MR. FORTUNE OBJECTS

H.C. BAILEY, 1935

FIRST OBJECTION: THE BROKEN TOAD

MR. FORTUNE'S EYES, drowsy and benign, contemplated Mrs. Fortune. The shape of her face, the poise of her head, and her amber hair were shown him against a background of sunlit, misty blue, the August sky of his garden in the Cotswolds. The shape of the rest of her, which was covered in amber silk, had behind it the dark, shining green and the creamy flowers of a fence of Mermaid roses. She was receiving the admiration of the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department and was graciously amused.

A maid arrived with tea. Mr. Fortune's eyes turned to consideration of the cake - stand. He sighed content. He wriggled in his long chair to a position more adapted for eating. He gazed at his wife, and said plaintively, "Joan!"

Mrs. Fortune and Lomas turned towards him. "The hungry sheep look up and are not fed," said Lomas.

"He has so few pleasures," Mrs. Fortune apologised. "The perpetual small boy."

"Oh, no. No. Very mature mind. Speakin' roughly, the only mature mind I ever knew," Reggie murmured. "In a man." He took a yellow cake of a bun formation. "Try this pleasure, Lomas. My design, executed by Elise. Sort o' saffron cake, with interior clotted cream and wild strawberry jam."

"Good Gad!" Lomas exclaimed. "Saffron!"

"Why not?" Reggie opened round eyes at him. "Oh, that!"

"Yes, exactly," said Lomas, with a grimace. "No accounting for taste," he shrugged. "You're a wonderful animal, Reginald." He turned to Mrs. Fortune and apologised. "I beg your pardon."

She smiled. "I do like to think he's rational - as often as I can." With affection she surveyed Reggie's delicate management of gushing jam and cream.

"Instincts very highly developed," Lomas admitted. "But we are making the man self - conscious." He steered the conversation away from the question of saffron in cake to life at large.

Reggie finished a second gateau Elise, and returned to society to hear them talking morals. . . . Lomas was talking ... Lomas was being clever ... something about goodness consisting of good taste.

"Just existing beautifully," said Mrs. Fortune. "Then you must be very good, Mr. Lomas."

"No. No. Certain activity required," Reggie protested.

"Hush." Lomas waved him out of it. "What's Mrs. Fortune's definition of goodness?"

"Being kind," she said.

"Yes. Both have glimpses of the truth," Reggie murmured. "Bein' kind isn't adequate. You've got to be kind within reason. Lots of nasty sin comes out of the other kind of kindness. That's where sound taste is useful. Love's done about as much harm in the world as hate. Devotion - self - sacrifice - dangerous, delusive virtues. Made some of the worst horrors."

"You do sometimes believe in something, don't you?" said Mrs. Fortune gently.

"Oh, yes. Yes. All the time, Joan. I believe in justice."

"And mercy," she said.

"Not by itself, no. Bein' always merciful produces fools and devils."

She looked at him severely. "Do you make my flesh creep? No, not when you're trying."

" He's doing worse," said Lomas. "He's talking shop." and turned the conversation to the new painter's picture of Mrs. Fortune. . . .

The emotions of Lomas over saffron in cake and Mr. Fortune's criticism of unselfish love were alike inspired by the case of the broken toad. It is to be admitted that this has become a favourite subject with Mr. Fortune. He considers it - and has been thought too fond of saying so - the supreme example of crimes of affection; he maintains that study of it is necessary to a liberal education.

Police - constable Mills was the unhappy cause of bringing it before him. Early on a summer morning - that is to say, about eight o'clock - Mr. Fortune was waked to dislike the world by a telephone message asking him to go and see a policeman in the Langdon Hospital.

Sitting up in bed, he moaned into the receiver. "Who is speaking? Underwood? Have you a heart? No. You used to have some intelligence. What's the matter with the man?"

"The hospital won't give us anything definite. They say it might be some sort of stroke, or it might be concussion - blow on the head, you know. We'd got that far by ourselves. And, you see, we want to know good and quick which it was. If the poor chap was attacked, we've got to get busy."

"Horrible necessity. Well, well. What are the facts, if any?"

"Constable went out on his beat last night quite fit. Nothing known of him after that, till a milk van nearly ran over him this morning. He was lying in the road, helmet off, sort of groaning, the milkman says, but practically unconscious, and he's been like that ever since."

Langdon is one of the outlying suburbs of London, but most of it was built last century. Then it attracted men who were making comfortable, third - class fortunes. The result is that it consists chiefly of genteel villas, each in its own piece of ground, which have tried hard to be unlike one another with contortions of inconvenience. Some of these are still inhabited by the survivors or descendants of those who put them up. Others have been converted by the forces of progress into modern ugliness as blocks of flats offering modern comfort to those who do without babies.

