading him that she intended to conceal nothing, since she had to admit knowledge of Haussbrandt and complicity with him in stealing the document. Going over all that he knew, and stretching a point here and there to enmesh her, he could find nothing to disprove her guilt except the posting of that envelope at Westingborough on Wednesday afternoon. And he was not entirely sure that she had not found some means of posting it. The woman Prudence Ramsbottom, for instance: devoted to her mistress, ready to lie in her interests—what was to prevent Prudence from taking a bus from Carden to Westingborough, slipping the envelope in some pillar box, and returning? With that, the case against Mrs. Enthwaite would be complete, and, knowing her danger, she had attempted to hide.

Feasible, but—proof? Going over it all again, he had to admit to himself that not only was he utterly devoid of proof, but of evidence that he could produce against her, apart from strength of motive. An agent contesting with Feilding for possession of the document might have gone to the hotel to get it from him, but would he have endangered his own escape by killing the man? Would he not rather have throttled him into unconsciousness, as those marks of Feilding's throat suggested might have been his attempt, and then made good his own escape before Feilding could recover to come after him? But Mrs. Enthwaite—if she had got into the hotel and secured the document, while Feilding lived she was in no less danger from him than if she had left it alone. Only with his death would the secret that she must keep from her husband be reasonably safe, and, since he had blackmailed her through his knowledge of the secret already, she would be driven to desperation, ready to kill if she saw a chance of getting clear after the deed.

If, dressed in some man's clothes as Wadden had surmised, she had found it easy to get into the hotel by way of the back door without being detected, she would know that with Feilding dead it would be equally easy to get out unseen and unheard. More likely still, she had wakened him in getting hold of the document in his room, and had known that unless she put an end to him she would not get out again undetected—the crime had been forced on her, in a way. She might have searched the dressing table first, picked up the spike as a means of protection in case he should waken and try to thwart her, and then, when her approach to the bed had wakened him, put a hand on his throat to hold him down while she stabbed. Lying as he was when the body was found, he could be held down by her strength long enough for the thrust of the spike, and, struggling, had facilitated his own murder by throwing back the bedclothes so that she could see more plainly where to strike.

Meditating over such an explanation as he stirred his coffee, Head told himself yet again that some proof, at least, must be unearthed before he dared arrest the woman, but—how to get it! For one thing, watch over her must be maintained until he had enough evidence to justify charging her with the crime, or, alternatively, until some other avenue opened to lead him away from consideration of her as guilty. For he was not sure: the motive alone was convincing; the facts of the crime as he had them were not. Tracy, with his patent ignorance of anything connected with the murder, could not be considered as having helped her to commit it. Having seen the man, and seen her too, Head was convinced that she would ask nothing of such a one: therefore, if she were guilty, she must have got her knowledge of the hotel and the way into room number seven from some other source.

Over that, Head took out Nell's list of occupants and visitors and studied it carefully, but could not find one name that furthered the theory of Gloria Enthwaite's guilt. These people, as far as he could see, were as far removed from even acquaintance with the mistress of Enthwaite House, let alone such intimacy as would permit of her applying to them for information or aid, as if they had been antipodeans. Yet, since there had been such a one as Haussbrandt in her life, some one of them—Parker, say—might have known her before she met Enthwaite. Even so, would she put herself in Parker's or anyone's power by inquiring about the room that the man she had most cause to fear and hate occupied?

Still pondering over it, Head finished his coffee, called for and paid his bill, and went out. It was still early—half-past nine, his watch told him—but he might as well go and take over from Good for the rest of the time until midnight, beyond which he decided it was unnecessary to keep watch over the house until, say, six o'clock in the morning. For, if Mrs. Enthwaite meditated moving on the next day, she would not start before six, and if she meant to spend the night elsewhere, she would move by midnight at latest. Further, if Good had to remain on till midnight, he would not be available to begin watch again at six in the morning. It would be necessary to organize relays until something definite could be done, for she must not be allowed to escape untraced. Byrne could arrange it, officially or otherwise.

With that as the only decision he could wring out of his self-communings, Head arrived to find Good smoking a cigarette as he leaned against a wall, within sight of the doorway through which they had seen Mrs. Enthwaite pass. He straightened up as he recognized Head.

"Still there, sir," he said. "There's no back way out of these houses—they back on to others, with separate yards between."

"Very well," Head said. "I've come to relieve you, so that you can come on again at six in the morning. I'll get in touch with Inspector Byrne as soon as possible and get him to confirm, that to you."

"Well, one job is as good as another, I suppose," Good observed rather pensively. Then he changed to alertness. "Someone coming out," he said. "A woman, too. Shall I follow her, or will you, sir?"

Looking round, Head saw that, whoever the woman might be, it was not Mrs. Enthwaite. "I'll trail her for a bit, and come back to you," he said. "It may be worth while to see what becomes of her."

She crossed the road, watching her opportunity with the traffic, and came to the pavement on which they stood, but a score yards or so distant from them. She was stout, and elderly, and wearing a bonnet of a thirty-year-old type; she might have been a charwoman or something of an equivalent level, but was decidedly not Mrs. Enthwaite. Head followed her as she turned away from where he had been standing with Good, and, walking at his normal pace, shortened the distance between her and himself to three or four yards when abruptly she turned in at a doorway where he espied the legend—"Private Bar". He followed her in, and was in time to see her join two more of her kind in a corner. In response to a barman's questioning look he asked for a bitter, and listened.

"Ullo, dearie, whatcher goin' to 'ave?" one of the two in the corner asked his quarry while he waited for his bitter.

