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Title: Number Seventeen

Author: Louis Tracy

Release Date: January, 2004  [EBook #4996]
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[This file was first posted on April 7, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

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                            Number Seventeen

by Louis Tracy, 1915


  CHAPTER I

 THE OUTCOME OF ARTISTIC CURIOSITY

"Taxi, sir? Yes, sir. No. 4 will be yours."

A red-faced, loud-breathing commissionaire, engaged in the lucrative
task of pocketing sixpences as quickly as he could summon cabs,
vanished in a swirl of macintoshes and umbrellas.

People who had arrived at the theater in fine weather were emerging
into a drizzle of rain. "All London," as the phrase goes, was flocking
to see the latest musical comedy at Daly's, but all London, regarded
thus collectively, is far from owning motor cars, or even affording
taxicabs, so the majority of the play-goers were hurrying on foot
towards tube railways and omnibus routes.

Still, a popular light opera could hardly fail to draw many patrons
from the upper ranks of society, and, in the crush at the main exit,
Francis Berrold Theydon, hesitating whether to walk or wait the hazard
of a cab, deemed himself fortunate when a panting commissionaire
promised to secure a taxi "in half a minute."

Automobiles of every known variety were snorting up to the curb and
bustling off again as promptly as their users could enter and bestow
themselves in dim interiors. Being a considerate person-- wishful also
to light a cigarette-- Theydon moved out of the way. In so doing, he
was cannoned against by an impetuous footman, whose cry, "Your car,
sir," led him to follow the man's alert eyes.

He saw a tall, elderly gentleman, with clean-shaven, shrewd, and
highly intelligent features, of the type which finance, or the law, or
a combination of both, seems to evolve only in big cities, escorting a
young lady from the vestibule. Then Theydon remembered that he had
noticed this self-same girl's remarkable beauty as she was silhouetted
in white against the dark background of a first-tier box. He had even
speculated idly as to her identity, and had come to the conclusion, on
catching her face in profile, that she must be the daughter of the man
seated by her side but half-hidden behind a heavy curtain.

The likeness was momentarily lost now while the two neared him, yet
discovered anew when they halted for a second at his elbow. Oddly
enough, the man was carrying an umbrella, which he proceeded to open,
and his daughter's astonished question put their relationship beyond
doubt.

"Dad," she said, with a charming smile in which there was just a hint
of a pout, "aren't you coming home with me?"

"No. I must look in at the Constitutional Club. It's only a step. I'll
take no harm. This sleet looks worse than it is when every drop shines
in the glare of so many lamps. Now, in with you, Evelyn! Tell Downs to
come back, and don't forget which club. Anyhow, I'll tell him myself."

"Shall I wait up for you?"

"Well-- er-- I shan't be late. I'll be free by the time Downs
returns."

"No. 4 taxi!" came a voice, and Theydon saw his commissionaire perched
on the step of a cab swinging in deftly behind the waiting car. The
girl, gazing at her father, happened to look for an instant at
Theydon, who, fearful lest his candidly admiring glance might have
been a trifle too sustained, pretended a hurried interest in an
unlighted cigarette. That was all. The three crossed the pavement
almost simultaneously.

The next moment the unknown goddess was gone, though Theydon snatched
a final glimpse of her, faintly visible, yet no less radiantly lovely,
as she leaned forward from the depths of the limousine, and waved a
white-gloved hand to her father through a window jeweled with
raindrops.

There was nothing in the incident to provoke a second thought.
Assuredly, Frank Theydon-- as his friends called him-- was not the
only man in the vestibule of Daly's Theater who had found the girl
well worth looking at, and it was the mere accident of propinquity
which enabled him to overhear the quite commonplace remarks of father
and daughter.

A score of similar occurrences had probably taken place in the like
circumstances that night in London, and the maddest dreamer of
fantastic dreams would not have heard the fluttering wings of the
spirit of romance in connection with any one of them. It was by no
means marvelous, therefore, but rather in obedience to the accepted
law of things as they are when contrasted with things as they might
be, if Theydon both failed to attach any importance to that chance
meeting and proceeded forthwith to think of something else.

He did not forget it, of course. His artist's eyes had been far too
interested in a certain rare quality of delicate femininity in the
girl's face and figure, and his ear too quick to appreciate the music
of her cultured voice, that he should not be able to recall such
pleasant memories later. Indeed, during those fleeting moments on the
threshold of the theater, he had garnered quite a number of minor
impressions, not only of the girl, but of her father.

In some respects they were singularly alike. Thus, each had the same
proud, self-reliant carriage, the same large, brilliant eyes, serene
brow and firm mouth, the same repose of manner, the same clear,
incisive enunciation. Neither could move in any company, however
eclectic, without evoking comment.

They held in common that air of refinement and good breeding which is,
or should be, the best-marked attribute of an aristocracy. It was
impossible to imagine either in rags, but, given such a
transformation, each would be notable because of the amazing
difference that would exist between garb and mien.

It must not be imagined that Theydon indulged in this close analysis
of the physical characteristics of two complete strangers while his
cab was wheeling into the scurry of traffic in Cranbourn Street.
Rather did he essay a third time to light the cigarette which he still
held between his lips. And yet a third time was his intent balked.

A policeman stopped the east-bound stream of vehicles somewhat
suddenly at the corner of Charing Cross road; owing to the mud, the
taxi skidded a few feet beyond the line; a lamp was torn off by a
heavy wagon coming south; and a fierce argument between taxi driver
and policeman resulted in "numbers" being demanded for future
vengeance. Then Theydon took a hand in the dispute, poured oil on the
troubled waters by tipping the policeman half a crown and the driver
half a sovereign-- these sums being his private estimate of damages to
dignity and lamp-- and the journey was resumed, with a net loss, to
the person who had absolutely nothing to do with the affair, of twelve
and sixpence in money and nearly ten minutes in time.

Theydon was not rich, as shall be seen in due course, but he was
generous and impulsive. He hated the notion of any one suffering for
having done him a service, and the taxi man might reasonably be deemed
a real benefactor on that sloppy night.

So far as he was concerned, the delay of ten minutes was of no
consequence. It only meant a slightly deferred snuggling down into an
easy chair in his flat with a book and a pipe. That is how be would
have expressed himself if questioned on the point. In reality it
influenced and controlled his future in the most vital way, because,
once the cab had crossed Oxford Street and turned into the quiet
thoroughfare on which the first block of Innesmore Mansions abutted,
he passed into a new phase of existence.

The cigarette, lighted at last after the altercation, had filled the
cab with smoke to such an extent that Theydon lowered a window. At
that moment the driver was slowing down to take the corner of the even
more secluded road which contained Innesmore Mansions and the gardens
appertaining thereto, and nothing else. Necessarily, Theydon was
looking out, and he was very greatly surprised at seeing the unknown
gentleman of the theater walking rapidly round the same corner.

He could not be mistaken. The stranger tilted back his umbrella and
raised his eyes to ascertain the name of the street, as though he was
not quite sure of his whereabouts, and the glare of a lamp fell
directly on his clean-cut, almost classical face.

Being thus occupied, he did not glance at the passing cab, or
recognition might possibly have been mutual-- possibly, though not
probably, because, during that brief pause on the steps of the
theater, he stood beside Theydon; hence, he was half-turned toward his
daughter while they were discussing the night's immediate program.

In itself the fact that he had gone in the direction of Innesmore
Mansions rather than toward the Constitutional Club was in nowise
remarkable. Nevertheless, he had deceived his daughter-- deceived her
intentionally, and the knowledge came as a shock to his unsuspected
critic in Theydon.

He did not look the sort of man who would stoop to petty evasion of
the truth. It was as though a statue of Praxiteles, miraculously
gifted with life, should express its emotions, not in Attic Greek, but
in the up-to-date slang of the Strand.

"Well, I'm dashed!" said Theydon, or words to that effect, and his cab
sped on to the third doorway. Innesmore Mansions arranged its roomy
flats in blocks of six, and he occupied No. 18.

He held a florin in readiness; the rain, now falling heavily, did not
encourage any loitering on the pavement. For all that, he saw out of
the tail of his eye that the other man was approaching, though he had
paused to examine the numbers blazoned on a lamp over the first
doorway.

"Good night, sir, and thank you!" said the taxi driver.

The cab made off as Theydon ran up a short flight of steps. Innesmore
Mansions did not boast elevators. The flats were comfortable, but not
absurdly expensive, and their inmates climbed stairs cheerfully; at
most, they had only to mount to a second storey. Each block owned a
uniformed porter, who, on a night like this, even in May, needed
rousing from his lair by a bell if in demand.

Theydon took the stairs two at a stride, opened the door of No. 18,
which, with No. 17, occupied the top landing. He was valeted and
cooked for by an ex-sergeant of the Army Service Corps and his wife,
an admirable couple named Bates, and the male of the species appeared
before Theydon had removed coat and opera hat in the tiny hall.

"Bring my tray in fifteen minutes, Bates, and that will be all for
tonight," said Theydon.

"Yes, sir," said Bates. "Remarkable change in the weather, sir."

"Rotten. Who would have expected this downpour after such a fine day?"

Bates took the coat and hat, and Theydon entered his sitting room, a
spacious, square apartment which faced the gardens. He had purposely
prevented Bates from coming immediately with his nightly fare, which
consisted of a glass of milk and a plate of bread and butter.

Truth to tell, the artistic temperament contains a spice of curiosity,
which is, in some sense, an exercise of the perceptive faculties.
Theydon wanted to raise a window and look out, an unusual action, and
one which, therefore, would induce Bates to wonder as to its cause.

For once in his life a man who bothered his head very little about
other people's business was puzzled, and meant to ascertain whether or
not the unknown was really calling on some resident in Innesmore
Mansions. It was a harmless bit of espionage. Theydon scarcely knew
the names of the other dwellers in his own block, and his acquaintance
did not even go that far with any of the remaining tenants of 48
fiats, all told.

Still, to a writer, the vagaries of the tall stranger were decidedly
interesting, so he did open a window, and did thrust his head out, and
was just in time to see the owner of the limousine which would call at
the Constitutional Club in a quarter of an hour mount the steps
leading to Nos. 13-18. Somehow, the discovery gave Theydon a veritable
thrill.

Could that pretty girl's father, by any chance, he coming to visit
him? A wildly improbable development had been whittled down to a
five-to-one chance. He closed the window and waited, yes, actually
waited, for the bell to ring!

The sitting room door was open, and it faced the hall door. Footsteps
sounded sharply on the slate steps of the stairway; when Theydon heard
some one climbing to the topmost landing he was almost convinced that,
as usual, the unexpected was about to happen. It did happen, but took
its own peculiar path. The unknown rang the bell of No. 17, and, after
a slight delay, was admitted.

Theydon smiled at the anticlimax. A trivial mystery had developed
along strictly orthodox lines. A rather good-looking and distinctly
well-dressed lady, a Mrs. Lester, occupied No. 17. She lived alone,
too, he believed. At any rate, he had never seen any other person,
except an elderly servant, enter or leave the opposite flat, and he
had encountered the tenant herself so seldom that he was not quite
certain of recognizing her apart from the environment of the staircase
which provided their occasional meeting place.

Then he sighed. Romance evidently denied her magic presence to one who
wooed her assiduously by his pen. He was yet to learn that the
alluring sprite had not only favored him with her attentions during
the past twenty minutes, but meant to stick to him like his own shadow
for many a day. And he frowned, too.

He did not approve of that pretty girl's father visiting the
attractive Mrs. Lester in conditions which savored of something
underhanded and clandestine. The man had deliberately misled his
daughter. He left her with a lie on his lips; yet never were
appearances more deceptive, for the stranger had the outward aspect of
one whose word was his bond.

"Oh, dash it all, what business is it of mine, anyhow?" growled
Theydon, and he laughed sourly as he sat down to write a letter which
Bates could take to the post, thus himself practicing a slight deceit
intended solely to account for the deferred bringing of the tray.

It was apparently an unimportant missive which could well have been
postponed till the morning, being merely an announcement to a firm of
publishers that he would pay a business call later in the week. In
less than five minutes it, and another, making an appointment for
Wednesday, this being the night of Monday, were written, sealed,
directed and stamped.

He rang. Bates came, with laden hands, thinking the tray was in
demand.

"Kindly post those for me," said Theydon, glancing at the letters.
"Better take an umbrella. It's raining cats and dogs."

The man had found the door open, and left it so when he entered.
Before he could answer, the door of No. 17 was opened and closed, with
the jingle inseparable from the presence of many small panes of glass
in leaden casing, and footsteps sounded on the stairs. For some
reason-- probably because of the unusual fact that any one should be
leaving Mrs. Lester's flat at so late an hour, both men listened.

Then Bates recollected himself.

"Yes, sir," he said.

Oddly enough, the man's marked pause suggested a question to his
employer.

"Mrs. Lester's visitor didn't stop long," was the comment. "He came up
almost on my heels."

"I thought it must ha' bin a gentleman," said Bates.

"Why a 'gentleman'?" laughed Theydon.

"I mean, sir, that the step didn't sound like a lady's."

"Ah, I see."

Vaguely aware that he had committed himself to a definite knowledge as
to the sex of Mrs. Lester's visitor, Theydon added:

"I didn't actually see any one on the stairs, but I heard an arrival,
and jumped to the same conclusion as you, Bates."

Tacitly, master and man shared the same opinion-- it was satisfactory
to know that Mrs. Lester's male visitors who called at the
unconventional hour of 11:30 p. m. were shown out so speedily.
Innesmore Mansions were intensely respectable.