Breakfastless and pallid, Reggie came to the hospital built in the lowest, dampest situation which the hills of Langdon provide.

Police - constable Mills had been put in a private room. He lay unconscious. The bulk of his body raised the bed - clothes to a long mound through which no tremor of movement came, so faintly life struggled in him with a gurgle of labouring breath.

"He had some spasms when he first came in," the doctor explained. "Only slight. He's been much like this for two hours - continuous and deepening coma."

"Yes. Collapse of central nervous system," Reggie murmured. He felt a feeble, irregular pulse, he bent over the patient. . . .

In vigour Constable Mills must have been the popular ideal of a long - service policeman. But the cheeks, which ought to have been dark red, were livid behind the network of tiny purple veins; his unseeing eyes had sunk back into their puckered wrinkles; from the unknown into which his mind had passed the face reported pain and dread. . . .

"That's a big bruise on the back of his head," the doctor pointed out.

"Yes, I did notice it. Yes," Reggie murmured. He was looking close into the moustache.

"He's a heavy fellow," the doctor continued to instruct. "It might have been made by a fall, if you assume he had a stroke, and he's the age and the habit of body to make that possible. Or he may have been slogged from behind. Anyhow I'm taking it as a case of concussion."

"Been sick, hasn't he?" Reggie murmured.

"Not since he came in. I should say he had been. There was some muck on his clothes. You often find sickness after concussion, don't you?"

"Yes, that is so. However. Try an apomorphine injection. Want to clean out the stomach if you can. And then give him dialysed iron."

"My Lord," the doctor exclaimed. "I never thought - -"

"No. Don't blame you. Very bafflin' these cases of collapse. Get on with it now."

The doctor got on....

Over the hospital telephone Reggie spoke to Inspector Underwood. "He's gone, poor chap. As near as no matter. Not a chance left. No. He hasn't said anything. Never conscious. What? Yes, bad luck. Very bad luck."

"You think somebody did him in, sir?" Underwood said eagerly.

"Oh, yes. Yes. That is indicated. Not a natural death."

"Knocked on the head, was he?"

"Only by himself. As he fell. Bruise on the head irrelevant. Cause of death, irritant poisoning. Some analysis required, but no doubt the usual arsenic."

"Good Lord!" Underwood ejaculated.

"Yes. As you say. But human action is also indicated. Come on."

When Underwood reached the hospital, he found Reggie in the matron's room, eating buttered toast and drinking tea.

"Well, well." Reggie looked up at him and sighed. "A sad world. A horrible breakfast. And he's dead."

Underwood nodded gloomily. "Ah, it's a bad business, sir. Did he suffer much?"

"In the last hours - no. Quite a lot before. Not a nice game, the arsenic game." Reggie pushed back his chair, gazed at his toast with dislike, and lit his pipe.

"I never heard of a case like it," said Underwood.

"No. You wouldn't. In the nature of things. Dose of arsenic, followed by collapse, passes for a stroke or concussion, and the operator gets a nice, quiet burial of the victim. Same like this operator would have got, if you hadn't dragged me in to interfere with him. Bold operator. Takin' a risk, but a good risk. A big dose may go to the nervous system quick and omit the desirable, betrayin' symptoms. Boldness, and again boldness, is the motto for the murder industry. Quite a lot of arsenic poisonin' the police never hear of. Comfortin' thought. And every case you don't hear of leads to others. Your poisoner goes marchin' on - from victory to victory. However. We have heard of this case. We might catch the poisoner before there's another victim." He gazed at Underwood with dreamy, closing eyes. "Quiite a novelty for the police force to avert a murder or two, very improbable novelty. We shall have to be very clever," he drawled. "Are you feelin' clever, Underwood? I am not. Oh, my hat, I am not." He looked with loathing at the congealed remains of his toast. "Question for you is the history of Constable Mills with full and particular details of his last afternoon and evening here upon earth. Get on to it. You're the lucky man. I have to examine his remains."

That evening Mr. Fortune attended a conference at Scotland Yard. He came to it late. He found it already in session - Underwood and Superintendent Bell presided over by the Hon. Sidney Lomas, the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department.

"Well, what are you going to tell us?" Lomas asked.

"Tell you I told you so." Reggie sank into a chair. "That's all. Arsenic. Large dose. The customary arsenic trioxide. As from rat - killer, weed - killer, or what not."

"That's all very well," Lomas frowned. "But I never had a case like this - a constable poisoned out on his beat."

"No. Circumstances of case rare and bafflin'."

"I suppose it might have been suicide?"

"Possible theory. Not an attractive theory. Not likely a man arrangin' to poison himself should choose the hours he was walkin' his regular night beat to do the job. However. Try every hypothesis. Any reason to suspect suicide?"