"Now, that's reel nice ov yer," the dame replied. "S'matter of fact, though, I was agoin' to ask yer what you'd 'ave. 'Cause, yer see, you're never back'ards at puttin' ov that question, an' I 'appen to've 'ad a bit o' luck. Let me larst room, I 'ave, an' look like bein' full up for a weekertwo. So what'll you 'ave, Mrs. Perkins—an' you too, Mrs. Adams? Fortni't in advance I got in me bag, an' by the look ov it there's more where that come from. So what'll you both 'ave, deeries?"

"Well, I think I could do with a small gin," said the one who had first voiced the all-important question.

"An' so yer shall!" said the fortunate lessor of the last room, in a gust of generosity as she turned toward the bar. "'Eere, Sid?" she accosted not only the barman, but every one in the place, apparently. "Small gin, small Guinness, an' another small gin, for me an' me friends, an' if you was to dror yerselfa glass o' beer when we've got ours, I wouldn't say as you'd reely 'ave to pay for it yerself."

"Yes, as I was a sayin'," the beldam observed as she rejoined her cronies with the drinks, "me larst room. An' it looks to me there's sumptin' clarssy about the one what's took it. Talk just like a lidy, she do. Not one o' these 'ere hoomf-ahs, neither, which I don't never let rooms to in my louse. Took the two rooms on me second floor an' landed me a fortni't's rent straight down, without so much as arskin' me to take less, which strickly between ourselves I would of if she 'ad arsked. But she didn't, an' so I'm a standin' of you two one instead of your standin' me one. An' well I can do with it too, at the end o' me day's 'ard graftin'. My legs don't 'arf ache, they don't."

"As I allus says to Mrs. Adams," Mrs. Perkins observed, "you do 'ave a 'ard life of it, you don't 'arf, Mrs. Grabb. Well, 'ere's to yer, an' may yer never want a friend or a drop on the quiet. Good luck."

The first half of the small Guinness disappeared coincidently with the last mouthful of Head's bitter. He had learned that Mrs. Enthwaite had taken two rooms—not one, which would have been less evidence of her intent to stay where she was—for a fortnight, and that the landlady's name was Grabb. With that, he got out of the place before either she or her friends observed his presence, since he intended to stay on watch over her house.

"Well, it looks to me as if she's pretty sure to stay there for a day or two, at least," Good observed when he heard the story.

"So much so," Head concurred, "that I think seven o'clock in the morning will be early enough for you to get here. London begins its day late, I know, and she would feel too conspicuous if she appeared before that—she'll know it, too, for this is not her first experience of the Kennington Road, though she has not been in it lately."

"I'll make it seven, then," Good promised, grateful for the extra hour, "and you'll get authorization from Mr. Byrne, sir?"

"You may consider that as good as done," Head assured him. "But in considering the lady as likely to stay here, do not forget that anything may alarm her and cause her to move elsewhere, at any time."

Left alone, he kept his vigil till half-past eleven, by which time the traffic in the road had diminished to little more than a tenth of its daytime volume. He saw the last light extinguished in the frontage of the house that he kept under observation, and then went back to his hotel, confident that Mrs. Enthwaite would not move before Good came on watch again in the morning.

Dawn had begun when a persistent knocking on his door awakened him, and he sat up, under the impression that the noise had been going on for some time. "Yes?" he called. "Who's there?"

"Night porter, sir," a voice answered. "Gentleman says he wants to see you, at once."

"What name?" Head put his feet on the floor as he asked it, with a momentary thought that Mrs. Enthwaite had fled—but Good would not be on watch over her yet, he realized as he saw his watch-hands.

"Name of Enthwaite, sir. Says he's come up from the country by car to see you, and must see you at once."

"Put a large pot of coffee and two cups in the lounge," he bade, "turn me on a bath with the chill off, and tell Mr. Enthwaite I will be with him within half an hour."

Chapter XIX
South was West

"Ah!" Enthwaite said caustically. "To you. Your own convenience, not the needs of others, apparently, counts first with you."

"I did not say convenient," Head retorted quietly. "I said necessary. But supposing we get on to the reason for your call, though I warn you, if this is the attitude you are going to adopt, we are not likely to get very far, though I know why you are here."

"Then your Superintendent has rung you up and given you orders about it," Enthwaite suggested. "That being the case—"

"Excuse me, Mr. Enthwaite," Head broke in, retaining patience only with difficulty, "my Superintendent does not give me orders in the way you are trying to imply. I work with him, not for him. Now, while I have every sympathy with you, knowing why you are here—"

"Sympathy with me? You?" Enthwaite interposed in turn, as if the suggestion of such a thing stung his pride.

"Sympathy with you," Head repeated, with deliberate incisiveness, "as I may well have with one whose wife may in the near future be arrested and charged with murder—as may happen to Mrs. Enthwaite, though I do not say definitely that it will happen."

So far had he advanced in his leaning to that theory in the course of the night, and now he faced Enthwaite, who stared at him with real fear in his eyes and made no reply. Then Head moved toward the coffee tray he had ordered, which had already been placed in the lounge.

"You have been travelling a long time," he said. "Let me offer you a cup of coffee, sir. Shall I pour it out for you?"

"What is your idea—just fooling?" Enthwaite broke out hotly. "I have come to you—travelled all night to come to you—and now you stand there and talk of pouring coffee after hurling at me a threat like that! Do you think I can stay one moment before—where is my wife? You drove her away from me—where is she?"