No lady could live there alone whose credentials had not satisfied a
sharp-eyed secretary. Further, Theydon was aware of a momentary
disloyalty of thought toward the distinguished-looking father of that
remarkably handsome girl, and it pleased him to find that he had
erred.

Bates went out, closing the door behind him: he donned an overcoat,
secured an umbrella and presently descended to the street. Yielding
again to impulse, Theydon reopened the window and peered down. The
stranger was walking away rapidly. A policeman, glistening in cape and
overalls, stood at the corner, near a pillar box.

The tall man, who topped the burly constable by some inches, halted
for a moment to post a letter. Whether by accident or design he held
his umbrella so that the other could not see his face. Then he
disappeared. Bates came into view. He dropped Theydon's letters into
the box, but he and the policeman exchanged a few words, which, his
employer guessed, must surely have dealt with the vagaries of the
weather.

For an author of repute Theydon's surmises had been wide of the mark
several times that night. The policeman had seen the unknown coming
out from the doorway of Nos. 13-18, and had noted his stature and
appearance.

"Who's the toff who just left your lot?" he said, when Bates arrived.

"Dunno," said Bates. "Some one callin' on Mrs. Lester, I fancy. Why?"

"O, nothing. On'y, if I was togged up regardless on a night like this
I'd blue a cab fare."

"I didn't see him meself," commented Bates. "My boss 'eard him come,
an' both of us 'eard him go. He didn't stay more'n five minnits."

"Wish I was in his shoes. I've got to stick round here till six in the
morning," grinned the policeman.

"Well, cheer-o, mate."

"Cheer-o."

Bates looked in on his master before retiring for the night.

"What time shall I call you, sir?" he said.

Theydon was in the pipe and book stage, having exchanged his dress
coat for a smoking jacket. He was reading a treatise on aeronautics,
and, like every novice, had already formulated a flying scheme which
would supersede all known inventions.

"Not later than 8," he said. "I must be out by 9. And, by the way, I
may as well tell you now. After lunch tomorrow I am going to
Brooklands. I return to Waterloo at 6:40. As I have to dine in the
West End at 7:30, and my train may be a few minutes behind time, I
want you to meet me with a suitcase at the hairdresser's place on the
main platform. I'll dress there and go straight to my friend's house.
It would be cutting things rather fine if I attempted to come here."

"I'll have everything ready, sir."

Bates was eminently reliable in such matters. He could be depended on
to the last stud.

The storm which had raged overnight must have cleared the skies for
the following day, because Theydon never enjoyed an outing more than
his trip to the famous motor track. His business there, however, lay
with aviation. A popular magazine had commissioned him to write an
article summing up the progress and practical aims of the airmen and
he was devoting afternoon and evening to the quest of information. A
couple of experts and a photographer had given him plenty of raw
material in the open, but he looked forward with special zest to an
undisturbed chat that night with Mr. James Creighton Forbes,
millionaire and philanthropist, whose peculiar yet forcible theories
as to the peaceful conquest of the air were for the hour engaging the
attention of the world's press.

He had never met Mr. Forbes. When on the point of writing for an
appointment he had luckily remembered that the great man was a
lifelong friend of the professor of physics at his (Theydon's)
university, and a delightfully cordial introductory note was
forthcoming in the course of a couple of posts. This brought the
invitation to dinner. "On Tuesday evening I am dining en famille,"
wrote Mr. Forbes, "so, if you are free, join us at 7:30, and we can
talk uninterruptedly afterward."

The train was not late. Bates, erect and soldierly, was standing at
the rendezvous. With him were two men whom Theydon had never before
seen. One, a bulky, stalwart, florid-faced man of forty, had something
of the military aspect; the other supplied his direct antithesis,
being small, wizened and sallow.

The big man had a round, bullet head, prominent bright blue eyes, and
the cheek bones, chin and physical development of a heavyweight
pugilist. His companion, whose dark and recessed eyes were noticeably
bright, too, could not be more than half his weight, and Theydon would
not have been surprised if told that this diminutive person was a
dancing master. Naturally he classed both as acquaintances of his
valet, encountered by chance on the platform at Waterloo.

He was slightly astonished, therefore, when the two faced him,
together with Bates. A dramatic explanation of their presence was soon
supplied.

"These gentlemen, sir, are Chief Inspector Winter and Detective
Inspector Furneaux of Scotland Yard," said the ex-sergeant, in the
awed tone which some people cannot help using when speaking of members
of the Criminal Investigation Department.

Though daylight had not yet failed it was rather dark in that corner
of the station, and Theydon saw now what he had not perceived earlier,
that the usually sedate Bates was pale and harassed looking.

"Why, what's up?" he inquired, gazing blankly from one to the other of
the ominous pair.

"Haven't you seen the evening papers, Mr. Theydon?" said Winter, the
giant of the two.

"No, I've been at Brooklands since two o'clock. But what is it?"

"You don't know, then, that a murder was committed in the Innesmore
Mansions last night or early this morning?"

"Good Lord, no! Who was killed?"

"A Mrs. Lester, the lady--"

"Mrs. Lester, who lives in No. 17?"

"Yes."

"What a horrible thing! Why, only the day before yesterday I met her
on the stairs."

It was a banal statement, and Theydon knew it, but he blurted out the
first crazy words that would serve to cloak the monstrous thought
which leaped into his brain. And a picture danced before his mind's
eye, a picture, not of the fair and gracious woman who had been done
to death, but of a sweet-voiced girl in a white satin dress who was
saying to a fine-looking man standing by her side: "Dad, aren't you
coming home with me?"

His blurred senses were conscious of the strange medley produced by
the familiar noises of a railway station blending with the quietly
authoritative voice of the chief inspector.

"Mr. Furneaux and I have the inquiry in hand, Mr. Theydon," the
detective was saying. "We called at your flat, and Bates told us of
the sounds you both heard about 11:30 last night. I'm afraid we have
rather upset you by coming here, but Bates was unable to say what time
you would return home, so I thought you would not mind if we
accompanied him in order to find out the hour at which it would be
convenient for you to meet us at your flat-- this evening, of course."

"You have certainly given me the shock of my life," Theydon gasped.
"That poor woman dead, murdered! It's too awful! How was she killed?"

"She was strangled."

"O, this is dreadful! Shall I wire an apology to the man I'm dining
with?"

"No need for that, Mr. Theydon," said Winter, sympathetically. "I'm
sorry now we blurted out our unpleasant news. But you had to be told,
and it was essential that we should get your story some time tonight.
Can you be home by eleven?"

"Yes, yes. I'll be there without fail."

"Thank you. We have a good many inquiries to make in the meantime.
Goodby, for the present."

The two made off. Winter had done all the talking, but Theydon was far
too disturbed to pay heed to the trivial fact that Furneaux, after one
swift glance, seemed to regard him as a negligible quantity. It was
borne in on him that the detective evidently believed he had something
of importance to say, and meant to render it almost impossible that he
should escape questioning while his memory was still active with
reference to events of the previous night.

And he had so little, yet so much, to tell. On his testimony alone it
would be a comparatively easy matter to establish beyond doubt the
identity of Mrs. Lester's last known visitor. And what would be the
outcome? He dared hardly trust his own too lively imagination. Whether
or not his testimony gave a clew to the police, the one irrevocable
issue was that somewhere in London there was a girl named Evelyn who
would regard a certain young man, Francis Berrold Theydon to wit, as a
loathsome and despicable Paul Pry.

Bates, somewhat relieved by the departure of the emissaries of
Scotland Yard, recalled his master's scattered wits to the affairs of
the moment.

"It's getting on for seven, sir," he said. "I've engaged a dressing
room."

"Tell you what, Bates," said Theydon abstractedly, "it is my fixed
belief that you and I could do with a brandy and soda apiece."

"That would be a good idea, sir."

The good idea was duly acted on. While Theydon was dressing Bates told
him what little he knew of the tragedy, which was discovered by Mrs.
Lester's maid when she brought a cup of tea to her mistress' bedroom
at ten o'clock that morning.

Bates himself was the first person appealed to by the distracted
woman, and he had the good sense to leave the body and its
surroundings untouched until a doctor and the police had been summoned
by telephone. Thenceforth the day had passed in a whirl of excitement,
active in respect to police inquiries and passive in its resistance to
newspaper interviewers. He saw no valid reason why his employer's
plans should be disturbed, so made no effort to communicate with him
at Brooklands.

"Them 'tecs were very pressin', sir," said Bates, rather indignantly,
"very pressin', especially the little one. He almost wanted to know
what we had for breakfast."

At that Theydon laughed dolefully, and, as it happened, Bates's grim
humor prevented him from ascertaining the exact nature of Furneaux's
pertinacity. Moreover, the time was passing. At 7:15 Theydon called a
taxi and was carried swiftly to Mr. Forbes's house in Belgravia, while
Bates disposed himself and the dressing case on top of a northbound
omnibus.

The mere change of clothing, aided by the stimulant, had cleared
Theydon's faculties. Though he would gladly have foregone the dinner,
he realized that it was not a bad thing that he should be forced, as
it were, to wrench his thoughts from the nightmare of a crime with
which such a man as "Evelyn's" father might be associated, even
innocently.

At any rate, he was given some hours to marshal his forces for the
discussion with the representatives of Scotland Yard. He knew well
that he must then face the dilemma boldly. Two courses were open. He
could either share Bates's scanty knowledge, no more and no less, or
avow his ampler observations. And why should he adopt the first of
these alternatives? Was he not bringing himself practically within the
law?

Why should any man be shielded, no matter what his social position or
how beautiful his daughter, who might possibly have caused the death
of the pleasant-mannered and ladylike woman fated now to remain for
ever a tragic ghost in the memory of one who had dwelt under the same
roof with her for five months?

It was a thorny problem, yet it permitted of only one solution. Duty
must be done though the heavens fell.

This conviction grew on Theydon as his cab scurried across the Thames
and along Birdcage Walk. A pretty conceit could not be allowed to
sweep aside the first principles of citizenship. Indeed, so reassuring
was this reasoned judgment that he felt a sense of relief as he paid
off the cab and rang the bell of the Forbes mansion.

He gave his name to a footman, who disposed of his overcoat and hat,
and led him to an upstairs drawing room. Even the most fleeting
glances at hall and staircase revealed evidences of a highly trained
artistic taste gratified by great wealth. The furniture, the china,
the pictures, were each and all rare and well chosen.

"Mr. Theydon," announced the man, throwing wide the door.

A lady, bent over some prints spread on a distant table, turned at the
words, and hastened to greet the guest.

"My father is expecting you, Mr. Theydon," she said. "He was detained
rather late in the city, but will be here now at any moment."

Theydon was no neurotic boy, whose surcharged nerves were liable to
crack in a crisis demanding some unusual measure of self-control. Yet
the room and its contents-- and, not least, the graceful girl
advancing with outstretched hand-- swam before his eyes.

Because this was "Evelyn," and it was certain as the succession of
night to day that Mrs. Lester's mysterious visitor must have been
"Evelyn's" father, James Creighton Forbes.

  CHAPTER II

 THE COMPACT

So petrified was Theydon by coming face to face with the last person
breathing whom he expected to meet in that room, that he stumbled over
a small chair which lay directly between him and his hostess. At any
other time the gaucherie would have annoyed him exceedingly; in the
existing circumstances, no more fortunate incident could have
happened, since it brought Evelyn Forbes herself unwittingly to the
rescue.

"I have spoken twenty times about chairs being left in that absurd
position," she cried, as their hands met, "but you know how
wooden-headed servants are. They will not learn to discriminate.
People often sit in that very place of an afternoon, because any one
seated just there sees the Canaletto on the opposite wall in the best
light. When the lamps are on, the reason for the chair simply ceases
to exist, and it becomes a trap for the unwary. You are by no means
the first who has been caught in it."

Theydon realized, with a species of irritation, that the girl was
discoursing volubly about the offending chair merely in order to
extricate an apparently shy and tongue-tied young man from a morass of
his own creation.

That an author of some note should not only behave like a country
bumpkin, but actually seem to need encouragement so that he should
"feel at home" in a London drawing room, was a fact so ridiculous that
it spurred his bemused wits into something approaching their normal
activity.

"I have not the excuse of the Canaletto," he said, compelling a
pleasant smile, "but may I plead an even more distracting vision? I
came here expecting to meet an elderly gentleman of the class which
flippant Americans describe as 'high-brow,' and I am suddenly brought
face to face with a Romney 'portrait of a lady' in real life. Is it
likely that such an insignificant object as a chair, and a small one
at that, would succeed in catching my eye?"

Evelyn Forbes laughed, with a joyous mingling of surprise and relief.
Most certainly, Mr. Theydon's manner of speech differed vastly from
the disconcerting expression of positive bewilderment, if not actual
fright, which marred his entrance.

"Do I really resemble a Romney? Which one?" she cried.

"An admitted masterpiece."

"Ah, but people who pay compliments deserve to be put on the rack. I
insist on a definition."

"Lady Hamilton as Joan of Arc."

He drew the bow at random, and was gratified to see that his hearer
was puzzled.

"I don't know that particular picture," she said, "but I cannot
imagine any model less adapted to the subject."

"Romney immortalized the best qualities of both," he answered
promptly. "Please, may I look at the Canaletto which indirectly
waylaid me?"

She turned to cross the room, but stopped and faced him again with a
suddenness that argued an impulsive temperament.

"Now, I remember," she said. "Dad told me you had written novels and
some essays. Have you ever really seen Romney's portrait of Lady
Hamilton as Joan of Arc?"

Those fine eyes of hers pierced him with a glance of such candid
inquiry that he cast pretence to the winds.

"No," he said.

"Then you just invented the comparison as an excuse for colliding with
the chair?"