 "No, there isn't," said Bell, with some vehemence. "Underwood was just saying Mills's record is first class. Not brainy, but an honest ox of a man. They know him inside out at Langdon. He'd been there most of his time. Almost due for pension. Widower these ten years. No children. Lodged with an old woman who keeps house for her son, a jobbing gardener. The three of 'em all had the same meal yesterday evening before Mills went out on night duty - meat pie and tea, and the old girl and her son are fit and well. Besides, they're well known and respectable, and all they get by his death is losing their lodger. After he went out, I haven't found anybody who saw him. When do you reckon he had the poison, Mr. Fortune?"

"No certainty. Probably before midnight. Probably not many hours before. I should say he had it after goin' on duty. That's the medical evidence. Apply the higher intelligence, Lomas. What are you going to do about it?"

"What the devil can we do?" Lomas snapped. "There's nothing to work from. If he'd been knocked on the head, we could put it down to a burglar he'd come up against. But you don't ask me to believe in criminals who go round carrying arsenic and persuade the innocent constable to eat it out of their hands."

"I don't know so much," said Bell. "You're making it sound ridiculous, sir. It needn't be, though. Say there was a job planned and Mills had to be got out of the way, so one of the gang stood him a drink with a dose in it. That's all right."

"Haven't heard of any job, have we?" Lomas shrugged. "And it's a big job that's worth a preliminary murder."

"It might be coming," said Bell stubbornly. "Suppose Mills had got on to something that would give it away?"

"Judging by his record, he never got on to anything. And if he did he'd have run to his sergeant. This is mare's nesting, Bell. You can't make the case rational however you take it. The most probable explanation is, the poor devil was sick of life. You get that when men are just due to retire."

"Yes. It could be," Reggie murmured. "But not probable. As aforesaid. Other possibilities worth considering. Private possibilities. The deceased was the old - style constable. Kind of constable who is popular with the female servant, what? At home in many hospitable kitchens. Not a grave offence. Bell, what?"

Bell shook his disciplined head. "I wouldn't say. It all depends. He didn't ought to have gone into a kitchen, if that's what you mean. But, of course, constables do."

"I don't know whether he went indoors," Reggie sighed. "I have my limitations. But I think somebody gave him a little homely meal. Say cake and cocoa. Includin' arsenic trioxide."

Bell and Underwood stared at him. "Ah. That's getting us somewhere," said Bell.

"Is it?" Lomas exclaimed. "Damme, what does it come to? A wicked cook poisoned the man - because he was carrying on with the cook next door, I suppose. And what then? Are we to make a house - to - house visitation of Mills's beat to find out what cooks loved him?"

"No. Not necessary. No. We can narrow it down," Reggie murmured. "Underwood - is the widow lady Mills lodges with a Londoner?"

"Yes, sir. Thoroughbred Cockney."

"Good. That simplifies things. If you can find a house on Mills's beat where they're west - country people, I think we might get on."

"The devil you do!"  said Lomas. "What's this theory, Reginald?"

"Not a theory. Rational inference. The late Constable Mills had been eating saffron cake. The last thing he did eat. The arsenic was in that. Saffron cake isn't a common confection. But much cherished in the western counties. This had cream and currants in it. What they call revel cake, or revel buns, in Devonshire. Because it's the stuff to give the company at a wake, funeral feast, or revel. Constable Mills had some revel cake for his own funeral. However. That may be an unintended irony. The inference stands - he was fed on poison from a house that knew something about west - country cooking."

"My oath!" Bell muttered, and looked reverently at his Mr. Fortune. "That's clever, sir." He turned to Underwood. "Now it's up to you, young fellow."

"Yes, that's given me a line all right," Underwood chuckled.

"Has it!" said Lomas. "If you make anything of it, I shall be surprised. Damme, Fortune, what do you think it means? A cook set herself to poison this middle - aged widower of a policeman - why?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," Reggie mumbled.

"It's fantastic." Lomas made contemptuous noises.

"Oh, yes. Yes. As it stands. It don't stand on anything. Bit of the top of a crime visible, and a bit of the bottom, without anything in between. Fantastic, impossible structure. Like a crag supported on mist, with a lake poking out underneath. Crag is nevertheless real. And Constable Mills is dead by poison. So there is a poisoner somewhere about, Lomas. Whether the poisonin' of Mills was intended or not."

There was a moment of silence. "Good Gad!" said Lomas. "Confound your variations. Why can't you talk straight? Mills got what was meant for someone else. That's your real opinion, is it?"