In the following silence in which they faced each other, a shirt-sleeved, green-baize-aproned man looked in at the doorway of the lounge and, seeing that they occupied it, withdrew. Out of their clash of wills realization came to Enthwaite that he had to follow Head's lead, and with it he turned and went to a window and stood looking out into the street, where London, having taken its first steps toward the new day, was getting into its stride. His attitude said that it might be the first time in his life he had found himself compelled to admit himself dependent on another man, and that he found his position intensely humiliating. But he forced himself to calmness and faced about again, to speak with quiet, steady bitterness.

"My main intention, Mr. Enthwaite, is to lay hands on the murderer of the man who called himself Feilding, when he went to Westingborough and also to Carden last Tuesday," Head said quietly. "Let us get this clear—that Mrs. Enthwaite is connected with the crime—I say, connected with it, and you must realize that!—is not a thing for which you can blame me. But she is, though to what extent I do not yet know. As I hold a secret of yours, so I trust you to keep the secret that she is being kept under observation because of the possibility of arrest. As to how she comes into it, I think now that you ought to be in possession of all the facts before you go to see her—and, when you have them all, you may not wish to see her. Now, in spite of your anxiety over her—worse than anxiety, I know—I want to put you in full possession of facts that must come to your knowledge soon from other sources, if not from me, and common-sense must tell you that an hour or less can make little difference to you. Do you consent to listen?"

"Very well. You have been travelling all night, I know. Now sit down, and take a cup of coffee." He pointed at the table farthest from the doorway. "There, for preference, while I go into the case."

Dominated by a will that he had to recognize as stronger and steadier than his own, Enthwaite obeyed, and Head put a filled cup on the table before him as he seated himself, but after placing a second cup on the table remained standing, and stirred his coffee as he spoke.

"I want to take the actual case first," he said, "and you must bear with me so far as to consider it. Something, to put that no more plainly, was stolen from you at your house at Carden, and after a man had been murdered at Westingborough was returned to you from there. What is your deduction from those facts, Mr. Enthwaite?"

Centred as was his mind on his quest of his wife, Enthwaite had to think awhile for full comprehension of the question. Then—

"With your Superintendent's inquisition at my house," he said, "I conclude that he thinks—you think—the man got possession of what was stolen from me. There must have been a leakage somewhere, and he got to know I had it and followed me to Carden to steal it."

"I located the leakage easily enough," Head said. "But the next steps in the affair—the murder of the man and the return of what had been stolen. What are your deductions over them?"

Again Enthwaite thought, and drank half the contents of his cup before replying. He put the cup back in its saucer and looked up.

"That—that he was not the only one who benefited by the leakage," he said. "That some other interested party made a second theft from him, was compelled to kill him to accomplish it, and then sent what was stolen back to me after copying it, hoping that I should say nothing and so prevent his theft from becoming known until too late."

"Exactly what I deduced myself," Head said. "But then it came to my knowledge that Mrs. Enthwaite knew the original thief, Feilding, as he called himself for the theft, but in reality Haussbrandt, and it has since come to my knowledge—yesterday, in fact—that Mrs. Enthwaite secured what was stolen and in fact acted in collusion with this Haussbrandt. Stole it from you and gave it to him."

He saw Enthwaite's hand, stretched out toward the cup on the table, fall limply; saw Enthwaite's jaw drop as he stared, helplessly.

"You had to know it, sooner or later," he said. "Better that I should tell you now, before you see her—and her reason for it, too."

"Gloria!" Enthwaite whispered her name. "A lie— Oh, a foul lie! Gloria—my wife! No! No, I say!" He spoke the final negation aloud, and put his hands on the arms of his chair as if to rise from it.

"Proved, by her own admission to me," Head said gravely. "Believe me, Mr. Enthwaite, it is a terrible thing to be compelled to tell you this—and more. But you have to know, and if you can stand it I will tell you the rest, for eventually you must know that too."

For a while Enthwaite sat, his hands laid on the arms of the chair while he stared unseeingly before him as might one who has been stunned by a physical blow. Then he relaxed, and turned his gaze on Head.

"I am sorry, Inspector Head," he said, in a forced, mechanical way. "By—by her own admission, you say. Yes. I do not think, from what I see of you, that you would lie to me over this. What—what else is there you can tell me? What else can there be?"

"Now—go on. I—nothing else can affect me. You have—destroyed—if I must believe this—incredible—monstrous—but go on."

"It is a matter of going back, to her girlhood, I should say," Head told him. "When she first met Haussbrandt, then using his own name. I think she was living with her sister, of whom you know, I expect?"

"No," Enthwaite said, still in that forced, dull way. "She has never said anything of a sister. But what does it matter? Go on."

"When she first met Haussbrandt," Head repeated, "and, I am inclined to believe, was fascinated by the man, lost her head over him. Ran away with him, it appears, and then either left him, or he left her, for I first get actual facts about her when she was living with the sister. And"—he hesitated, rather fearful of the result of his next statement, and went on—"there was a child."

"Gloria's, and Haussbrandt's—a child. Have you finished, Inspector Head?" Lying back in his chair, Enthwaite closed his eyes as he put the question, and his fists clenched on the arms of the chair.

"Fully taken in—yes. Yes. Fully taken in. I think—don't fear that my brain is not working over this, Inspector Head. It is—I am understanding all you say, but not yet feeling it. Just as well, perhaps. Gloria, my wife, had a child by this man Haussbrandt. Were they married at the time, can you tell me?"

"In an establishment for the mentally deficient, I understand," Head answered, feeling that, having told so much, he had put Enthwaite beyond being affected by further shocks to any great extent.

But, at that, Enthwaite got on his feet and went to the nearest window, where he stood for a time looking out. Then he came back to the table and faced Head with the faintest semblance of a smile about his lips—it was as much sneer as smile.