"Yes. At the same time I throw myself on the mercy of the court."

"It was rather clever of you."

He laughed, and their eyes met, at very close range.

"May I share the joke?" said a voice, and Theydon knew, before he
turned, that the man he had last seen disappearing around the corner
of Innesmore Mansions in a heavy rainstorm was in the room.

"Why did you tell me that Mr. Theydon was a serious scientific
person?" cried the girl. "He is anything but that. He can talk
nonsense quite admirably."

"So can a great many serious scientific persons, Evelyn. Glad to see
you, Mr. Theydon. Professor Scarth's letter paved the way for
something more than a formal meeting, so I thought you wouldn't mind
giving us an evening. My wife is not in town. She is a martyr to hay
fever, and has to fly from London to the sea early in May to escape.
If caught here in June nothing can save her. Tonight, as it happens,
you're our only guest, but my daughter is going to a musicale at Lady
de Winton's after dinner, so you and I will be free to soar into the
empyrean through a blaze of tobacco smoke."

Standing there, in that delightful drawing room, made welcome by a man
like Forbes, and admitted to a degree of charming intimacy by a girl
like Forbes's daughter, Theydon tried to believe that his meeting with
those ill-omened detectives at Waterloo Station was, in some sort, a
figment of the imagination.

But he was instantly and effectually brought back to a dour sense of
reality by Evelyn Forbes's next words. She, by chance, looked at
Theydon just as she had looked at him the previous night.

"Were you at Daly's Theater last night?" she inquired suddenly.

"Yes," he said. Then, finding there was no help for it, he went
on:----

"You and I have hit on the same discovery, Miss Forbes. We three stood
together at the exit. I was waiting for a taxi, and saw you get into
your car. Now you know just why I fell over the chair."

Forbes glanced up quickly.

"Don't tell me Tomlinson forgot to move that infernal chair again!" he
cried. "Really, I must get rid either of our butler or the Canaletto,
yet I prize both."

"Don't blame Tomlinson, Dad," laughed the girl. "If Mr. Theydon hadn't
made an unconventional entry we would have talked about the weather,
or something equally stupid."

At that moment Tomlinson himself, imperturbable and portly, announced
that dinner was served. The three descended the stairs, chatting
lightly about the musical comedy witnessed overnight. It was no new
revelation to Theydon that truth should prove stranger than fiction,
but the trite phrase was fast assuming a fresh and sinister personal
significance. He believed, and not without good reason, that no man
living had ever undergone an experience comparable with his present
adventure.

When he left that house he was going straight to two officers of the
law whose bounden duty it would become to call upon Mr. Forbes for a
full and true explanation of his visit to Mrs. Lester-- provided, that
is, he (Theydon) told them what he knew. Talk about a death's-head
grinning at a feast! At that bright dinner-table he was a prey to
keener emotion than ever shook a Borgia entertaining one whom he meant
to poison.

In sheer self-defense he talked with an animation he seldom displayed.
Evelyn was evidently much taken by him, and, fired by her manifest
interest, he indulged in fantastic paradox and wild flights of fancy.
Seemingly his exuberance stimulated Forbes, himself a well-informed
and epigrammatic talker.

An hour sped all too soon. The girl rose with a sigh.

"It's too bad that I should have to go," she said. "I shall be bored
stiff at Lady de Winton's. But I can't get out of it except by telling
a positive fib over the telephone. Dad, next time you ask Mr. Theydon
to dinner, please let me know in good time, and neither of you will be
rid of me so easily."

She shook hands with Theydon. While she was giving her father a
parting kiss the guest moved to the door and held it open. As she
passed out she smiled and her eyes said plainly:

"I like you. Come again soon."

Then she was gone and the pleasant room lost some of its glow and
color.

"Don't sit down again, Theydon," said Forbes, rising. "We'll have
coffee brought to my den. What is your favorite liqueur-- or shall we
tell Tomlinson to send along that decanter of port? It's a first-rate
wine. Another glass won't hurt you, or me, for that matter."

Theydon had hardly dared to touch the champagne supplied during the
meal. Abstemious at all times, because he found that wine or spirits
interfered with his capacity for work, he felt that a clear head and
steady nerves were called for that night more than any other night in
his life. Following the lead given by his host, therefore, he elected
for the port.

"You are right, too," said Forbes. "You remember Dr. Johnson's dictum:
'Claret is the liquor for boys; port for men; but he who aspires to be
a hero must drink brandy'? Tonight, not aspiring to the heroic, we'll
stick to port."

"It is a curious fact that on my return from Brooklands today I took a
glass of brandy," confessed Theydon. "I seldom, if ever, drink any
intoxicant before dining, but I needed a stimulant of a sort, and some
unknown tissue in me cried aloud for brandy."

He hoped vaguely that the comment would lead to something more
explicit, and thus bring him, without undue emphasis, so to speak, to
the one topic on which he was now resolved to obtain a decisive
statement from the man chiefly concerned before he faced the
representatives of Scotland Yard.

But Forbes, motioning to an easy chair in a well-appointed library,
and flinging himself into another, gave heed only to the one word--
Brooklands.

"Did you fly?" he asked.

"No. I was soaking in theory, not practice."

"Ah, theory. It would, indeed, seem to be true that folded away in
some convolution of our brain are the faculties of the fish and the
bird. Those latent powers are expanding daily. The submarine has
already gone far beyond the practical achievement of aerial craft. But
why, in the name of humanity, should every such development of man's
almost immeasurable resources be dedicated to warlike purposes? I am
sick at heart when I hear the first question put in these days to each
inventor: 'Can you enable us to kill more of our fellowmen than we can
kill with existing appliances?' Is it a new engine, a new amalgam of
metals, a new explosive, a new field of electrical energy, one hears
the same vulture's cry-- 'How many, how far, how safely can we slay?'
I regard this lust for destruction as contemptible. It is a strange
and ignominious feature of modern life. Forgive me, Mr. Theydon, if I
speak strongly on this matter. The men who spread the bounds of
science today are, nominally, at any rate, Christians. They tell of
peace and goodwill to all, yet prepare unceasingly for some awful
Armageddon.[*] We teach Christ's gospel in pulpit and schoolhouse,
strive to express it in our laws, obey it in our lives and social
relations, yet we are armed to the teeth and ever arming, adding
strength to the plates of our warships and distance to the range of
our guns, constantly riveting and welding and forging monsters which
shall shatter men and cities and States."

[*This story was written before the outbreak of war in 1914.]

It was not the younger man now who talked brilliantly and forcibly.
Theydon, frankly abandoning the effort to twist the conversation to
that enigma which, the more he saw and heard of Forbes the more
incredible it became, listened enthralled to one who spoke with the
conviction and earnestness of a prophet.

"Don't imagine that I am framing an indictment against Christianity,"
went on Forbes passionately. "The Sermon on the Mount inspires all
that is great and noble in our everyday existence, all that is
eternally beautiful in our dreams of the future. But why this din of
war, this smoke of arsenals, this marching and drilling of the world's
youth? Nature's law appears to have two simple clauses. It enforces a
principle in the struggle for existence, a test in the survival of the
fittest. Great heavens, are not these enough, without having our ears
deafened by powder and drumming? That is why I am devoting a good deal
of time and no small amount of money to an international crusade
against the warlike idea, and I see no reason why a beginning should
not be made with the airship and the airplane. We are too late with
the submarine, but, before the golden hour passes, let us stop the
navigation of the air from forming part of the equipment of murder.
Surely it can be done. England and the United States, Italy, France
and the rest of Europe-- the founts of civilization-- can write the
edict, with all the blazonry of their glorious histories to illuminate
the page-- There shall be no war in the air!'"

Theydon was carried away in spite of himself.

"You believe that the airship might develop along the unemotional
lines of the parcel post?" he inquired.

Forbes laughed.

"Exactly," he said. "I like your simile. No one suggests that we
Britons should endeavor to destroy our hated rivals by sending bombs
through the mails. Why, then, in the name of common sense, should the
first-- I might almost say the only use of which the airship is
commonly supposed capable-- be that of destruction? Don't you see the
instant result of a war-limiting ordinance of the kind I advocate?
Suppose the peoples and the rulers declared in their wisdom that
soldiers and war material should be contraband of the air-- and
suppose that airships do become vehicles of practical utility-- what a
farce would soon be all the grim fortresses, the guns, the giant steel
structures now designed as floating hells! Humanity has yet time to
declare that the flying machine shall be as harmless and serviceable
as the penny post. I believe it can be done. Come now, Mr. Theydon, I
think you've caught on to my scheme-- will you help?"

Help! Here was a man expounding a new evangel, which might, indeed, be
visionary and impracticable, but was none the less essentially noble
and Christian in spirit, yet Theydon was debating whether or not he
should give testimony which would bring to that very room a couple of
detectives whose first questions would make clear to Forbes that he
was suspected of blood-guiltiness!

The notion was so utterly repellent that Theydon sighed deeply; his
host not unnaturally looked surprised.

"Of course, such a revolutionary idea strikes you as outside the pale
of common sense," he began, but the younger man stayed him with a
gesture. Here was an opportunity that must not be allowed to pass. No
matter what the cost-- if he never saw Evelyn Forbes or her father
again-- he must dispel the waking nightmare which held him in such an
abnormal condition of uncertainty and foreboding.

"Now that your daughter is gone I may venture to speak plainly," he
said. "I told you that, I felt the need of a brandy and soda at
Waterloo. As a matter of fact, I did not leave the Brooklands track
until six o'clock, and, as Innesmore Mansions, where I live, lie
north, and I was due here at 7:30, I had my man meet me at the station
with a suitcase, meaning to change my clothes in the dressing room
there, and come straight here. Guess my astonishment when I found
Bates-- Bates is the name of my factotum-- in the company of two
strangers, whom he introduced as representing the Criminal
Investigation Department."

He paused. He had brought in his own address skilfully enough, and
kept his voice sufficiently under control that no tremor betrayed a
knowledge of Forbes's vital interest in any mention of that one block
of flats among the multitude.

Now, for the first time, Innesmore Mansions figured as his abode, the
correspondence which led to the dinner having centered in his club.
But not a flicker of eyelid nor twitch of mobile lips showed the
slightest concern on Forbes's part. Rather did he display at once a
well-bred astonishment on hearing Theydon's concluding words.

"Do you mean detectives from Scotland Yard?" he cried.

"Yes."

Forbes smiled, and commenced filling a pipe.

"Evidently they did not want you as a principal," he said.

His tone was genial, but slightly guarded. Theydon realized that this
man of great wealth and high social position had reminded himself that
his guest, though armed with the best of credentials, was quite
unknown to him otherwise, and that, perhaps, he had acted unwisely in
inviting a stranger to his house without making some preliminary
inquiry. This reversal of their roles was a conceit so ludicrous that
Theydon smiled too.

At any rate, he meant now to pursue an unpleasing task, and have done
with it.

"No," he said slowly. "It seems that I am the worst sort of witness in
a murder case. I may have heard, I may even have seen, the person
suspected of committing the crime, or, if that is going too far, the
person whom the police have good reason to regard as the last who saw
the poor victim alive and in ordinary conditions. But my testimony,
such as it is, is so slight and inconclusive that, of itself, no one
could hang a cat on it."

"Good gracious! That sounds interesting, though you have my sympathy.
It must be rather distressing to be mixed up in such an affair, even
indirectly."

Forbes struck precisely the right note of friendly inquiry. He wished
to hear more, and was at the same time relieved to find that Professor
Scarth had not introduced a notorious malefactor in the guise of a
young writer seeking material for an article on air-ships!

Theydon could have laughed aloud at this comedy of errors, but the
fact that at any moment it might develop into a tragedy exercises a
wholesome restraint.

"I happen to live at No. 18 Innesmore Mansions," he said. "Opposite--
on the same floor, I mean-- lives, or did live, a Mrs. Lester. I do
not--"

"Are you telling me that a Mrs. Lester of No. 17 Innesmore Mansions is
dead-- has been murdered?"

Forbes's voice rang out vibrant, incisive. His ordinarily pale face
had blanched, and his deep-set eyes blazed with the fire of some
fierce emotion, but, beyond the slight elevation of tone and the
change of expression, he revealed to Theydon's quietly watchful
scrutiny no sign of the terror or distress which an evildoer might be
expected to show on learning that the law's vengeance was already
shadowing him, even in so remote a way as was indicated by the
presence under his roof of a witness regarded by the police as an
important one.

"Yes!" stammered Theydon, quite taken aback by his companion's
vehemence. "Do you-- know the lady? If so-- I am sorry-- I spoke so
unguardedly--"

"Good heavens, man, don't apologize for that! I am not a child or
weakling, that I should flinch in horror from one of life's dramatic
surprises! But, are you sure of what you are saying? Mrs. Lester
murdered! When?"

"About midnight last night, the doctor believes. That is what Bates
told me. I was so shaken on hearing his news, which was confirmed by
the two detectives, that I really gave little heed to details.... She
was strangled-- a peculiarly atrocious thing where an attractive and
ladylike woman is concerned. I have never spoken to her, but have met
her at odd times on the stairs. I was immeasurably shocked, I assure
you. In fact, I was on the point of telegraphing an excuse to you for
this evening, but the Chief Inspector-- Winter, I think his name is--
said it would suffice for his purpose if I met him at my flat about
eleven o'clock, as he was engaged on other inquiries which would
occupy the intervening hours."

"But if the news of this dastardly crime only reached you tonight at
Waterloo Station, and you have no personal acquaintance with Mrs.
Lester, what evidence can you give that will assist the police?"