"Oh no. No. Haven't any opinion. Not enough facts. Death of Mills may not have been according to plan. It could be. I wonder." He gazed at Lomas with dreamy eyes. "You're so irrelevant. Evadin' the true point. Which is that a bold poisoner is now operatin' in Langdon. Poisoners seldom stop at one victim. Thus demonstratin' the efficiency of the police force. Good night."

In his frequent comments on the case Mr. Fortune is apt to insist that its chequered course was determined by the unreliability of people's taste in eating. If everyone could be trusted to like what they ought to like, he will point out, its results might have been even more unjust. In this he finds sad proof of the mystery of evil. . . .

The inquest on Constable Mills was opened and warily adjourned without any evidence to warn the world that the police knew he had been poisoned.

Some days afterwards, Underwood talked to Mr. Fortune over the telephone. "About that clue of yours, the saffron cake, sir. Well, I've pretty well combed out Mills's beat for west - country people, and I can only find one set. There's an old lady living in Belair Avenue - Miss Pearse by name. She's a Devonshire woman, and makes a bit of fuss about it. Pair of old Devonshire servants too. But I've had a, talk with them, and they won't own to knowing Mills at all. I should say they're telling the truth. Keep themselves to themselves sort of women. So it looks like petering out."

"You think so?" Reggie murmured.

"I do. Pity. It seemed a real good line. But there you are."

"Oh, no. Not anywhere," Reggie murmured. "Miss Pearse, an old lady of Devon. Well, well." He became musical: "Tom Pearse, Tom Pearse, lend me your grey mare, All along, out along, down along lee - -"

"What's that, sir?"   said Underwood.

"Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all..." Reggie concluded the Devonian ballad. "Where are you speakin' from? Langdon? The police station? All right, I'll come out. We'll call on Miss Pearse of Belair Avenue."

"If you say so - - "Underwood conveyed doubt and disapproval.

"Oh, my dear chap! Quite in order. I'm the medical man investigatin' Mills's death, introduced by Inspector Underwood, in charge of the case. Did she happen to know the poor man, his habits and what not and so forth? And we'll see what we can get."

You may now behold Inspector Underwood and Mr. Fortune walking from the police station of Langdon to the home of Miss Pearse, The Nest, Belair Avenue. Langdon is a suburb of hills, and the determination of Mr. Fortune to walk surprised Underwood. The reason given was a desire to get the atmosphere.

No part of the world is more peaceful than the umbrageous streets of Langdon in the afternoon. The superlative of their somnolence may be found in Belair Avenue. It climbs along the shoulder of one of the highest hills. The houses in it, some fifty years old, exhibit the opulent fancy of that period. The Nest is built in stone, and dowdily resembles a castle in a German fairy - tale. Next door to it, Bellagio is a tall conglomeration of purple brick, with oriel windows and a pagoda top. And so on.

A grey - haired maid, who sniffed at Underwood, let them into The Nest, left them on the mat, and, reappearing in time, conducted them up a narrow staircase which twisted mediaevally to a room smelling of pot - pourri and lavender, and decorated with chintz, silhouettes, and miniatures. Two small lancet windows admitted some light, but no air. They seemed not made to open.

Reggie looked out on a garden descending in steps of lawn, so steeply the ground fell away behind the house, with flower - beds containing nothing but geraniums, calceolarias, and lobelia. He moaned at it. He looked beyond to the garden of Bellagio.

That at least was different. There the ground dropped still more steeply. From a little terrace behind the house a tall flight of steps led down to a rectangle paved with tiles, in which was a pool where dark water gleamed between lily leaves. All was uncared for, dirty, moss - grown, weed - grown. But it had been elaborate. Funereal shrubs grew out of the tiles. There were awful objects of art upon them: china dwarfs of German manufacture; at the foot of the steps leered, greenish - yellow, a china toad.

"Oh, my hat!" Reggie groaned, and directed his suffering eyes to look beyond. The rest of the Bellagio garden sloped away into an artificial wilderness of shrubbery through which, on either side the path vanishing down the hill, loomed more images in crockery or plaster. Along the path a woman moved. She seemed to be tidying the unkempt shrubs, and weeding the path in spasms, without steady purpose. She was not beautiful. She wore a drab woollen coat and a cotton skirt faded into a dingy confusion of colour, and she seemed to have no more definite shape than these old clothes. She was lank and ungainly. In her tangle of hay - coloured hair no grey appeared, but her long face looked age - it shone sallow, it was worried, fretful, dreamily earnest. She fussed out of sight.

Reggie's eyes came back to contemplate, with new horror, the terrace and the toad.

"You wished to see me?" said a small prim voice. And he turned, and seemed to be a child again meeting his grandmother. So imposing was the presence of Miss Pearse. She was a small woman; she was all black to her white hair and parchment face - a face little and meek and pretty, but with the perfect assurance of authority in this world and the next.