"They say," he said, "that if you go on striking a note on any musical instrument, it goes dull, the response becomes flat and lifeless. That is what—how this affects me. And so, when this old lover came back—if all this tale you tell me is true. When he came back—"

"No, not like that," Head contradicted him. "I have told you all the worst of it—badly, I fear. But the rest—well, extenuates her, to me, even if she did—but perhaps I had better stop."

"I should like some more coffee, if you don't mind," Enthwaite said quietly. "And then, the rest of your story, Inspector Head."

He seated himself in the chair again while Head took his cup, refilled it, and placed it before him. Then Head himself sat down.

"By a leakage, Haussbrandt got to know of—of what he subsequently stole from you, and under the name of Feilding he went to Westingborough to steal it—" he began, but Enthwaite broke in.

"Not fully," Head dissented. "He knew that Gloria Kingsley, the girl he had wronged, was now Mrs. Enthwaite. From what I have learned, he appears to have threatened her with a public action at law for the recovery of the child—an absurd action, of course—unless she would commit that theft for him. Any action of the sort, whether it succeeded, or failed as it was almost certain to do, would reveal that episode of the child to you. It was to prevent such a thing from happening that she yielded to the threat of this man, about the vilest blackmailer who has ever lived. Not in collusion with him as her lover, but driven to obey him for fear of losing her place with you."

"Forced—yes." Enthwaite sat erect suddenly. "Then, by God, Inspector Head, if she killed him she was justified! Yes, I see it all. Wait, though! Yes. He used his own sin against her—"

"But—the tangle of it! I need time. You—you know where she is now, you say? Where—where I could—if—?" Without ending the question, he gazed at Head, a puzzled look in his eyes.

"No." Enthwaite frowned at the disconcerting turn from the subject of his perplexity. "My chauffeur drove—badly, or I should have been here sooner. But why? What difference does it make?"

"I am going to tell him to garage the car and get some food and sleep—here, if they can let him have a room," Head said. "Wait here till I come back—that man won't be fit to drive you home or anywhere else till he has had a rest. I'll come back to you here."

The welfare of the man was not his chief concern as he went down the stairs and out to where the old Rolls stood by the kerb. He had, he knew, dealt Enthwaite such a series of shocks as had left him almost incapable of coherent thought, and wanted to give him time to recover and, as far as was possible, assimilate all that he had learned and decide on some course of action. If Mrs. Enthwaite were the murderer, as appeared more and more probable, then for the first time in his career Head felt himself in sympathy with one, ready to admit that she had had cause for destroying such a being as this Haussbrandt, ethically indefensible though the deed might be. That Enthwaite could forgive her and take her back, after he had realized this story to the full, was in the last degree improbable, but he might aid her in her defence and, through his influence with such men as Macclesfield, obtain mitigation of her punishment. Let him have time, alone, to consider his course.

And now another feature of that theft of the document came to Head's mind. If Mrs. Enthwaite had secured the document and killed Feilding, then its contents were still inviolate, for he had had no chance to communicate them to anyone. Thus, by recovering it, she had removed the anxiety under which Enthwaite had been, and under which Macclesfield and all concerned in it would be now. There, if she came to trial and sentence, was a point worth stressing which, though it could never be made public, would none the less be in her favour. Realizing it, Head found himself wanting to aid her, though he knew that in all probability he would be charged with the task of arresting her within the next few days—hours, even, perhaps. His own belief in her guilt was strengthening, and he needed only evidence to justify arrest. With that, the case against her would develop, facts would come to light—

Before going down to see Enthwaite, he had put on his overcoat, and now, as he emerged to the street, he was glad he had done so, for the east wind was bitter. He turned up the coat collar as he crossed the pavement to speak to the cringed and shivering chauffeur, and, so doing, heard the crackle of the envelope he had taken from Wadden, now in the inner breast pocket of the overcoat. There might be one piece of evidence, he reflected. The name and address had been written in block capitals, but there might be some similarity with Mrs. Enthwaite's handwriting in the formation of them. Get her to write something, a specimen for comparison with what was on the envelope—

"You are to take the car to a garage—any policeman will tell you where to find the nearest—and then come back here for some food and rest. Come straight up into the hotel—I'll see about a room for you!"

Head turned back to the hotel entrance as the car moved away. He looked down at Enthwaite, who, red-eyed from lack of sleep and from other causes, returned his gaze.

"Intentionally, sir," he answered. "I wanted to give you time to think—and even so, I know, you have not had time enough."

"I believe I have, though," Enthwaite said slowly. "You know, on the way here, more for what you had done to—to my wife—than for the anxiety you were causing me, I could have killed you, gladly."

"And now," Enthwaite said, "I am beginning to think you have been a very good friend. But—one thing, before we go."

"So far, I have the strength of her motive and this attempt at hiding as guide," Head said quite frankly. "But—have you come to any decision as to what you will do, sir? About her, I mean?"

"I have." Enthwaite stood up as he replied, and his voice was steady, different altogether from that of the shaken man who had listened to the story of his wife's past life. "I should be a little less than a man, Inspector Head, if I failed her in this deadly peril you tell me she is in. I believe from the bottom of my heart that it was in love for me, fear of losing me, she concealed from me what she did, and perhaps if I had known it then I should have turned away from her. But now, she is my wife, for better or worse, and if the very worst has come I shall share it with her as far as God and man will let me. At the best, as I see it, we shall have a hard road to travel, but if she will, we shall travel it together. And the sooner you let me find her, the sooner she and I can begin."