"Mrs. Lester received a visitor last night, an incident so unusual
that I, who heard him arrive, and Bates, who was in my sitting room
when we both heard him depart, commented on the strangeness of it.
That, I suppose, is the reason why I am in request by Scotland Yard."

"You say 'him.' How did you know it was a man? Did you see him?"

"Er-- that was impossible. We were in my flat, behind its closed door.
Bates and I deduced his sex from the sound of his footsteps."

Again Theydon nearly stammered. Events had certainly turned in the
most amazing way. Instead of carrying himself almost in the manner of
a judge, he was figuring rather as an unwilling witness in the hands
of a skilled and merciless cross-examining counsel.

"Did the police officers supply any theory of motive for the crime?
Was this poor woman killed for the sake of her few trinkets?"

By this time Theydon was stung into a species of revolt. It was he,
not Forbes, who should be snapping out searching questions.

"I regret to say that my nerves were not sufficiently under control at
Waterloo that I should listen carefully to each word," he said, almost
stiffly. "Bates had picked up such information as was available; but
he, though an ex-sergeant in the Army, was so upset as to be hardly
coherent. When I meet the detectives in the course of another hour I
shall probably gather something definite and reliable in the way of
details."

Forbes laid the pipe which he had filled but not lighted on the table.
He poured out a glass of port and drank it.

"Try that," he said, pushing the decanter toward Theydon. "They cannot
trouble you greatly. You have so little to tell."

"No, thanks. Nothing more for me tonight until the Scotland Yard men
have cleared out."

Forbes rose as he spoke and strode the length of the room and back
with the air of a man debating some weighty and difficult point.

"Mr. Theydon," he said, at last, halting in front of the younger man
and gazing down at him with a direct intensity that was highly
embarrassing to one who had good cause to connect him with the actual
crime. "I want you to do me a favor-- a great favor. It was in my mind
at first to ask you to permit me to go with you to Innesmore Mansions,
and to be present during the interview with the detectives. But a man
in my position must be circumspect. It would, perhaps, be unwise to
appear too openly interested. I don't mind telling you in confidence
that I have known Mrs. Lester many years. The shock of her death,
severe as it must have been to you, is slight as compared with my own
sorrow and dismay. More than that I dare not say until better
informed. I remember now hearing the newsboys shouting their ghoulish
news, and I saw contents bills making large type display of 'Murder of
a lady,' but little did I imagine that the victim was one whom-- one
whose loss I shall deplore.... Are you on the telephone?"

"Yes," said Theydon, thoroughly mystified anew by the announcement
that Forbes had even contemplated, or so much as hinted at, the
astounding imprudence of visiting Innesmore Mansions that night.

"Ring me up when the detectives have gone. I shall esteem your
assistance during this crisis as a real service."

For the life of him, Theydon could not frame the protest which ought
to have been made without delay and without hesitation.

"Yes," he said. "I'll do that. You can trust me absolutely."

Thus was he committed to secrecy. That promise sealed his lips.

  CHAPTER III

 IN THE TOILS

Theydon, though blessed, or cursed, with an active imagination-- which
must surely be the prime equipment of a novelist-- was shrewd and
level-headed in dealing with everyday affairs.

It was no small achievement that the son of a country rector, aided
only by a stout heart, a university education and an excellent
physique-- good recommendations, each and all, but forming the
stock-in-trade of many a man on whose subsequent career "failure" is
writ large-- should have forced himself to the front rank of the most
overcrowded among the professions before attaining his twenty-sixth
year.

It may be taken for granted, therefore, that he was not lacking in the
qualities of close observation and critical analysis. He would, for
instance, be readier than the majority of his fellows to note the
small beginnings of events destined to become important.

Often, of course, his deductions would prove erroneous, but the mere
fact that he habitually exercised his wits in such a way rendered it
equally certain that his judgment would be accurate sometimes. One
such occasion presented itself a few seconds after he had left the
Forbes mansion.

A taxi, summoned by a footman, was in waiting, and Theydon was
crossing the pavement when he noticed a gray landaulet car at rest
beneath the trees at some distance. Mr. Forbes's house stood in a
square, and the gray car had been drawn up on the quiet side of the
roadway, being stationed there, apparently, to await its owner's
behest. Gray cars are common enough in London, but they are usually of
the touring class.

Not often does one see a gray-painted landaulet; hence, the odd though
hardly remarkable fact occurred to Theydon that a precisely similar
gray automobile had occupied the center of the station yard at
Waterloo when he took a taxi from the rank.

Admittedly he was in a nervous and excited state. It could hardly be
otherwise after the strain of that astounding conversation with
Forbes, and there was no prospect of the tension being relaxed until
the close of the interview with the detectives, which he now regarded
as the worse ordeal of the two.

But this subconscious neurasthenia in no wise affected the reflex
action of his ordinary faculties. When, on leaving the square, and
while his cab was rattling along an aristocratic thoroughfare leading
to Knightsbridge, he peered through a tiny observation window in the
back of the vehicle, and ascertained that the gray car was stealing
along quietly about a hundred yards in the rear, he began to believe
that its presence both at Waterloo and outside Mr. Forbes's residence
could not be wholly accidental. When he had watched its persistent
treading on his heels along Piccadilly its intent became almost
unmistakable.

The route to Innesmore Mansions traversed some of London's main
arteries, but, despite the rush of traffic due to the first flight of
homewardbound playgoers, the gray car kept steadily on his track.
Amused at first, be became angry because of a notion which grew out of
the wonderment of finding himself the object of this persistent
espionage.

To make sure, and at the same time discover the sort of person who was
spying on him, he adopted a ruse. Leaning out, when about to cross
Oxford Street into Tottenham Court Road, he said to his driver: "Turn
sharp to the right in Store Street, and pull up. I'll tell you when to
go on again."

The man obeyed. Theydon posted himself at the outer window, and in a
space of time so short that the excellence of the gray car's
accelerator was amply demonstrated, the pursuer swung into sight. A
stolid-faced chauffeur at the wheel did not appear discomfited at
coming on his quarry thus unexpectedly. He whirled past, seemingly
quite oblivious of Theydon's fixed stare. Though the weather was mild
he wore an overcoat with upturned collar, so that between its
protecting flaps and a low-peaked cap his face was well hidden. Still,
Theydon received an impression of a curiously wooden physiognomy.

The man might have been an automaton for all the heed he gave to the
taxi or its inquisitive occupant. But his aspect was almost forgotten
in the far stranger discovery that the car was empty. Both windows
were open, and the bright lights of a corner shop flashed into the
interior, yet not a soul was visible. Moreover, the car sped on
unhesitatingly, stopping some two hundred yards ahead.

So far as Theydon could tell, no one alighted. He jotted down the
number-- XY 1314-- on his shirt cuff.

"Did you happen to see that car waiting near the house I came from?"
he said to the taxi man, who, of course, provided an interested
audience of one.

"Yes, sir," was the ready answer. "It's not a London car. I've never
seen them letters afore."

"In other words, it may be a faked number."

"Likely enough, sir, but rather risky. The police are quick at
spotting that sort of thing."

"Can you take a hand in the game? I want to know where that car goes
to."

The man grinned.

"I wouldn't like to humbug you, sir. That there machine can lose me
quicker'n a Derby winner could pass a keb horse. Didn't you hear the
hum of the engine as it went by?"

"Thanks. Now go ahead to Innesmore Mansions."

He was paying the driver when the gray car stole quietly past the end
of the street, and that was the last he saw of it.

"There it goes again, sir," said the man. "Tell you wot, gimme your
name an' address. I'll make a few inquiries, an' keep me eyes open as
well. Then, if I hear anythink, I'll let you know."

Theydon scribbled the number of his flat on a card.

"There you are," he said. "Even if I happen to be out, I'll leave
instructions that you are to be paid half a crown for your trouble if
you call. By the way, what is your name?"

"Evans, sir."

There was really little doubt in Theydon's mind as to the reason why
he had been followed. He was fuming about it when Bates met him in the
hall of No. 18 with the whisper:

"Them two are waiting here now, sir."

Theydon glanced at his watch. The hour was ten minutes past eleven.

"Sorry I'm late, gentlemen," he said, on entering the sitting room and
finding the detectives seated at his table, seemingly comparing notes,
because the Chief Inspector was talking, while Furneaux, the
diminutive, was glancing at a notebook.

"We have no reason to complain of being kept waiting a few minutes in
such comfortable quarters," said Winter pleasantly.

"O, I fancy I was detained by some zealous assistant of yours," said
Theydon, determined to carry the war into the enemy's territory.

At that Furneaux looked up quickly.

"Will you kindly tell me just what you mean, Mr. Theydon?" said
Winter.

"Why? Is it news to you that a gray limousine car stalked me from
Waterloo to-- to my friend's house, waited there three hours or more,
and has carefully escorted me home? I dislike that sort of thing.
Moreover, it strikes me as stupid. I didn't kill Mrs. Lester. It will
save you and me a good deal of time and worry if you accept that plain
statement as a fact."

"Won't you sit down?" said Winter quietly. "And-- may I smoke? I
didn't like to ask Bates for permission to light up in your absence."

Theydon was not to be outdone in coolness. He opened a corner cupboard
and produced various boxes.

"The cigars are genuine Havanas," he said. "A birthday present from a
maiden aunt, who is wise enough to judge the quality of tobacco by the
price. Here, too, are Virginian, Turkish and Egyptian cigarettes."

Winter inspected the cigars gravely.

"By Jove!" he cried, his big eyes bulging in joyous surprise. "Last
year's crop from the Don Juan y Guerrero plantation. Treasure that
aunt of yours, Mr. Theydon. None but herself can be her equal."

Theydon saw that the little man did not follow his chief's example.

"Don't you smoke?" he said.

"No, but if you'll not be horrified, I would like to smell one of
those Turks."

"Smell it?"

"Yes. That is the only way to enjoy the aroma and avoid nicotine
poisoning. My worthy chief dulls a sound intellect by the cigar habit.
What is worse, he excites a nervous system which is normally somewhat
bovine. You, also, I take it, are a confirmed smoker, so both of you
are at cross-purposes already."

Furneaux's voice was pitched in the curious piping note usually
associated with comic relief in a melodrama, but his wizened face was
solemn as a red Indian's. It was Theydon who smiled. His preconceived
ideas as to the appearance and demeanor of the London detective were
shattered. Really, there was no need to take these two seriously.

Winter, while lighting the cigar, grinned amiably at his colleague.
Furneaux passed a cigarette to and fro under his nostrils and sniffed.
Theydon reached for a pipe and tobacco jar and drew up a chair.

"Well," he said, "it is not my business to criticise your methods. I
have very little to tell you. I suppose Bates--"

"The really important thing is this car which followed you tonight,"
broke in Winter. "The details are fresh in your memory. What type of
car was it? Did you see the driver and occupants? What's its number?"

Theydon had not expected these questions. He looked his astonishment.

"Ha!" cackled Furneaux. "What did I tell you?"

"O, shut up!" growled Winter. "I am asking just what you yourself are
itching to know."

"May I take it that the car has not been dogging me by your
instructions?" said Theydon. He was inclined to be skeptical, yet the
Chief Inspector seemed to have spoken quite candidly.

"Yes," said Winter, meeting the other's glance squarely. "We have no
reason on earth to doubt the truth of anything you have said, or may
say, with regard to this inquiry. The car is not ours. This is the
first we have heard of it. We accepted your word, Mr. Theydon, that
you were dining with a friend. Perhaps you will tell us now what his
name is and where he lives."

Theydon hesitated the fraction of a second. That, he knew instantly,
was a blunder, so he proceeded to rectify it.

"I was dining with Mr. James Creighton Forbes, of No. 11, Fortescue
Square," be said. "Probably you are acquainted with his name, so you
will realize that if my evidence proves of the slightest value I would
not like any reference to be made to the fact that I was his guest
tonight."

"I don't see how that can possibly enter into the matter, except in
its bearing on this mysterious car."

Though Winter was taking the lead, Theydon was aware that Furneaux,
who had given him scant attention hitherto, was now looking at him
fixedly. He imagined that the queer little man was all agog to learn
something about the automobile which had thrust itself so abruptly
into the affair.

"Exactly," he agreed. "I visited Mr. Forbes tonight for the first
time. We are mutually interested in aviation. That is why I went to
Brooklands today, and the invitation to dinner was the outcome of a
letter of introduction given me by Professor Scarth."

Then, thinking he had said enough on that point, he described the gray
car and its stolid-faced chauffeur to the best of his ability. He told
of the brief chat with the taxi driver and its result.

"Good!" nodded Winter. "I'm glad you did that. It may help. I am
doubtful of any information turning up, but you never can tell. The
number plate, at any rate, is certainly misleading. Now, about last
night? Try and be as accurate as possible with regard to time. Can you
give us the exact hour when you returned home?"

"I happened to note by the clock on the mantelpiece that I came in at
11:35."

Winter compared the clock's time with his watch.

"You had been to a theater?" he said.

"Yes-- Daly's."

"It was raining heavily. Did you take a cab?"

"Yes."

"Were you delayed? The piece ended at 11:05."

"My cab met with a slight accident."

"What sort of accident?"

Theydon explained.

"In all likelihood you can discover the driver," he smiled, "and he
will establish my alibi."

His tone seemed to annoy Furneaux, who broke in:

"Don't you write novels?"

"Yes."

"Sensational?"

"Occasionally."

"Then you ought to be tickled to death, as the Americans say, at being
mixed up in a first-rate murder. This is no ordinary crime. Several
people will be older and wiser before the culprit is found and
hanged."