"It is about the poor policeman?" she went on. "Pray sit down. I shall be happy to give you any help which is possible." Her composure, her condescension, let them infer that she expected to be asked for help and was prepared. She surveyed them with pale blue eyes which were without expression.

After a moment the quiet voice spoke again. She had known Mills for many years; she discoursed on the proper relations of the police to ladies of importance, lamented his demise, and passed on to indicate her unique position in Langdon. ... It appeared that she was of its oldest and bluest blood, by divine right the leader of its society. . . .

Underwood became restive, and interrupted with a brusque question: did she happen to see Mills the night he died?

Miss Pearse was affronted. She made an odd movement of neck and head, like a duck swallowing, and informed him that it was not her habit to go walking after nightfall.

Underwood told her that she didn't take the point. What they wanted was some information about Mills's condition - state of health and so on - as he went round his beat the night he died. For instance, there was the chance he might have come to her house.

Miss Pearse, biting the words, remarked that it was an improper suggestion. The inspector should be aware that she would not tolerate her servants entertaining a man.

"Sorry to distress you," Reggie murmured. "It's a very distressin' case. But we have to do the poor fellow justice, and I did hope you might help us. West - country man, wasn't he? Devon man?"

"Indeed?" For the first time Miss Pearse betrayed surprise. "I had no idea of that. I shouldn't have thought it."

"Really?" Reggie put up his eyebrows. "But you ought to be a judge. You're Devonshire."

Miss Pearse flushed. "I am of a Devonshire family."

"Oh, yes. Yes. That would be another reason for him coming to your house if he wanted help."

"If he was a Devon man." She spoke slowly; she stared. "But I tell you I have no reason to think so."

"Well, well," Reggie murmured. "Bafflin' case. Speakin' medically, you see, it's important to find somebody who met him the night he died." Under his grave eyes Miss Pearse admitted that she could understand that. "Two possible lines of enquiry," Reggie mumbled. "Do you know any other Devon people living hereabouts?"

"I cannot imagine why you insist on Devonshire people," she said.

"No? Other line of enquiry. Do you know any house where a constable would be welcome in the kitchen?"

Miss Pearse gave him a look of reproof. "That is an unpleasant question," she said acidly. "I should not be likely to observe such conduct." But it appeared to Reggie that she was considering whether she should say she had observed some. He proceeded to tempt her.

"Domestic conduct not what it was," he mourned. "People don't look after their homes." Miss Pearse was quick to agree. "Yes. You find that even in Langdon, what? I was wondering" - he gazed at her solemnly - "garden next door looked rather wild - I was wondering - is that a go - as - you - please place where a policeman might be in and out of the kitchen?"

Miss Pearse drew herself up. She really could not say. And she went on saying. Mrs. Colson had been at Bellagio for many years. It was built by her father - in - law. He had designed the garden; it was the delight of his life - such a sweet fanciful place it used to be. But now - -!

"Rather neglected, what? "Reggie murmured.

Miss Pearse would not say that Mrs. Colson neglected things. But after the children grew up she had had nothing but trouble. Her father - in - law died; her husband died. She had been such a sweet happy creature before. But afterwards - - No wonder. They were fine men. She was a devoted mother, absolutely devoted. She had only lived for her children. And they - - -! Really Miss Pearse could not endure the modern notion that parents must give up everything to their children - it made for nothing but misery.

"Nobody should give up everything to anybody, no," Reggie purred. "Quite immoral. Has Mrs. Colson many children?"

With a certain vehemence, as if she felt the number offensive. Miss Pearse told him there were two. Alfred Colson was a harmless creature enough, but absolutely dependent on his mother. It was a wonder he ever married. He and his wife were always at his mother's knee.

"Still lives in the maternal house?" Reggie murmured.

"Oh, they have a home of their own," said Miss Pearse. "One of the flats in that disgusting block where the Old Hall was; they can hardly know what it's like."

"United family," Reggie smiled. "Charming. And the daughter. Equally devoted?"

"I suppose Minnie has never been away from her mother a day," said Miss Pearse, with disdain. "The most affectionate creature. But Minnie is at anybody's service. She bustles in all the good works we have. Really, it is as if she hadn't time to have a self of her own."

"I see. Yes. Very interesting." Reggie encouraged more opinions of the Colson family.

But Miss Pearse decided that she had said all she wanted, or more. She smoothed down her dress, and met his look of enquiry with mild, innocent eyes in which there was something hard and assured. She was the grandmother who knew everything and had told the small boy all that was good for him.

"Thanks very much," he smiled. "And if anything should occur to you, you'll tell the police station, won't you?"

"I cannot conceive that anything else will occur to me," said Miss Pearse. "Good day."