"You understand that I must have her kept under observation?" Head asked. "That is, until some further development decides for her?"

"You couldn't—couldn't accept my assurance?" Enthwaite asked in reply. "That—that I will see she faces any charge you may make?"

"I—I hoped," Enthwaite said, "but I do know. You are wrong in thinking it of her—I know you are wrong. Now can I see her?"

"Not here—Oh, I've got your chauffeur a room here, so you'll know where to find him when you want him. We'll get a taxi."

He managed to secure one outside and, glancing at his watch after getting in with Enthwaite, saw that it was even yet barely eight o'clock, though he had delayed long over returning to the lounge after making arrangements for the chauffeur, knowing as he did the complexity of the problem with which Enthwaite had been faced. But there was, he knew, ultimate decision in the way Enthwaite had spoken his intent—more, there was as Head saw it nobility of purpose in that intent, with the complete understanding which meant complete forgiveness, and a love rare as fine. Foreseeing all that his decision involved, this man would take his wife back, shield and aid her, murderess though she might be. Possibly his legal training and knowledge accounted for his swift grasp of all that Head had told him; he sat, now, erect and gazing ahead as the taxi sped on, quiet strength in the set of his face.

So they came to the Kennington Road, and as the taxi drew up outside the house to which Head had directed the driver, he saw Good on the opposite side of the road, eyeing them unobtrusively, and beckoned the man over to him. Then Enthwaite got out.

"I see. Well, I am beginning to think I owe you thanks, at least, though in thinking of her I have hardly come to that. Perhaps—yes, though, I shall certainly see you again. Wait or no, as you choose."

He went to the door of the house and knocked, and as Good reached the taxi the woman whom Head knew was Mrs. Grabb opened the door. Enthwaite eyed her with no great liking, and she regarded him suspiciously.

"I don't allow no gentlemen seein' ladies in my 'ouse," she interrupted. "This is a respectable 'ouse, this is."

He put a foot over the threshold to keep the door open. "You will let me in to see her," he said. "Which rooms are hers?"

"Second floor, but—" She broke off and recoiled as he advanced on her, pushing the door wide to make way for himself.

"Out of my way, you hag!" he exclaimed fiercely, and made for the staircase while she stared after him, speechless until too late.

As he reached the second floor, a door confronted him, and he opened it to enter the front room of the two that Gloria had taken. It was decently furnished as a sitting-room, and, hearing him enter, his wife opened the door between it and the bedroom, and saw him. She stood, holding the door handle with fear in her eyes, then released her hold and backed away as he advanced toward her, swiftly.

"But"—she put out her hands to hold him off, and found them taken and held—"no—you don't know! How I lied and cheated you—Ralph—why I left you! I should have told you in that letter—"

"My dear, I know all of it," he said. "Head has told me—all of it. I—did you think my love for you was so small a thing, Gloria—Gloria? Whatever has been, whatever you have done—my dear! This is your place, darling, not less now I know than before. Gloria!"

"I think, probably, he will take her away with him," Head told Good. "The incredible has happened, and he is a great man, her husband. If he does take her, you must still keep watch till I arrange with Inspector Byrne and decide what to do about her—get more evidence."

"If you've been telling him everything, she'll know she's being watched," he remarked at last. "That makes it difficult, sir."

"In other words," Head observed with a smile, "you don't think much of me as a detective. Well, to tell the honest truth, neither do I. But I will say that never before have I been so completely at fault as I am over this case. For the present, I daren't arrest her, and yet I daren't lose sight of her. There's nothing—" He broke off, and sat gazing past the driver of the taxi, while Good permitted himself a smile over it. Then Head remembered.

He put his hand in his pocket and took out the envelope in which the document had been returned to Enthwaite. For a minute or so he gazed absently at the name and address on it, and then suddenly his abstractedness gave place to interest, and even amazement. Good watched his changing expressions curiously.

"Why—yes—the light," he said. "Daylight, now, and I remember I told him. That was—wait, though! Where on earth, now—?"

"Something to do with it?" Good asked interestedly. Head held up the envelope to show him the address on it.

"I suppose that's her husband's address, down in the country," Good said. "Is that why you're—well, treasuring it, sir?"

"Only that it's written in a bluish ink—yes, that very dark blue ink, unless it's only been done a few minutes and will turn black presently. I don't know if that's what you mean, but it is blue."

"But so nearly black that you wouldn't notice the difference in an artificial light—and it was a poor light at that when I examined it."

"No, then, you wouldn't see it, sir. But you know those daylight bulbs—tru-sun, they're called. One of them would show it up."

"It wasn't that sort of bulb," Head said, again recalling how he had commented on the quality of the light when he had inspected this envelope in Wadden's sitting-room. "It was, in fact, one devil of a poor light, and here—wait a moment, Good. I think—"

He sat silent, and Good, eyeing the taximeter, saw it click another threepence on to its white face. Then Head spoke.

"No, you needn't fetch a constable, either, for I am not going to arrest her. For the simple reason that she is not—"

He broke off at sight of Enthwaite and his wife emerging from the house, with Mrs. Grabb hovering in the background, silent, but vindictive if her expression counted for anything. Enthwaite had silenced her on his way down, and now he carried his wife's suit-case. Head got out from the taxi as the pair emerged to the pavement.

"Morning, madam," he said. "Mr. Enthwaite, I have changed my mind over what you asked me a little while ago. I am going to hold you responsible for Mrs. Enthwaite's appearance if that becomes necessary, and withdraw the watch that had been kept on her since she came here."