"What Mr. Furneaux has in mind," purred Winter cheerfully, "is the
curious habit of some witnesses when questioned by the police. They
arm themselves against attack, as it were. You see, Mr. Theydon, we
suspect nobody. We try to ascertain facts, and hope to deduce a theory
from them. Over and over again we are mistaken. We are no more astute
than other men. Our sole advantage is a wide experience of criminal
methods. The detective of romance-- if you'll forgive the allusion--
simply doesn't exist in real life."

"I accept the rebuke," said Theydon. "I suppose the gray car was still
rankling in my mind. From this moment I start afresh. At any rate, the
man who brought me from the theater might check my recollection of the
time."

Winter nodded. He was evidently pleased that Theydon was inclined to
share his view of the difficulties Scotland Yard encountered in its
fight against malefactors.

"Did you see or meet any one in particular while your car approached
these mansions, or when you ascended the stairs?"

"No," said Theydon.

He perceived intuitively that if the detectives found the driver of
the taxi which brought him from the theater it was possible the man
might have noticed Forbes, who had certainly been scrutinized a few
minutes later by a policeman, so he hastened to add:

"You said 'any one in particular.' I did see a tall, well-dressed
gentleman at the corner of the street, but there is nothing remarkable
in that."

"Which way was he heading?"

"In this direction."

"Then it is conceivable that he might be the man who called on Mrs.
Lester?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you pretty sure he was the man?"

Theydon permitted himself to look astonished.

"I?" he said. "How can I be sure? If you mean that, judging from the
interval of time between my seeing him at the corner and the sound of
footsteps on the stairs, followed by the opening of the door at No.
17, it could be he, I accept that."

Winter nodded again. Apparently he was content with Theydon's
correction.

"As the weather was bad, you probably hurried in when your cab
stopped?" he said.

"That is equivalent to saying you credit me with sense enough to get
in out of the wet," smiled Theydon.

"Just so. And you wore an overcoat, which you removed on entering your
hall?"

"Yes," and Theydon's tone showed a certain bewilderment at these
trivialities.

"Then if you paid no special heed to the movements of the tall
gentleman you have mentioned, why did you open one of these windows
and look out soon after Bates went to the post?"

Theydon flushed like a schoolboy caught by a master under
circumstances which youth generally describes as "a clean cop."

"How on earth do you know I looked out?" he almost gasped.

"I'll tell you willingly. The discovery was Mr. Furneaux's, not mine.
When we came here this morning, and ascertained that you had been out
at a late hour last night, we asked your man if he could enlighten us
as to your movements. He did so. To the best of his belief you dined
at a club, and occupied a stall at Daly's Theater subsequently. He was
sure, too, you had not walked home through the rain, so it was easy to
draw the conclusion that you returned in a covered vehicle. Mr.
Furneaux requested Bates to produce the clothes you had worn, which,
owing to the uproar created by the news of the murder, had not been
brushed and put away. As a consequence the silk collar and part of the
back of your dress-coat bore the marks of raindrops. How had they got
there? The only logical deduction was that you had thrust your head
and shoulders through a window, and the time of the action is
established almost beyond doubt, because you had changed the coat when
Bates came from the pillar-box. It was either directly after you came
in, or while Bates was absent. Of course you may have looked out
twice. Did you? Whether once or twice, why did you do it?"

Theydon's feelings changed rapidly while Winter was delivering this
very convincing analysis of a few simple facts. He had passed at a
bound from the detected schoolboy stage to that of a man forcing his
way through a thicket who finds himself on the very lip of a
precipice.

He remembered hazily that Bates had said something at Waterloo with
regard to the manner in which the detectives, especially Furneaux, had
questioned him. But it was too late to apply the warning thus
conveyed. If he faltered now he was forever discredited. These men
would read his perplexed face as if it were a printed page. In his
distress be was prepared to hear Winter or that little satyr,
Furneaux, say mockingly:

"Why are you trying to screen James Creighton Forbes? What is he to
you? What matter his fame or social rank? We are here to see that
justice is done. Out with the truth, let who may suffer."

But neither of the pair said anything of the sort. Furneaux only
interjected a sarcastic comment.

"You will observe, Mr. Theydon, that even in a minor instance of
deductive reasoning, such as this, the man who smells rather than the
man who smokes tobacco solves the problem promptly."

Theydon threw out his hands in token of surrender. He thought he saw a
means of escape, and took it unhesitatingly.

"I'm vanquished," he said. "You force me to admit that I do know a
little, a very little, more than I have confessed hitherto about the
man who visited Mrs. Lester's flat last night. I have said nothing
about the matter thus far because I didn't want to be convicted of a
piece of idle curiosity worthy of a gossip-loving housemaid. I noticed
the man I have described staring at the name tablet of the street as
my cab turned the corner. I did not know him. I had never seen him
before last night, but he was of such distinguished appearance and his
face was of so rare a type that I was interested and wished to
ascertain, if possible, on whom he meant calling if, as it seemed, he
was searching for an address in these flats. Therefore, I did look
out, and saw him enter the doorway beneath. In due course I heard him
arrive at Mrs. Lester's door-- that is, I assume it was he. Five
minutes later Bates and I heard him depart. To make sure, I looked out
a second time. If you ask me why I behaved in that way I cannot tell
you. I have occupied this flat during the past five months, and I have
never previously, within my recollection, lifted a window and gazed
out to watch anybody's comings and goings. The thing is inexplicable.
All I can say is that it just happened."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"Yes."

Theydon gave the assurance readily. It was beyond credence that either
detective should put the one question to which he was now firmly
resolved to give a misleading answer, and in this belief he was
justified, since not even Furneaux's uncanny intelligence could
suggest the fantastic notion that the man who walked through the rain
the previous night and the man with whom Theydon had dined that
evening were one and the same person.

"I don't blame you for adopting a policy of partial concealment," said
the Chief Inspector, spryly. "You are not the first, and you certainly
will not be the last witness from whom the police have to drag the
facts. Now that we have reached more intimate terms, can you help by
describing this stranger?"

Theydon complied at once. He drew just such a general sketch of Forbes
as a skilled observer of men might be expected to formulate after one
direct glance close at hand, supplemented by a view into a lamp-lit
street from a second-storey window on a rainy night.

"So far, so good," said Winter. "You have contrived to fill in several
details lacking in the description supplied by a policeman who chanced
to be standing at the corner when Mrs. Lester's visitor posted a
letter. Did you notice that?"

"Yes. Indeed, I believed that, whether intentionally or not, he held
an open umbrella at an angle which prevented the constable from seeing
his face."

"In fact, it's marvellous what you really do know when your memory is
jogged," snapped Furneaux.

Theydon did not resent the sarcasm. He smiled candidly into the little
detective's eyes.

"I suppose I deserve that," he said meekly.

"Why did you hide your knowledge of Mrs. Lester's visitor from your
man Bates?"

"I was rather ashamed of the subterfuge adopted in order to get him
out of the room while I opened the window the first time."

"That was understandable last night, but I fail to follow your
reasoning for a policy of silence when we told you at Waterloo that
Mrs. Lester had been killed."

"I was utterly taken aback by your news. I wanted time to think. I
never meant to hide any material fact at this interview."

"You have contrived to delay and hamper our inquiry for twelve hours--
twenty-four in reality. I can't make you out, Mr. Theydon. You would
never have said a word about your very accurate acquaintance with this
mysterious stranger's appearance had not last night's rainstorm left
its legible record on your clothes. Do you now vouch for it that the
man was completely unknown to you?"

"You are pleased to be severe, Mr. Furneaux, but, having placed myself
in a false position, I must accept your strictures. I assure you, on
my honor, that the man I saw was an absolute stranger."

Happily, Theydon was under no compulsion to choose his words. He met
the detective's searching gaze unflinchingly. Fate, after terrifying
him, had been kind. If Furneaux had expressed himself differently--
if, for instance, he had said: "Had you ever before seen the man?" or
"Have you now any reason for believing that you know his name?"-- he
would have forced Theydon's hand in a way he was far from suspecting.

"It may surprise you to hear," piped the shrill, cracked voice, "that
there are dozens of policemen walking about London who would arrest
you on suspicion had you treated them as you have treated us."

"Then I can only say that I am fortunate in my inquisitors," smiled
Theydon.

Winter held up a massive fist in deprecation of these acerbities.

"You have nothing more to tell us?" he queried.

"Nothing!"

"Then we need not trouble you further tonight. Of course, if luck
favors us and we find the gentleman with the classical features-- the
most unlikely person to commit a murder I have ever heard of-- we
shall want you to identify him."

"I am at your service at any time. But before you go won't you
enlighten me somewhat? What did really happen? I have not even seen a
newspaper account of the crime."

"Would you care to examine No. 17?"

It was Furneaux who put the question, and Theydon was genuinely
astonished.

"Do you mean--" he began, but Furneaux laughed, almost savagely.

"I mean Mrs. Lester's flat," he said. "The poor woman's body is at the
mortuary. If you come with us we can reconstruct the crime. It
occurred about this very hour if the doctor's calculations are well
founded."

Theydon rose.

"I shall be most-- interested," he said. "By the way, Mr. Furneaux,
yours is a French name. Are you a Frenchman, may I ask?"

"A Jersey man. You think I am adopting some of the methods of the
French juge d'instruction, eh?"

"No. I cannot bring myself to believe that you regard me as a
murderer."

The three passed out into the hall. Mr. and Mrs. Bates immediately
showed scared faces at the kitchen door.

"It's all right, Bates," said Theydon airily. "I'm not a prisoner.
I'll be with you again in a few minutes."

But Bates was profoundly disturbed.

"Wot beats me," he said to his wife when they were alone, "is why that
little ferret wanted to see the guv'nor's clothes. I looked 'em over
carefully afterwards, an' there wasn't a speck on 'em except some
spots of rain on the coat collar. It's a queer business, no matter how
you look at it. Mr. Theydon's manner was strange when he kem in last
night. He seemed to be list'nin' for something. I don't know wot to
make of it, Eliza. I reely don't."

In effect, since no man is a hero to his valet, what would Tomlinson,
butler at No. 11 Fortescue Square, have thought of his master if told
that Mrs. Lester's last known visitor was James Creighton Forbes?

  CHAPTER IV

 A TELEPHONIC TALK AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

Theydon's journalistic experiences had been, for the most part, those
of the "special correspondent," or descriptive writer. He had never
entered one of those fetid slums of a great city in which, too often,
murder is done, never sickened with the physical nausea of death in
its most revolting aspect, when some unhappy wretch's foul body serves
only to further pollute air already vile.

It was passing strange, therefore, that Winter had no sooner opened
the door of No. 17 than the novice of the party became aware of a
heavy, pungent scent which he associated with some affrighting and
unclean thing. At first he swept aside the phantasy. Strong as he was,
his nervous system had been subjected to severe strain that evening.
He knew well that the mind can create its own specters, that the five
senses can be subjugated by forces which science has not as yet either
measured or defined.

Moreover, he was standing in a hall furnished with a taste and quiet
elegance that must surely indicate similar features in each room of a
suite which, in other respects, bore an almost exact resemblance of
his own apartments. In sheer protest against the riot of an
overwrought imagination he brushed a hand across his eyes.

The chief inspector noted the action.

"You will find nothing grewsome here, I assure you," he said, quietly.
"Beyond a few signs of hurried rummaging of drawers and boxes there is
absolutely no indication of a crime having been committed."

"Mr. Theydon came prepared to see ghosts," squeaked Furneaux.
"Evidently he is not acquainted with the peculiar smell of a joss
stick."

Theydon turned troubled eyes on the wizened little man who seemed to
have the power of reading his secret thought.

"A joss stick," he repeated. "Isn't that some sort of incense used by
Chinese in their temples?"

"Yes," said Furneaux.

"Lots of ladies burn them in their boudoirs nowadays," explained
Winter offhandedly.

"The Chinese burn them to propitiate evil spirits," murmured Furneaux.
"The Taou gods are mostly deities of a very unpleasant frame of mind.
The mere scowl of one of them from a painted fan suggests novel and
painful forms of torture. I've seen Shang Ti grinning at me from a
porcelain vase, otherwise exquisite, and felt my hair rising."

"I do wish you wouldn't talk nonsense, Charles," said Winter, frowning
heavily.

"Am I talking nonsense, Mr. Theydon?" demanded Furneaux. "Didn't your
flesh creep when that queer perfume assailed your nostrils, which are
not yet altogether atrophied by the reek of thousands of rank cigars?"

"Stop it!" commanded Winter, throwing open a door.

"And they christened him Leander-- Leander, who swam the Hellespont
for love of a woman!" muttered Furneaux.

Theydon began to believe that both detectives were cranks of the first
order. Furneaux, whose extraordinary insight he actually feared, was
obviously an excellent example of the alliance between insanity and
genius. In a word, he failed, and not unreasonably, to understand that
when the Jersey man was mouthing a strange jargon of knowledge and
incoherence, and Winter was inclined to be snappy with his
subordinate, and each was more than rude to the other, they were then
giving tongue like hounds hot on the trail.

Winter's Christian names were James Leander, the latter being
conferred for no more classical reason than his father's association
with a famous boating club, but the fact supplied Furneaux with
material for many a quip. These things Theydon learnt later. At
present he was giving all his attention to Winter, who led the way
into a dainty furnished bedroom. The electric lights were governed by
two switches. A pair of lamps occupied the usual place in front of a
dressing table; a third was suspended from a canopy over the bed, and
was controlled also by an alternate switch behind the bolster. Winter
turned on all three lights, so the room was brilliantly illuminated.