When they were outside. "She's a hard case, sir," Underwood grinned. Reggie did not answer. He gazed pensively at the purple bulk of Bellagio and its dingy lace curtains, and his pace was slow. "Well, I don't know what you make of her, sir," Underwood went on. "I can't make up my mind whether we've drawn blank or got on to something."

"Not blank, no," Reggie mumbled.

"You shook her up all right," Underwood admitted. "She didn't like being told there was something Devonshire about Milk's death, did she? That bothered her quite a lot. Might mean you were right, sir, and he got his arsenic in her house."

"Yes. It could be."

"And then, that didn't look too good her telling the tale about the people next door. Very keen to run them down, wasn't she? Fishy, that was, there's no denying."

"You think so? Yes. Reaction to suggestion of the house next door very marked. Vivid description of the Colson family. I should say she's had them on her mind some time. Thoughtful person, our Miss Pearse."

"She's deep," Underwood nodded. "She knows something. She gave me the creeps now and then. I kept getting the idea she wasn't human - didn't feel things the natural way."

"Rather superhuman, yes. Old ladies are - when clever and lonely."

"I can imagine her doing anything," said Underwood. "But then, what's the sense of supposing she or her old servants poisoned a policeman?"

"Not likely. No. However. The provisional hypothesis is that the saffron cake wasn't meant for the policeman."

"You mean she might have sent a cake in next door?" Underwood cried. "She meant to poison some of the Colsons, and Mills got it? That's all right."

"Yes. It could be. I wonder. Some way to go yet. And the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep. Next step in the investigation quite obvious. Find out all about the Colson family and servants, if any. Miss Pearse's history of the Colsons has interest. A heart - to - heart talk with a Colson cook would be illuminatin'. Don't be official. Underwood. Use your charms. You should fascinate any cook."

"Thank you, sir," said Underwood bitterly.

"And, in the intervals of fascination, look up the deaths of the Colson father and grandfather. Miss Pearse was rather affectionate about them. Did you notice that?"

"Good Lord!" Underwood exclaimed. "You mean to say, maybe this wasn't the first time a saffron cake went from her house to the Colsons?"

"I wonder," Reggie murmured. "Some animosity towards the Colson family very marked. Yes. We'd better know what we can about the deaths of the past. Before the future brings more deaths. Well, well. Here's the police station. Futile institution, so far. Justify your existence. Underwood. If possible. Good - bye."

Some days afterwards he was called away from the composition of a monograph on influenza in rabbits to Scotland Yard.

Again he found Underwood with Bell and Lomas. He gazed at them with plaintive dislike. "Oh, my hat!" he moaned. "What's the matter now?"

"The reference is your infernal saffron cake, Reginald," Lomas said. "You don't mean to say you've forgotten it?"

"Oh, yes. Yes. I had. Absolutely. I'd done my job. The rest is simple police work. I was on something important."

"Simple!" said Lomas. "Good Gad! You've brought us up against a blank wall. Go on. Underwood. Tell him."

Underwood went off with a rush. "Well, sir, I got on to the Colsons' cook all right. I reckon I've pretty well turned her inside out - -"

"My dear fellow!" Reggie purred admiration. "Your fatal charm."

"Nothing like that, sir," said Underwood severely. "She's old enough to be my mother. I took her round for a cup o' tea with the Langdon inspector - -"

"Very proper, I'm sure," Bell grunted.

Underwood glowered at him. "Talking over poor Mills's death, that was the idea. She's desperate cut up about him. He did go into the Colsons' house that night, Mr. Fortune. She gave him a bun and a cup of cocoa, and he went off as right as rain."

"Oh, yes. Who made the bun?" Reggie murmured.

"That's where the catch comes. It was a saffron bun, like you said. That day the Colsons had the married son and his wife coming to tea, and Miss Minnie Colson made some special stuff herself - buns made with cream and currants and saffron - -"

"Yes. I told you so. Revel buns, as in Devonshire."

"I dare say. The cook says Minnie Colson had the recipe from Miss Pearse next door. The Colsons have 'em now and again, and Miss Minnie always makes 'em. The son's wife is supposed to like 'em."

"Sound taste. They're very good," Reggie murmured. "Not quite right though. I've been thinkin' about that. Want a better fruit flavour. I - -"

"Damme, let the man get on," Lomas cried.

"Oh, yes. Yes. Duty first. You were sayin' they were made for the son's wife. By daughter Minnie."

"That's right. Cook wasn't in the kitchen when she made 'em. The buns went up to tea, and came down again untouched."

"The son's wife wouldn't have any. Well, well. Taste not reliable. Appetite not reliable. Very disconcertin' in a guest. Makes a lot of trouble. Look at this case."