"Exactly what I said." Gazing at Mrs. Enthwaite, Head saw tear stains still on her cheeks, and saw, too, that she appeared to cling to her husband, while in her eyes there was a look of half-fearful happiness, as if she were not quite sure whether she had found the haven of her desire, or whether, even now, she might be driven from it.

"Well, then," Enthwaite said, and his tone indicated that he could not understand it at all, "I had better tell you that we have decided to go back to Carden, where you will find us if you need us."

"Why, yes, thank you very much, Inspector," Enthwaite answered. "I suppose you won't tell me any more—your reasons for this?"

"Inspector"—Mrs. Enthwaite spoke—"my husband has told me enough to make me realize—if I might just say how much I wish to thank you. That if it had not been for you, for what you told him—"

"I feel myself honoured if I have been able to serve him in any way, madam," he answered gravely, knowing as he did that Enthwaite's forgiveness of her revealed in the man a rare humanity.

"And you won't tell him?" she asked, smiling a little, an expression that made her very appealing, very lovely.

"Only that I have found out south was west," he said. "And now you must excuse me while I go about my work."

He handed the taxi-driver his fare and tip, and then, while they stood puzzled, turned and entered the gateway leading to number 222c.

Chapter XX
For Gloria

THAT afternoon, Superintendent Wadden sat at his desk in Westingborough police station, a very large cup of tea at his elbow and an outsize in toasted scones, very butterish, on the plate before him, the scone being deficient of a moon-shaped portion where he had bitten into it. As he masticated his bite, stirring his tea the while, Inspector Head walked in, deposited his suit-case by the wall, and went to the fire-place to warm himself, for the east wind was even keener here than it had been in London when he got on board his train.

"Just a leetle to one side, if you don't mind, to give me a chance to see the fire," Wadden urged, and took up his scone for another bite. "Yes, that's better. And by the look of you, you've finished it."

After a long stare, during which he chewed audibly, Wadden put his thumb on the bell-push on his desk, and presently Jeffries appeared.

"Get Mr. Head a very nice, large cup of tea," Wadden bade, "and find him a scone to resemble what this was in its prime, Jeffries. His works need oiling. Fetch the provender in here, not to his room."

He looked up at the younger man. "I've seen you look happier," he observed as Jeffries went about the errand. "And—all but the finish?"

"In one of Edgar Allan Poe's stories," Head said, disregarding the question, "searchers turn a man's rooms upside down in search of a letter, you may remember—and the letter is stuck in an envelope in front of their eyes all the time, so plainly that they overlooked it."

"If you're applying that to the case you're on," Wadden said gravely, "it means I've got to go and pay an oculist three guineas or whatever those blokes charge for a consultation, before I retire and start growing tomatoes under glass. For devil a sign of your finish can I see, and you need all your sight to spot the first signs of green fly on young tomato plants. Whatever you can see, I can't."

"That's the second time you've started cursing and blinding about that light," Wadden said testily. "If you don't like it, don't come and see me there. That light's good enough for me to read by."

"But"—advancing from the fire-place, Head put down the long envelope beside the plate on the desk—"it wasn't good enough to tell me the colour of the ink in that address, as you can see it now by daylight."

"Yes, blue." Wadden gazed at the envelope and then up at Head. "No artificial light would show— Head, do you mean that's—?" He broke off, and let his expression finish the question for him.

Head took up the envelope and pocketed it again. "So much so that, as I said, I can finish it when I choose. And I hate doing it, Chief."

"Eh, that's not like you, laddie," Wadden remarked with kindly reproof. "Murder is murder—'by man shall his blood be shed'."

"You mean—yes, put 'em down, Jeffries, thank you. You mean his wife, Head? Then why didn't you finish before coming back, bring her with you? You haven't put her inside before coming in here?"

"Nor will," Head answered, and stirred the tea in the cup Jeffries had put down on the desk. "You remember Nell's seeing the man climb over the back yard gate before it was light enough to recognize him?"

"Aye, I do. If it'd been a bit lighter, or someone else had seen him at close quarters and passed on the information to us—"

"But nobody did," Head said quietly. "Then that telephone call from Enthwaite House to the hotel. If we could have found who took it at this end—" He broke off invitingly.

"But nobody did," Head repeated. "Chief"—he went on before Wadden could speak—"you remember I told you of my interview with that Mrs. Huggins, the one who told me the story of Gloria Kingsley because I mentioned Haussbrandt and so made her think I knew all about it?"

"A good sort, but very bad at remembering names. Gloria Kingsley's sister, she told me then, left London soon after Gloria went to the Quadrarian, and according to Mrs. Huggins this sister went to a place named 'south' something or other. I tried her with all the souths I could think of, but to no purpose, for the simple reason that, as I found out when I called again to see her to-day, in the course of years she'd got her cardinal points mixed, and 'south' something or other was 'west' something or other. Westingborough, in fact."

"One other thing, first," Head interposed. "A mere coincidence, but an odd one. The way a name has recurred in this case, as if to shout at me that it's a very common one and I must take no notice of it. Nell Cummins. Hattersley and Cummins. Calder, Cummins and Calder. Purely accidental, apparently, but it occurred to me as I thought over the case on my way back from London."

"And this, then—no, you've taken it again, though. The blue ink on that envelope, I mean. How does it—the list, is it?"