Any place less likely to become the scene of a brutal crime could
hardly be imagined. It looked exactly what it was, the bedchamber of a
refined and well-bred woman, whose trained sense of color and design
was shown by the harmony of carpet, rugs, wall paper and furniture.

Winter pointed to a slight depression on the side of the bed. A white
linen coverlet was rumpled as though some one had sat there.

"That is where Ann Rogers, the maid, found her mistress at ten o'clock
this morning," he said. "As you see, the bed had not been slept in.
Indeed, Mrs. Lester was fully dressed. My belief is that she was
pounced on the instant she entered the room-- probably to retire for
the night-- strangled before she could utter a sound, and flung here
when dead."

Again Theydon was aware of the subtle, penetrating, and not wholly
unpleasing scent which Furneaux had attributed to the burning of a
joss stick, but his mind was focused on the detective's words, which
suggested a queer discrepancy between certain vague possibilities
already flitting through his brain and the terrible drama as it
presented itself to a skilled criminologist.

"But," he said, almost protestingly, "from what I have seen of Mrs.
Lester she was a strong and active woman. It is inconceivable that the
man who came here last night could have murdered her while I was
writing two brief notes. I am positive he did not remain five minutes,
and Bates or I, or both of us, must have heard some trampling of feet,
some indications of a struggle. Moreover, you think she was about to
retire. Doesn't that opinion conflict with the known facts?"

"What known facts?"

"Well-- or-- those I have mentioned. The brief visit, the open nature
of the arrival and departure, the posting of a letter, which, by the
way, may have been written in his presence."

"It was."

Theydon positively jumped. He would not be surprised now if Forbes's
name came out.

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"Mrs. Lester wrote to an aunt in Oxfordshire, a lady who lives in the
village of Iffley, near the first lock on the Thames below Oxford. As
it happened, this aunt, a Miss Beale, was lunching with a friend in
Oxford today, and some one showed her an early edition of a London
evening newspaper containing an account of the murder. Instead of
yielding to hysteria, and passing from one fainting fit into another,
Miss Beale had the rare good sense to go straight to the police
station. One of our men has interviewed her this evening, and she is
coming here tomorrow, but in the meantime the Oxford police telephoned
the gist of the letter, which is headed 'Monday, 11:30 p. m.' The hour
is not quite accurate, but near enough, since the context shows that a
'friend' had just called and given certain information which had
determined the writer to leave London 'to-morrow'-- meaning today--
'or Wednesday at latest.' So you see, Mr. Theydon, if the unknown is
an honest man, he will soon hear of the hue and cry raised by the
murder, and declare himself to the police. Indeed, for all I know, he
may have reported himself to the Yard already. In that event you will
probably meet him again quite soon."

An electric bell jarred at the end of the main passage. It smote on
their ears with the loud emphasis of a pistol shot. Even the
detectives were startled, and Winter said, in a tone of distinct
annoyance:

"Go and see who the deuce that is, Furneaux."

Furneaux returned promptly with Bates, pallid and apologetic.

"Beg pardon, sir," said the intruder, addressing Theydon, but allowing
his eyes to roam furtively about the room as though he expected to see
something ghoul-like and sinister, "Mr. Forbes has rung up--"

Theydon's voice literally quavered. For the first time in his life he
knew why a woman shrieks in the stress of sudden excitement.

"Tell Mr. Forbes I am still engaged with the gentlemen from Scotland
Yard," he gasped. "I'll give him a call the moment I'm free. He will
understand. Anyhow, I can't explain further now."

"Yes, sir," and Bates disappeared.

"Mr. Forbes? The gentleman you were dining with?" inquired Winter.

"Yes," said Theydon. He knew he ought to add something by way of
explanation, but his heart was thumping madly, and he dared not trust
his voice.

"You told him, I suppose, that Scotland Yard was worrying you, and he
wants to know the result?"

Then Theydon saw an avenue of escape, and took it eagerly.

"I spoke of the murder, of course," he said, "but Mr. Forbes was
hardly interested. He had seen the newspaper placards, and that was
all he knew of it. The truth is, he is wholly wrapped up in a scheme
for reforming mankind by excluding airships and aeroplanes from
warlike operations, and found me a somewhat preoccupied listener. He
wants my help, such as it is, and I have no doubt the present call is
a preliminary to another meeting tomorrow."

"Why not go to him? We'll wait. We can do nothing more tonight after
leaving here."

"Speaking candidly, I am not in a mood to discuss such visionary
projects. I shall be glad if Mr. Forbes has gone to bed when I do ring
him up."

Winter shook his head.

"Excuse me, Mr. Theydon, but I am older than you, and may 'venture on
advice,'" he said. "A writer who has his way to make in the world
cannot afford to slight a man of Mr. Forbes's standing. Go to him at
once. It will please him. Don't hurry."

Theydon realized that a continued refusal would certainly set
Furneaux's wits at work, and he dreaded the outcome. He went without
another word. When the outer door had closed behind him Winter turned
to Furneaux.

"Well?" he said.

For answer Furneaux waved a hand and tiptoed into the hall. Waiting
until he heard the door of No. 18 slam he opened the latch of No. 17
so cautiously that no sound was forthcoming. Soon he had an ear to
Theydon's letter box and was following attentively a one-sided
conversation.

Now, Theydon had thought hard during the few strides from one flat to
the other. His telephone was fixed close to the party wall dividing
the two sets of apartments and he was not certain that, in the
absolute quietude prevailing in Innesmore Mansions at that late hour,
a voice could not be overheard. True, he did not count on Furneaux
playing the eavesdropper at the slit of the letter box, but he
resolved to take no risks and say nothing that any one could make
capital of.

So, when he had asked the exchange to reconnect him with the caller
who had just rung up, and he was put through, this is what Furneaux
heard:

"That you, Mr. Forbes. Sorry I sent my man just now with a message
that must leave sounded rather curt, but the Scotland Yard people
kindly excused me, so I can give you a minute or two.... No, I'm
sorry, but I cannot come to luncheon tomorrow, nor go to Brooklands
again this week. You see, this dreadful murder which I spoke of will
necessitate my presence at an inquest, and the police seem to attach
much significance to the visit to Mrs. Lester last night of a man whom
I saw in the street, and whom Bates and I heard entering and leaving
the poor lady's flat.... Bates? O, he is my general factotum. He and
his wife keep house for me. . . . Yes, I'll gladly let you know the
earliest date when I'll be free. Then you and I can go into the flying
proposition thoroughly.... No. The detectives have apparently not got
any clew to the murderer, nor even discovered any motive for the
crime. They have taken me into No. 17. In fact, I was there when your
call was made.... The murderer ransacked the place thoroughly, but did
not touch money or jewelry, I understand. The only peculiar thing, if
I may so describe it, about the place, is the scent of a burnt joss
stick. It clings to the passage and the bedroom in which the body was
found.. . . Ah, by the way, Mrs. Lester wrote a letter, which her
visitor posted, and the addressee, her aunt, is in communication with
the police. The text tends to clear the man of suspicion.... Yes, if,
by chance, I find myself at liberty tomorrow, I'll 'phone you at your
city office. I'll find the number in the directory, of course?... O,
thanks-- I'll jot it down-- 00400 Bank.... Goodnight! Too bad that
this wretched affair should interfere with our crusade, which, the
more I think of it, the stronger it appeals. Au revoir, then."

In reality, Forbes had not said one word about his peace propaganda,
but he had evidently been quick to realize that Theydon was purposely
giving their talk a twist in that direction. A muttered "I
understand-- perfectly," showed this, and he did not strive to conceal
the alarm which possessed him when Theydon spoke of the joss stick. He
murmured distinctly, "Great Heavens! Then I was not mistaken," and
again voiced his distress on hearing of the letter.

But he made matters easy by pressing Theydon to come and see him on
the morrow, either at his office in Old Broad Street or at his
residence. On the whole, Theydon did not care who heard what he had
said, but it was a relief to find that he had to ring for readmission
to No. 17.

Furneaux opened the door.

"You soon got rid of your friend, then?" said the detective, while
they were on the way to rejoin Winter.

"Yes. It was just what I imagined-- a pressing invitation to plunge
forthwith into Mr. Forbes's project for the regeneration of mankind. I
had to tell him frankly that you gentlemen had first claim on me. I
suppose I shall be wanted at the inquest?"

"Not tomorrow. The coroner will hear the medical evidence, and that of
Ann Rogers, if she is in a condition to appear, and there will be an
adjournment for a week."

"Ah, that reminds me. Didn't Mrs. Lester's servant admit the visitor
last night?"

Theydon put the question advisedly. He was calmer now, and had made up
his mind as to the course he should pursue. Although he had assured
Winter that he would recognize the stranger if confronted with him,
and, if Forbes was brought into the inquiry, the admission might prove
awkward, he meant to say that he had, indeed, noticed a remarkable
resemblance in the millionaire to the man he had seen looking up at
the name tablet on the corner, but felt that the likeness was only one
of those singular coincidences which abound in a cosmopolitan city.

The smartest cross-examiner at the bar could not shake him if he took
that stand. The sheer improbability of Forbes being the mysterious
visitor would justify his attitude, and the notion was so consoling
that he faced the two detectives with new confidence and a
self-possession that was exceedingly pleasant when compared, with his
earlier embarrassment.

"No," said Winter. "By a most remarkable chance, Ann Rogers was given
leave to spend the night with her father, who lives in Camden Town. He
is an old man and was taken ill last evening. He believes he asked
some one to telegraph to his daughter, asking her to come to him. She
certainly received a telegram and as certainly did visit him. Of
course, that phase of the affair will be cleared up thoroughly, but
the main facts are indisputable. Ann Rogers has her own latchkey. As
Mrs. Lester usually sat up late, being a lover of books, and seldom
stirred before ten o'clock, the maid waited until that hour before
bringing her mistress's cup of tea. That stain on the carpet near the
door shows where the tray fell from her hands."

Sometimes an artist obtains the strongest effect by one deft sweep of
the brush. Winter, though he would have blushed if described as an
artist in words, had achieved a similar result by his concluding
sentence. Theydon pictured the scene. He saw the limp form thrown
across the bed, the distorted face, the hands and arms posed
grotesquely.

He heard the shrill scream of the terrified servant, an elderly woman
whom Bates described as "a quiet body," and could imagine the clatter
of the laden tray as it dropped from nerveless fingers. A sort of fury
rose within him. Mrs. Lester had been done to death in a horrible and
insensate way, and no matter who suffered, be he millionaire or
pauper, the wretch who committed the crime should be made to pay the
penalty of the law.

In that moment he forgot Evelyn Forbes, and thought only of the fair
and gracious woman whose agonized spirit had taken flight under the
compulsion of the tiger grip of some human brute now moving among his
fellow-creatures unknown and unsuspected. It was inconceivable that
Forbes should be guilty, but why should he not avow his acquaintance
with the victim, and thus aid the police in their quest?

He glowered savagely at the telltale stain, and vowed to rid his
conscience of an incubus. He would wait till the morrow and force
Forbes to come out into the open. Otherwise--

"You wish you had the murderer here now?"

Furneaux spoke softly, and with no trace of his wonted irony, but
Theydon was aware that once more the little detective had peered into
his very soul.

"Yes," he said, and there was a new gravity in his tone. "I do wish
that. I have never before been brought in contact with a crime of this
magnitude. It conveys a sort of personal responsibility. To think that
I was in my room, reading about aviation, while a woman's life was
being choked out of her within a few feet of where I was seated! O, it
is monstrous! Let me tell you two, here and now, that if I can do
anything to bring Mrs. Lester's slayer to justice, you can count on
me, no matter what the cost."

"I'm sure you mean what you say, Mr. Theydon," said Winter soothingly.
"Well, I suppose we can do no more tonight. I have little else to tell
you--"

"The skull-- the ivory skull!" put in Furneaux.

For an instant an expression of annoyance flitted across the chief
inspector's good-humored face. Theydon did not see it, because
Furneaux's odd-sounding words caused him to look with astonishment at
the man who uttered them.

"An ivory skull!" he cried. "What has an ivory skull to do with the
murder of Mrs. Lester?"

"We cannot even begin to guess at its meaning yet," said Winter, who,
after one fierce glance at his colleague, had recovered his poise.
"That is why I did not mention it. I hate the introduction of bizarre
features into an inquiry of this sort. But, now that the thing has
been spoken of, I may as well state that when the medical examination
was being made at the mortuary a tiny skull, not bigger than a pea,
and made of ivory, was found inside Mrs. Lester's underbodice. The
curious fact is that it was loose. Had it been attached to a cord, or
secured in some way, one might regard it as a charm or amulet, because
some women, even in the London of today, are not beyond the reach of
superstition in such matters. But, as I say, it was not safeguarded at
all, so we may reasonably assume that it was not carried habitually.
Of course, Furneaux readily evolved a far-fetched theory that it is a
sign, or symbol, and was thrust out of sight among the clothing on the
dead woman's breast by the man who killed her. But that is idle
guesswork. We of the Yard seldom pay heed to theatrical notions of
that kind. Here is the article. I don't mind letting you see it, but
kindly remember that its existence must not be made known. I must have
your promise not to mention it to a living creature."

Furneaux chuckled derisively.

"That is precisely the sort of thing anybody would say who attached no
importance to the exhibit," he piped.

Winter so nearly lost his temper that he repressed the retort on his
lips. He contented himself, however, with producing a small white
object from his waistcoat pocket, and handed it to Theydon. It was a
bit of ivory, hollow, and very light, and fashioned as a skull.

Yet, it was by no means an ordinary creation. The artist who fashioned
it had gratified a morbid taste by imparting to the eyeless sockets
and close-set rows of teeth a malign and threatening grin. Wickedness,
not death, was suggested, but the craftsmanship was faultless. A
collector would have paid a large sum for it, while the average
citizen would refuse to have it in his house.