"Made some trouble for poor Mills," Underwood said severely. "The buns came back to the kitchen. The cook don't like saffron herself. So she didn't eat any. She fed Mills on 'em when he looked in for his bit of supper. When she went to the cake tin next day, to send things up for tea again, the rest of the buns were gone. That's all she knows - so she says, and I believe her. So there's a nice old snag. We'll never be able to prove there was anything in the dam' buns at all."

"No. As you say. We shan't," Reggie murmured. "Nothing more from that line of investigation. We weren't quick enough."

"I don't know what more I could have done, sir," Underwood protested.

"Nothing. No. Not blamin' you. We don't have much luck. If Mills had been found sooner, I might have saved him. If we could have learnt his habits quicker, we might have got some effective evidence. However. Other means of usin' pressure. By the way, what about the deaths of Colson father and grandfather?"

"Colson grandfather died, aged seventy - five, in 1914, of a stroke. Colson father died, aged sixty - two, in 1925, of gastric influenza."

"Well, well." Reggie sank deep in his chair, and gazed at Lomas with closing eyes. "That's very interestin'."

"You're suspicious?" Lomas frowned. 

"Yes. Both stated causes of death possibly veilin' arsenic. Complex case, this case, Lomas."

"Damme, it always was," said Lomas bitterly. "Now you want to make it into one of the devilish chains of murder. And we haven't one clear piece of evidence. I couldn't get an order to exhume these two men on your suspicions. And, if I did, if you found arsenic in the bodies, we should be no nearer proof."

"Oh, no. That's hopeless. At the best, we should only have association of arsenic with the Colson household, since the Colson children grew up. As Miss Pearse put it. No use."

"Thank you. I see that," Lomas snapped. "It's very gratifying, isn't it? A succession of murders, and we can do nothing."

"Not the first time," Bell growled. "These clever poisoners are the devil."

"Yes. One of the devil's best efforts," Reggie nodded. "But not invincible, when observed. Are we down - hearted? No. Action has been taken, Lomas. Pressure is bein' applied. The poisoner of Belair Avenue is now aware that the police are sittin' up and takin' notice. I made that clear to Miss Pearse. Underwood's been makin' it clear to servants. I should say there'll be consequences. Swift and fruitful consequences. Good - bye."

It is held by Superintendent Bell that the handling of this case was one of his most uncanny pieces of work. But this judgment may be biased by the speed with which results developed: a speed which, Mr. Fortune points out, was the natural consequence of the menace of frustration on the poisoner.

He had just got into his car, when a detective ran out and asked him to come back and speak to Mr. Lomas. Lomas and Underwood and Bell were still together when he returned.

"Here's your fruitful consequences, Reginald," Lomas said. "Young Colson's wife has been found dead. Drowned in a pool in old Mrs. Colson's garden."

"Well, well," Reggie murmured. "Who found her?"

"The daughter, Minnie Colson. Found her this morning. Body's been removed to the mortuary."

"Oh, Peter!" Reggie moaned. "Why?"

"Sorry. Minnie Colson pulled her out of the pool before she sent for a doctor. So we're told. You'll go and have a look at her, what?"

"Go and have a look at the pool," Reggie murmured. "Come on, Underwood."

A policeman admitted them to the murky hall of Bellagio. In a shabby morning - room the local detective - inspector received them. He considered it a very queer business. They all told the same tale. Miss Minnie Colson - she said she was going out to the girls' club at the church last night - -"

"Cook's night out, wasn't it?" said Reggie, with a glance at Underwood.

"That's right, sir. That seems to be one of the points," the inspector agreed. "They only keep a cook and a daily girl. So the house was going to be left, except for old Mrs. Colson. That's why Miss Minnie telephoned to young Mrs. Colson to come and sit with the old lady. So she says. And young Mrs. Colson came, and Miss Minnie went out. That would be about seven to half past - as she says. Then there's old Mrs. Colson. She says the young woman didn't stay long, but went off about dusk. She can't put a time to it. The old lady was up in her own room - that's overhead in the front - and the young woman's short way home was to go through the garden at the back and out by the gate at the end. Then there's her husband's statement. He says he was dining at his club last night: says he often does. When he came home, about midnight, his wife wasn't there. They live in a flat. After a bit he got their servant out o" bed, but she couldn't tell him anything, except that there'd been a phone message and her mistress had gone out after. He says he sat up all night. I don't know. If you ask me, he don't think too much of his wife. And then this morning, about ten o'clock, so she says. Miss Minnie goes out to do a bit o' gardening, and sees young Mrs. Colson lying in a pool they have out in the garden, pulled her out, found her dead, and sent for the doctor. The doctor says the woman was drowned some time last night. He rang us up. I didn't get here till eleven fifteen - and by that time, you see, the body had been moved and mucked about, and the whole place was walked over."