"No. When I went up to Nell's room with her, and she showed me the back yard and that gate through her window—by Jove, Chief, Gloria Kingsley may have been a good actress in her day, but Nell eclipses her utterly!—when I went up to that room, I say, I stood in front of the window and over her desk, which is placed directly under the window, to look out. A very neatly kept desk. Invoices and papers in little stacks, and among other things a bottle of ink—and I saw the label on the bottle. Foreman's Patent Blue Ink, with something about being made from oak-galls only and keeping its depth of colour everlastingly—words to that effect. I just glanced at it in my survey of the desk, which had nothing to do with the case then, as far as I knew, and then looked out again at the gate over which that non-existent man had climbed—a clever touch, making it just light enough to see him, but not light enough to give us any particulars about him."

"Nell!" Wadden said sadly. "We've known her a good ten years, Head. Seen her make that place what it is to-day, respected her, almost confided in her over some things. The way she looked after old Bragg till he died! The way she made her personality felt there!"

"For what else? She took that telephone call, most probably in her own room—heard who it was in the office, I'd say, and then told Gloria to hold on while she ran up to her room to talk to her. A very long six minutes, your inquiries told you. Gloria told her of Haussbrandt's blackmail, and begged her to get the document back to save her husband from ruin, and Nell, who as we already know would sacrifice herself to any extent for Gloria, determined to free her sister from the man for good and all, went to his room in the night, and killed him. Remember another thing—how she owned to picking up that girl Annie Green in her epileptic fit and carrying her, unaided, to the room where the girl was undressed and put to bed. That's strength, Chief, the strength that could hold Haussbrandt down and prevent him from making any outcry before he died. It's all I can do to lift a person of Annie Green's weight, limp in unconsciousness, off a floor to carry her, and Nell owned to doing it as if it were nothing at all."

"Yes. But—Nell! I don't like it, Head, any more than you do. But—your finish? What are you going to do about it?"

"But—but your tea that I got for you, man! Won't you have that first! Nell won't run away, you know."

"I know, but—Chief, I don't think I want any tea, though it was good of you to think of it for me. Not—not with this to do."

"No? Well?" Wadden looked up at him, and blinked a little. "I'll go over," Head said. "I think—a word with her, first. On my own. I believe, Chief, she's made of such stuff as to face the consequences, as she faced what she saw as release for her sister. But you might send Jeffries and Sergeant Wells over about a quarter of an hour after I've left. Tell them to go into the lounge and keep near this entrance end of the long bar—near the doorway, I mean."

"Right. A quarter of an hour. And—I know what she's done, but—deal gently with her, laddie. It won't—she won't—"

He left it incomplete, but Head nodded understanding before he went out rather hastily. After he had gone, Wadden sat gazing at the two untasted cups of tea and his own half-finished scone. Then he pushed cups and plates away from him and sat on, gazing into vacancy.

Seated in her little office at the back of the hotel entrance hall, Nell made no move toward getting up as Head entered and stood beside her desk, but looked up at him, placidly.

He held before her the envelope with Enthwaite's name and address on it. "You will recognize this, Nell," he said.

"Why, yes." She glanced at it only momentarily, and then looked up at him again. A change, minute but apparent to his watchful eyes, told him that she understood why he had come to her. "You want that one on the house you said you'd have when you had finished this case, I believe. I'm sorry, but the bar's closed, now, and"—momentarily, her magnificent self-control failed, but then she recovered herself and went on—"I shall not be able to get it for you... ever, now."

"Nell, for your own sake, before I do what I have to do, I want to talk to you," he said. "Will you put both your hands on the top of that desk and keep them there for a while—for your own sake, I say?"

"Yes. Is that"—again her self-control failed for a moment, and she had to force herself to complete the question as she laid her hands open on the desk and gazed at her blue-veined wrists for the handcuffs—"is it so you can—?"

"You see"—she smiled slightly—"I am not attempting to deny anything. If only I can—" Again she broke off, abruptly.

"How much do you know?" She gazed full at him as she put the question. "Was it—that telephone call? How much do you know?"

He shook his head, remembering how her sister—and now, he noticed the likeness between them, but Nell's was in some ways a stronger, finer face than that of the younger woman—had answered his questions regarding Haussbrandt's calls to her with utter frankness, that she might more effectually mislead him when he questioned her about that last call, the one in which she had told Nell how Haussbrandt had blackmailed her into stealing the document for him.

"It was not the telephone call," he answered, "and I know nearly all your sister's story, from Mrs. Huggins, whom you will remember."

"I'm glad it's over," she said slowly. "You know"—again she looked full at him—"I don't feel any sense of guilt, such as one is supposed to feel. It was for her, for Gloria—my little sister." She looked away from him then, and he heard tears in her voice, but only for the moment. "If—in spite of your finding out all this, and I can't think how you did it—if I can still keep her husband from knowing, I shall have no regret over what happens to me. Can I—is it possible, if I admit all that I did without saying why I did it—is it possible to prevent the story from coming out, and save her?"

"Oh, greatheart Nell!" he said, moved by her selfless devotion. "He knows it all, now, and has taken her back, forgiven her."

"Taken her back?" she echoed incredulously. "But when—how—?" She stared at him, and he realized then that she knew nothing of Mrs. Enthwaite's flight or that Enthwaite had followed her.

"She went to London yesterday," he explained, "and tried to hide near where you two used to live, but I followed her there and had the house watched. Then Enthwaite came to me this morning, and I told him the whole story of her and Haussbrandt, and of her theft of the document you sent back to him as well, but no word of you. I went with him to the Kennington Road, and they came out of the house together—they are coming back to Carden together—"

"But it can!" she exclaimed with sudden eagerness. "If—don't you see? If I plead guilty, then—nothing need come out, except that I killed him. Because—they couldn't go on living here if that story were known. And for Gloria—for her sake—completing it—" Silenced utterly for the moment by her willingness to complete her sacrifice of herself, he stood beside her, and saw the little smile that grew about her lips and passed as she reflected.