"What an extraordinary thing," said Theydon, turning the curio round
and round in his fingers.

"It's wonderfully well carved," agreed Winter.

"From that point of view it's a masterpiece, but what I meant was the
astounding fact that it should have been discovered on the dead
woman's body. Was it placed over her heart?"

"Why do you ask that?" came the sharp demand.

"Because-- if it is a token of some vendetta-- if the murderer wished
to signify that he had glutted his vengeance--"

"O, you're as bad as Furneaux," cried Winter impatiently. "Give it to
me. I must be off. The hour is long past midnight and I have a busy
day before me tomorrow."

Back in the seclusion of his own rooms, Theydon debated the question
whether or not he should endeavor to communicate with Forbes again
that night. Somehow it seemed to him that Forbes would be most
concerned at hearing of the gray car. And what of the ivory skull?

Suppose he knew of that! But a certain revulsion of feeling had come
over Theydon since the sheer brutality of the murder had been
revealed. He failed to see now why he should be so solicitous for
Forbes's welfare. No matter what private purpose the man might serve
by concealing his visit to Mrs. Lester, it ought to give way before
the paramount importance of tracking a pitiless and callous criminal.

So Theydon hardened his heart and went to bed, and, being sound in
mind and constitution, slept like a just man wearied. Nevertheless,
the last thing he saw before the curtain fell on his tired brain was
an ivory skull dancing in the darkness.

Greatly as the many problems attached to Mrs. Lester's death
bewildered him, he would have been even more perplexed if he had
overheard the conversation between Winter and Furneaux when they
entered a taxi and gave Scotland Yard as their destination.

"Look here, Charles," began Winter firmly; but the other stayed him
with a clutch of thin, nervous fingers on an arm strong enough to fell
an ox.

"Listen first, James-- lecture me afterward," pleaded Furneaux. "I
can't help yielding to impulse. And why should I strive to help it,
anyhow? How often has impulse led me to the goal when by every known
rule of evidence I was completely beaten? That is my plea. That is why
I brought that young fellow into No. 17, and watched the story of the
tragedy reshaping itself in his imagination. That is why, too, I spoke
of the ivory skull. Think what it means to one with the writer's
temperament. The skull will never leave his mind's eye. It will focus
and control his thoughts and actions. And I feel it in my bones that
only by keeping in touch with Mr. Francis Theydon shall we solve the
Innesmore Mansions mystery. I can't explain why I think this, no more
than the receiver of a wireless message can account for the waves of
energy it picks up from the void and transmutes into the ordered
sequences of the Morse code. All I know is that when I am near him I
am, as the children say, 'warm,' and when away from him, 'cold.' While
he was examining the skull I was positively 'hot,' and was half
inclined to treat him as a thought transference medium and order him
sternly to speak.... No. Be calm! I even bid you be honest. When have
you, ever before, admitted an outsider to your councils? And, if you
make an exception of Theydon, why are you doing it?"

Winter bit the end off a cigar with a vicious jerk of his round head.
He struck a match and created such a volume of smoke that Furneaux
coughed affectedly.

"The real clew," he said at last, "rests with the gray car. What did
you make of that?"

"That, my bulky friend, will figure in my memory as a reproach for
many a year. When, if ever, I am tempted to preen myself on some
peculiarly close piece of ratiocinative reasoning, I shall say:
'Little man, pigmy, remember the gray car.'"

"You think that some one had the impudence to follow us, watch us in
Waterloo, and take up Theydon's trail when we had revealed it?"

"A-ha. It touched you, too, did it?"

"But why?"

"The some one in question wants to know that."

"You mean they are anxious to find out what we are doing?"

"Exactly."

Winter laughed cheerfully.

"Before long I shall begin to enjoy this hunt, Charles. I like to find
originality in a felon. It varies the routine. At any rate, it is
something new that you and I should be shadowed by the very people we
are in pursuit of-- O, I was nearly forgetting. Anything fresh in that
telephone talk?"

"It seemed all right."

"Seemed?"

"Well, it was too straightforward. Theydon puzzles me. I admit it
frankly. He also worries me. But let me handle him in my own way. Have
no fear that he will use our material for newspaper purposes. With
regard to the Innesmore Mansions affair, Theydon will lie close as a
fish. Why? No use asking you, of course. You despise intuition. When
you die some one should begin your epitaph: 'From information
received.' But I'll stick to Theydon. See if I don't, even if I have
to go up with him in one of Forbes's airships."

  CHAPTER V

 A LEAP IN THE DARK

With the morning Theydon brought a mature and impartial judgment to
bear on his perplexities. The average man, if asked to form an opinion
on any difficult point, will probably arrive at a saner decision
during the first pipe after breakfast than at any other given hour of
the day. Excellent physiological reasons account for this truism. The
sound mind in a sound body is then working under the most favorable
conditions.

It is free from the strain of affairs. The cold, clear morning light
divests problems of the undue importance, or, it may be, the glamour
of novelty, which they possessed overnight. At any rate, Frank
Theydon, clenching a pipe between his teeth, and gazing thoughtfully
through an open window at the trees in Innesmore Gardens, reviewed
yesterday's happenings calmly and critically, and arrived at the
settled conviction that his proper course was to visit Scotland Yard
and make known to the authorities the one vital fact he had withheld
from their ken thus far.

It was not for him to assess the significance of Mr. Forbes's desire
to remain in the background. If the millionaire's excuse, or
explanation, of his failure to communicate at once with the Criminal
Investigation Department was a sufficiently valid one, Scotland Yard
would be satisfied and might agree to keep his name out of the
inquiry.

On the other hand, he, Theydon, might be balking the course of justice
by holding his tongue. There was yet a third possibility, one fraught
with personal discredit. Mr. Forbes himself might realize that a
policy of candor offered the only dignified course.

Suppose he was minded to tell the detectives that he was the man who
visited Mrs. Lester shortly before midnight, what would Winter and
Furneaux think of the young gentleman who had actually dined with
Forbes before they took him into their confidence-- who heard with
such righteous indignation how Mrs. Lester met her death-- yet
brazenly concealed the fact that he had just left the house of one
whom they were so anxious to meet and question?

Of course, the radiant vision of Evelyn Forbes intruded on this
well-considered and unemotional analysis; but Theydon resolutely shook
his head.

"No, by Jove!" he communed. "You mustn't make an ass of yourself, my
boy, because a pretty girl was gracious for an hour or so. Be honest
with yourself, old chap! If there were no Evelyn, or if Evelyn were
harelipped and squinted, you wouldn't hesitate a second-- now, would
you?"

Yet he had given a promise. How reconcile an immediate call on
Scotland Yard with the guarantee of secrecy demanded by Forbes? Well,
he must put himself right with Forbes without delay-- tell him
straightforwardly that the bond could not hold. Theydon was no lawyer,
but he was assured that an agreement founded on positive wrong was not
tenable, legally or morally.

He would be adamant with Forbes, and decline to countenance any plea
in support of continued silence. If Forbes's demand was reasonable,
Scotland Yard would grant it. If justice compelled Forbes to come out
into the open, no private citizen should attempt to defeat the ends of
justice.

"So that settles it," announced Theydon rmly if not cheerfully. "I'll
ring up Forbes, and get the thing over and done with. I'll never see
his daughter again, I suppose, but that can't be helped. 'tis better
to have seen and lost than never to have seen at all."

He turned from the window, walked to the fireplace, tapped his pipe
firmly on the grate, and was about to go into the hall and call up the
telephone exchange, when the door-bell rang. He was aware of a muffled
conversation between Bates and a visitor. Then the valet appeared,
obviously ill at ease.

"If you please, sir," he announced, "a lady, a Miss Beale, of Oxford,
who says she is Mrs. Lester's aunt, wishes to see you."

Theydon was immensely surprised, as well he might be. But there was
only one thing to be done.

"Show her in," he said.

Miss Beale entered. She was slight of figure, middle-aged and
gray-haired. The wanness of her thin features was accentuated by an
attire of deep mourning, but the pallor in her cheeks fled for an
instant when she set eyes on Theydon.

"Pray forgive the intrusion," she faltered. "I-- I expected to meet an
older man."

It was a curious utterance, and Theydon tried to relieve her evident
nervousness by being mildly humorous.

"I hope to correct my juvenile appearance in course of time," he said,
smiling. "Meanwhile, won't you be seated? You are not quite unknown to
me, Miss Beale. That is-- I heard of you last night from the Scotland
Yard people."

She sat down at once, but seemed to be at a loss for words. Her lips
trembled, and Theydon thought she was going to cry.

"Have you traveled from Oxford this morning?" he said, simulating a
courteous nonchalance he was far from feeling. "If so, you must have
started from home at an ungodly hour. Let me have some breakfast
prepared for you."

"No-- no," she stammered.

"Well, a cup of tea, then? Come, now, no woman ever refuses a cup of
tea."

"You are very kind."

He rang the bell.

"I would not have ventured to call on you if I had not seen your name
in the newspaper," she went on.

Miss Beale certainly had the knack of saying unexpected things. It was
nothing new that Theydon should find his own name in print, but on
this occasion he could not choose but associate the distinction with
the cringe in No. 17; that he should be mentioned in connection with
it was neither anticipated nor pleasing. At the same time he realized
the astounding fact that he had not even glanced at a newspaper during
twenty-four hours.

"What in the world have the newspapers to say about me?" he cried.

"It-- it said-- that Mr. Francis Berrold Theydon, the well-known
author, lived in No. 18, the flat exactly opposite that which my
unhappy niece occupied. I-- I have read some of your books, Mr.
Theydon, and I pictured you quite a serious-looking person of my own
age."

He laughed. Bates entered, and was almost shocked at finding his
master in such lively mood.

"Oh, this lady has traveled from Oxford this morning; a cup of tea and
some nice toast, please, Bates," said Theydon. Then when the two were
alone together again, he brushed aside the question of his age as
irrelevant.

"I assure you that since this time yesterday I have lost some of the
careless buoyancy of youth," he said. "I had not the honor of Mrs.
Lester's acquaintance, but I knew her well by sight, and I received
the shock of my life last evening when I heard of her terrible end. It
is an extraordinary thing, seeing that we were such close neighbors,
but I believe you got the news long before I did, because I left home
early and heard nothing of what had happened till my man met me at
Waterloo in the evening."

"You have seen the-- the detectives in the meantime?"

"Yes."

"Then you will be able to tell me something definite. I have promised
to call at Scotland Yard at eleven o'clock, and the only scraps of
intelligence I have gathered are those in the papers. I would have
come to London last night, but was afraid to travel, lest I should
faint in the train. Moreover, some one in London promised to send a
detective to see me. He came, but could give no information. Indeed,
he wanted to learn certain things from me. So, after a weary night, I
caught the first train, and it occurred to me, as you lived so near,
that you might be kind enough to-- to--"

The long speech was too much for her, and her lips quivered pitifully
a second time.

"I fully understand," said Theydon sympathetically. "Now, I'm positive
you have eaten hardly anything today. Won't you let me order an egg?"

"No, please. I'll be glad of the tea, but I cannot make a meal-- yet.
Is it true that my niece was absolutely alone in her flat on Monday
night?"

Seeing that Miss Beale was consumed with anxiety to hear an
intelligible version of the tragedy, Theydon at once recited all, or
nearly all, that was known to him. The only points he suppressed were
those with reference to the gray car and the ivory skull. The lady
listened attentively and with more self-control than he gave her
credit for.

Bates came in with a laden tray, on which a boiled egg appeared. Mrs.
Bates had used her discretion, and decided that any one who had set
out from Oxford so early in the day must be in need of more solid
refreshment than tea and toast. Thus cozened, as it were, into eating,
Miss Beale tackled the egg, and Theydon was glad to note that she made
a fairly good meal, being probably unaware of her hunger until the
means of sating it presented itself.

But she missed no word of his story, and when he made an end, put some
shrewd questions.

"I take it," she said, "that the strange gentleman who visited my
niece on Monday night posted the very letter which I received by the
second delivery yesterday?"

"That is what the police believe," replied Theydon.

"Then it would seem that she resolved to come to me at Iffley as the
result of something he told her?"

"Why do you think that?"

"Because I heard from her only last Saturday, and she not only said
nothing about coming to Oxfordshire, but asked me to arrange to spend
a fortnight in London before we both went to Cornwall for the Summer."

"Ah! That is rather important, I should imagine," said Theydon
thoughtfully.

"It is odd, too, that you and the detectives should have noticed the
smell of a joss stick in the flat," went on Miss Beale. "Edith-- my
niece, you know-- could not bear the smell of joss sticks. They
reminded her of Shanghai, where she lost her husband."

Theydon looked more startled than such a seemingly simple statement
warranted. He had realized already that the ivory skull was the work
of an Oriental artist, and the mention of Shanghai brought that
sinister symbol very vividly to his mind's eye.

"Mrs. Lester had lived in China, then?" he said.

"Yes. She was out there nearly six years. Her husband died suddenly
last October-- he was poisoned, she firmly believed-- and, of course,
she came home at once."

"What was Mr. Lester's business, or profession?"