"And then, a few weeks—three Sundays, isn't it?" she said slowly. "I am not afraid—only the waiting, and the moment when they come—"

"That is not going to happen, Nell," he said. "Without any public knowledge of the story, Enthwaite can and will prevent it. The sentence must be spoken—that is the law—but Enthwaite can tell all your story in the proper quarter, and that sentence will be commuted—I am utterly certain of it—and in a little while, probably, you will be quietly released. Ethically, I know, you have committed a murder, but all the circumstances will weigh in your favour."

"I don't know"—she said doubtfully. "And now"—she looked up at him again—"the handcuffs? Are you going to put them on?"

"Tell me—the name," he asked, disregarding her question. "You came here as Eleanor Cummins. Was it because you foresaw some need to dissociate yourself from the life you had been living in London?"

"No," she answered. "When we two were left with nothing, and Gloria got an engagement in a musical comedy chorus, they took me in too, and you must realize our own name is not one that could go on a bill if either of us got beyond chorus work. So we called ourselves Kingsley. She did well from the start, but I was too tall, and saw I should never get anywhere. But we kept that name, both of us. Then she met Haussbrandt. I never saw the man till Tuesday night, when I killed him, and as far as I know he had never seen me before. She ran away with him, left her work, left me—everything. No more than a child, really, and fascinated by him—she lost her head completely. Then he deserted her, and she came back to me. We should have starved altogether if it hadn't been for Mrs. Huggins, till I got work as a barmaid, and kept us both going somehow till after the child was born and—taken away. You knew it had been taken away, I expect?"

"You would!" she said, with momentary bitterness. "I didn't mean—you're being very good to me, a murderess," she went on hurriedly, "but I was so sure—when I told you of that man climbing over the gate, you believed me utterly, and I felt quite safe—till you showed me that envelope. How did you—was it my writing on the list you asked for?"

"No," he answered. "It was the bottle of blue ink on the desk in your room. Very few people use blue ink."

"They always say that the most careful murderer makes one mistake," she observed quietly. "And, now—" She looked up at him.

"Your sister refrained from knowing you when she married Enthwaite, apparently," he said, thinking how little Gloria had been worth the love that had persisted to ultimate sacrifice like this.

"Oh, no!" She shook her head. "It was my doing. I wrote to her when I knew she was going to marry him, told her there could be nothing in common between the lady of Enthwaite House and Little Nell of the Duke of York, and that she must keep away from me for her own sake. It was not—not easy, but I knew the separateness had to be complete, for if she had owned me as her sister the tale of our life in the Kennington Road—the fact of the child's existence—everything might have come out. I dared not let her own me."

One of the glass-panelled, inner doors of the hotel entrance swung inward to admit Sergeant Wells and Constable Jeffries, who went quietly through the doorway leading to the lounge and disappeared. Nell stared at them till they had gone from sight, and her hands on the desk moved a little and stilled again.

"Yes, but—the actual sight of them. Not fear—no sense of guilt, as I told you, but—the actual sight. Just for the moment. Is it—do you want to put the handcuffs on, now?"

"Then—please!" She spoke eagerly. "Let me give myself up, Mr. Head. Let me go alone and give myself up!"

"But—I won't let you down," she begged. "I know what you think, that I shall try to throw myself under a car or do something like that. But I won't, I promise you! I'll go straight in and ask for Superintendent Wadden and tell him, if only you'll let me go alone. Please, Mr. Head! I promise to go as if you went with me."

She stood up, hesitant for a moment, gazing out at the big entrance hall. "I wonder—what will become of it?" she said. "I was—proud of what I made it. The difference since I came here."

"Someone will carry it on, and I shall not know," she said. "And—but no, I couldn't ask you to shake hands with a murderess, could I? But for all you have done—for Gloria, and showing me how even now her story can be kept secret—I'd like to thank you, Mr. Head."

He took her hand and for a moment held it. "I am glad to have known you, Nell," he said, "and if—after—I shall be glad to know you then."

She went out from the little office, and he followed her across the entrance hall to the door, waving back Wells and Jeffries when they would have come out as they saw her go. She walked steadily, her head erect, and Head stayed within the glass-panelled doorway to watch. He saw her stand at the edge of the pavement and wait her chance to cross among the afternoon traffic, and the light of the westerning sun fell on her uncovered hair and made radiance of its gold. She crossed the street, and came to the shadow of the doorway she must enter.

There she paused and turned about, standing for some seconds to gaze at Westingborough as she had known it for so many years, its people busied about their concerns, heedless of her as she stood there for this last minute of her freedom. She looked across at the weathered frontage of the old hotel, a long, intent gaze—a farewell.

THE END

E. CHARLES VIVIAN

EVIDENCE IN BLUE (THE MAN IN GRAY)

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter I Room Number

Chapter II Exit by the Back Yard

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Chapter III The Spike

Chapter IV Motive?

Chapter V Mr. Hank's Neighbours

Chapter VI Orchids

Chapter VII Calls—Some by Telephone

Chapter VIII Negatives

Chapter IX Hidden, at Both Ends

Chapter X Gloria

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Chapter IX The Landlady's Story

Chapter XII Calder, Cummins, and Calder

Chapter XIII Accident, or—?

Chapter XIV Deadlock

*

Chapter XV Appointment

*

Chapter XVI Driven Hard

*

*

*

Chapter XVII Flight

*

Chapter XVIII Enthwaite

*

*

Chapter XIX South was West

*

Chapter XX For Gloria

*