"He was a barrister. I do not mean that he practised in the Consular
courts. He was making his way in England, but was offered some sort of
appointment in Shanghai. The post was so lucrative that he
relinquished a growing connection at the bar. I have never really
understood what he did. I fancy he had to report on commercial matters
to some firm of bankers in London, but he supplied very little
positive information before Edith and he sailed. Indeed, I took it
that his mission was highly confidential, and about that time there
was a lot in the newspapers about rival negotiators for a big Chinese
loan, so I formed the opinion that he was sent out in connection with
something of the sort. Neither he nor Edith meant to remain long in
the Far East. At first their letters always spoke of an early return.
Then, when the years dragged on, and I asked for definite news of
their homecoming, Edith said that Arthur could not get away until the
country's political affairs were in a more settled state. Finally came
a cablegram from Edith: 'Arthur dead; sailing immediately,' and my
niece was with me within a few weeks. The supposed cause of her
husband's death was some virulent type of fever, but, as I said, Edith
was convinced that he had been poisoned."

"Why?"

"That I never understood. She never willingly talked about Shanghai,
or her life there. Indeed, she was always most anxious that no one
should know she had ever lived in China. Yet she had plenty of friends
out there. I gathered that Arthur had left her well provided for
financially, and they were a most devoted couple. Edith was the only
relative I possessed. It is very dreadful, Mr. Theydon, that she
should be taken from me in such a way."

Her hearer was almost thankful that she yielded to the inevitable rush
of emotion. It gave him time to collect his wits, which had lost their
poise when that wicked-looking little skull was, so to speak, thrust
forcibly into his recollection.

"In a word," he said, at last, "you are Mrs. Lester's next-of-kin and
probably her heiress?"

"Yes, I suppose so, though I was not thinking of that," came the
tearful answer.

"Yet the relationship entails certain responsibilities," said Theydon
firmly. "You should be legally represented at the inquest. Are your
affairs in the hands of any firm of solicitors?"

"Yes-- at Oxford. I contrived to call at their office yesterday and
they recommended me to consult these people," and Miss Beale produced
a card from a handbag. Theydon read the name and address of a
well-known West End firm.

"Good," he said. "I recommend you to go there at once. By the way, was
any one looking after Mrs. Lester's interests? Surely she had dealings
with a bank or an agency?"

"Y-- yes. I do happen to know the source from which her income came.
She-- made a secret of it-- in a measure."

"Pray don't tell me anything of that sort. Your legal adviser might
not approve."

"But what does it matter now? Poor Edith is dead. Her affairs cannot
help being dragged into the light of day. She had some railway shares
and bonds, some of which were left to her by her father, and others
which came under a marriage settlement, but the greater part of her
revenue was derived from a monthly payment made by the bank of which
Mr. James Creighton Forbes is the head."

Miss Beale naturally misinterpreted the blank stare with which Theydon
received this remarkable statement.

"I don't see why any one should wish to conceal a simple matter of
business like that," she said nervously. "May I explain that I have an
impression, not founded on anything quite tangible, that Mr. Forbes
was largely interested in the syndicate which sent Arthur Lester to
China, so it is very likely that the payment of an annuity, or
pension, to Arthur's widow would be left in his care. I do not know. I
am only guessing. But that matter, and others, can hardly fail to be
cleared up by the police inquiry."

Theydon recovered his self-control as rapidly as he had lost it. He
glanced at the clock-- 10:15. Within half an hour, or less, Miss Beale
would be on her way to Scotland Yard. He must act promptly and
decisively, or he would find himself in a distinctly unfavorable
position in his relations with the Criminal Investigation Department.

"I happen to be acquainted with Mr. Forbes," he said, striving
desperately to appear cool and methodical when his brain was seething.
"Would you mind if I just rang him up on the telephone? A few words
now might enlighten us materially."

"O, you are most helpful," said the lady, blushing again with timid
gratitude. "I am so glad I summoned up courage to call on you. I was
terrified at the idea of going to the Police Headquarters, but I shall
not mind it at all now."

Soon Theydon was asking for "00400, Bank." He had left the door of his
sitting room open purposely. No matter what the outcome, he no longer
dared keep the compact of silence into which he had entered with
Forbes. But the millionaire was not at his office. In response to a
very determined request for a word with some one in authority, "on a
matter of real urgency," the clerk who had answered the call brought
"Mr. Forbes's secretary," a Mr. Macdonald, to the telephone.

"It is important, vitally important, that I should speak with Mr.
Forbes within the next few minutes," said Theydon, after giving his
name and address. "Do you expect him to arrive soon? Or shall I try
and reach him at Fortescue Square?"

"Mr. Forbes will not be here till midday," came a voice with a
pronounced Scottish intonation. "I'm doubtful, too, if ye'll catch him
at home. Can I give him a message?"

"Do you know where he is?"

"Well, I cannot say."

"But do you know?"

"I'll be glad to give him a message."

"It will be too late, then. Please understand, Mr. Macdonald, that I
am making this call at Mr. Forbes's express wish. It is, as I have
said, vitally important that I should get in touch with him without
delay."

Scottish caution was not to be overcome by an appeal of that sort.

"I cannot go beyond what I have said," was the reply. "If you like to
ask at his house--"

"O, ring off!" cried Theydon, who pictured the secretary as a lanky
hollow-cheeked Scot, a model of discretion and trustworthiness, no
doubt, but utterly unequal to a crisis demanding some measure of
self-confident initiative. In reality, Mr. Macdonald was short and
stout, and quite a jovial little man.

After an exasperating delay, he got into communication with the Forbes
mansion in Fortescue Square.

"I'm Mr. Frank Theydon," he said, striving to speak unconcernedly. "Is
Mr. Forbes in?"

"No, sir."

"Is that you, Tomlinson?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Forbes at once?"

"Isn't he at his office, sir?"

"No. He will not be there till 12 o'clock."

A pause of indecision on Tomlinson's part. Then, a possible solution
of the difficulty.

"Would you care to have a word with Miss Evelyn, sir?"

"O, yes, yes."

Theydon blurted out this emphatic acceptance of the butler's
suggestion without a thought as to its possible consequences. He was
racking his brain in a frenzy of uncertainty as to how he should frame
his words when he heard quite clearly a woman's footsteps on the
parquet flooring, and caught Evelyn Forbes's voice saying to
Tomlinson: "How fortunate! Mr. Theydon is the very person I wished to
speak to, but I simply dared not ring him up."

The slight incident only provided Theydon with a new source of
wonderment. Why should Evelyn Forbes want speech with him at that
early hour? Perhaps she would explain. He could only hope so, and
trust to luck in the choice of his own phrases.

"That you, Mr. Theydon?" came the girl's voice, sweet in its cadence
yet ominously eager. "How nice of you to anticipate my unspoken
thought! I have been horribly anxious ever since I read of that awful
affair at Innesmore Mansions. That poor lady's flat is next door to
yours, is it not?"

"Yes, but--"

"O, you cannot choke off a woman's curiosity quite so easily. You see,
I happen to know that Mrs. Lester's sad death affects my father in
some way, and I realize now that you two were just on pins and needles
to get rid of me last night so that you might talk freely."

"Miss Forbes, I assure you--"

"Wait till I've finished, and you will not be under the necessity of
telling me any polite fibs. You men are all alike. You think the giddy
feminine brain is not fitted to cope with mysteries, and that is where
you are utterly mistaken. A woman's intuition often peers deeper than
a man's logic. I--"

"Do forgive me," broke in Theydon despairingly, "but I am really most
anxious to know how and where I can get a word with your father. I
would not be so rude as to interrupt you if I hadn't the best of
excuses. Tell me where to find him now, and I promise to give you a
call immediately afterward."

"He's at the Home Office."

"At the Home Office!"

Some hint of utter bewilderment in Theydon's tone must have reached
the girl's alert ear.

"Ah! Touché!" she cried. "Now will you be good and tell me why Dad
should receive a little ivory skull by this morning's post?"

Theydon knew that he paled. His very scalp tingled with an
apprehension of some shadowy yet none the less affrighting evil. But
he schooled himself to say, with a semblance of calm interest:

"What exactly do you mean, Miss Forbes?"

She laughed lightly. Theydon was so flurried that he did not realize
the possibility of Evelyn Forbes being as quick to mask her real
feelings as he himself was.

"Dad and I make a point of breakfasting together at nine o'clock every
morning," she said. "We were talking about you, and he told me of the
dreadful thing that happened to Mrs. Lester. I was reading the account
of the tragedy in a newspaper, when I happened to glance at him. He
was going through his letters, and I was just a trifle curious to know
what was in a flat box which came by registered post. He opened it
carelessly and something fell out and rolled across the table. I
picked it up and saw that it was a small piece of ivory, carved with
extraordinary skill to represent a skull. Indeed, it was so clever as
to be decidedly repulsive. I was going to say something when I saw
that the letter which was in the same box had alarmed him so greatly
that, for a second or two, I thought he would faint. But he can be
very strong and stern at times, and he recovered himself instantly,
was quite vexed with me because I had examined the ivory skull, and
forbade my going out until he had returned from the Home Office.
Tomlinson and the other men have orders not to admit any one to the
house, no matter on what pretext, and I'm sure the letter and its
nasty little token are bound up in some way with Mrs. Lester's death.
Won't you let me into the secret? I shan't scream or do anything
foolish, but I do think I am entitled to know what you know if it
affects my father."

A sudden change in the girl's voice warned Theydon of a restraint of
which he had been unconscious hitherto. He tried to temporize, to
whittle away her fears. That was a duty he owed to Forbes, who was
clearly resolved not to take his daughter into his confidence-- for
the present, at any rate.

"I really fail to see why you should assume some connection between
the crime which was committed here on Monday night and the arrival of
a somewhat singular package at your house this morning," he said
reassuringly.

"Like every other woman, I jump at conclusions," she answered. "Why
should this crime, in particular, have worried my father?
Unfortunately, the newspapers are full of such horrid things, yet he
hardly ever pays them any attention. No, Mr. Theydon, I am not
mistaken. He either knew Mrs. Lester, and was shocked at her death, or
saw in it some personal menace. Then comes the letter, with its
obvious threat, and I am ordered to remain at home, under a strong
guard, while he hurries off to Whitehall. You have met my father, Mr.
Theydon. Do you regard him as the sort of man who would rush off in a
panic to consult the Home Secretary without very grave and weighty
reasons?"

"But you can hardly be certain that a wretched crime in this
comparatively insignificant quarter of London supplies the actual
motive of Mr. Forbes's action," urged Theydon.

The girl stamped an impatient foot. He heard it distinctly.

"Of course I am certain," she cried. "Why won't you be candid? You
know I am right-- I can tell it from your voice, and your guarded way
of talking--"

An inspiration came to Theydon's relief in that instant.

"Pardon the interruption," he said, "but I must point out that both of
us are acting unwisely in discussing such matters over the telephone.
Really, neither must say another word, except this-- when I have found
your father I'll ask his permission to come and see you. Perhaps we
three can arrange to meet somewhere for luncheon. That is absolutely
the farthest limit to which I dare go at this moment."

"O, very well!"

The receiver was hung up in a temper, and the prompt ring-off jarred
disagreeably in Theydon's ear. If he was puzzled before, he was
thoroughly at sea now. But he took a bold course, and cared not a jot
whether or not it was a prudent one.

The mere sound of Evelyn Forbes's voice had steeled his heart and
conscience against the dictates of common sense. Let the detectives
think what they might, the girl's father must be allowed to carry
through his plans without let or hindrance.

"Miss Beale," said Theydon, gazing fixedly into the sorrow-laden eyes
of the quiet little lady whom he found seated where he had left her,
"I'm going to tell you something very important, very serious,
something so far-reaching and momentous that neither you nor I can
measure its effect. You heard the conversation on the telephone?"

"I heard what you were saying, but could not understand much of it,"
said his visitor in a scared way.

"I have been trying to communicate with Mr. Forbes, but his daughter
tells me that the murder of your niece seems to have affected him in a
manner which is incomprehensible to her, and even more so to me,
though I am acquainted with facts which her father and I have
purposely kept from her knowledge. Mr. Forbes has gone hurriedly to
the Home Office. I suppose you know what that means? He is about to
give the Home Secretary certain information, and it is not for you or
me to interfere with his discretion. Now, if you tell the Scotland
Yard people what you have told me, namely, that Mr. Forbes was the
intermediary through whom Mrs. Lester received the greater part of her
income, he will be brought prominently into the inquiry. You see that,
don't you?"

"Yes. I suppose that something of the sort must happen."

"Well, I want you to suppress that vital fact until we know more about
this affair. It will not be for long. Each of us must tell our story
without reservation at some future date-- whether this afternoon, or
tomorrow, or a week hence, I cannot say now. But I do ask you to keep
your knowledge to yourself until I have had an opportunity of
consulting Mr. Forbes. I undertake to tell you the exact position of
matters without delay, and I accept all responsibility for my present
advice."

"I know little of the world, Mr. Theydon," said Miss Beale, rising,
and beginning to draw on her gloves, "but I shall be very greatly
surprised if you are advising me to act otherwise than honorably. I
shall certainly not utter a word about Mr. Forbes at Scotland Yard.
When all is said and done, my statement to you was largely guesswork.
You must remember that I have never seen Mr. Forbes, nor hardly ever
heard his name except in connection with public matters in the Press.
O, yes. I make that promise readily. I trust you implicitly!"

  CHAPTER VI

 CLOSE QUARTERS

Theydon escorted Miss Beale downstairs. As they passed the closed door
of No. 17, the lady shivered.

"To think that within the next few days I would have been staying
there with Edith, and planning evenings at the theater before going to
Newquay!" she murmured; there was a pitiful catch in her voice that
told better than words how the remainder of her existence would be
darkened by the tragedy.

At best she was a shrinking, timid little woman, for whom life
probably held but narrow interests. Such as they were, their placid
content was forever shattered. The death of her niece had closed the
one chief avenue leading to the outer world. She would retire to the
quiet back-water of Iff