"Yes. I see. Yes," Reggie murmured. "Tiresome. However. You've done very well. Nice, clear story. Now we'll look at what's left."

They went out on to the terrace above the garden, and the inspector demonstrated: the big drop from the terrace to the lily pool in the rectangle of tiles and shrubs; the flight of steps which led down was steep; quite possible anybody in the dusk or dark might take a bad toss; the pool had a concrete bottom; it was two or three feet deep; the young woman might have tumbled into it head first, and, if she did, she might have been stunned and lay till she drowned.

"Yes. It could be," Reggie nodded. "Quite good. All possibilities of the place considered and allowed for."

"I wouldn't call it likely myself," said Underwood. "Too much 'might have been.'"

"I'm not saying it's likely," the inspector agreed. "It means a lot of chances came off. But you can't be sure the thing didn't happen that way."

"That's the devil of it," Underwood grunted. "It's so ruddy plausible."

"You think so?" Reggie murmured. "One difficulty. How was the toad broken?" He pointed a little finger at it. It lay on the tiles in jagged fragments of crockery.

"That - well, I don't know where it stood," the inspector answered. "I asked Minnie Colson; she didn't seem to know - very vague about it. If it was on the terrace here, or on the steps, the young woman might have tripped over it - and there you are."

"You think so?" Reggie murmured. He went slowly down the steps. "The other day, the toad was on the tiles about where it is now. I saw it from the next - door window." He picked up one of the larger fragments. "Yes. This is its regular place. You see there's no moss on the tiles underneath. They're dry and clean. Yes. So the provisional hypothesis is, it was broken by the fall of young Mrs. Colson last night. And, if she fell on the toad, she didn't fall into the pool. She was put there by hand." He gazed solemnly at Underwood. "Broken toad indicates crime of determination." He bent over the toad's wreck. "Yes. Several signs of human contact with the broken toad. What was young Mrs. Colson wearing?"

"She had a long coat on, sir - rough, yellow stuff."

"Here you are. Strands of yellow woollen fabric. Thus confirmin' our hypothesis. Young Mrs. Colson fell down the steps on to the toad, and was stunned by the fall. Then dragged into the pool to drown while unconscious. Other indications confirm that. See the streaks in the moss on the tiles? Something was pulled across lately. Also the toad made further contacts. Somebody scraped a shoe on this fragment. You see? Black leather - fine leather. Probably kid. However. Not providin' any explanation of the first act - how she fell."

"Taking it altogether, I should say she was pushed," said Underwood.

"Yes. Quite possible. Perhaps probable. But further investigation required." Slowly he climbed the steps, again looking closely at each and the iron railings on either side. Just below the top he stood still. He pointed a little finger at the railings. "What about that, inspector?"

To the base of one rail a piece of string was tied - thin, green string. The loose end of it had been blown into the shrubs below. The inspector gathered it up. "Don't seem to have been broken. But there's a bit of dirt at the end. Tied to the other railing, and jerked off, I should say - the knot pulled loose - when the strain came. That's it, a trip line to bring the young woman down."

"Yes. That is indicated," Reggie drawled. "Tied with a granny - knot. Well, well." He gazed at the inspector and Underwood, and his round face was without expression. "Proceedin' on these facts, you'd better occupy the attention of the ladies Colson - telling 'em nothing - while Underwood goes through the house lookin' for green string and a black kid shoe with a scratch on it. Is the man Colson here? No? Gone back to his widower's home? You might ask him to come and have another heart - to - heart talk. I should be ready for him this afternoon. I must go and have a look at the dead woman now. Oh - Underwood - drop in next door and ask our Miss Pearse where the first Colson had his stroke, will you? Sort of question to keep her interested - which might be useful. I was wonderin' if he had it on the tiles. And another little question - ask cook if Minnie Colson eats saffron herself. Good - bye."

In the squalid mortuary of Langdon he examined the body of young Mrs. Colson. She was not beautiful in death. Her face stared at him, swollen and pale, the pencilling about her blood - shot eyes smeared on the pouches below, the grease - paint on her lips lurid and grotesque across the bloated pallor. . . .

It was some hours before he came back to the Colson house, and, in that dingy room off the hall, told Underwood his results. "Cause of death, drowning. Several bruises on head and body before death. Tear in the coat. Provisional hypothesis thus confirmed. Also, she'd had some drink shortly before death. Probably cocktails. She drank a good deal. Didn't live a very nice life. That's the medical evidence. What have you got? Identified our criminal of determination?"

"I rather think I've got a case, sir. I've found a ball of green string. In a cupboard in the room Minnie Colson uses for a sort of study. You never saw such a muck of a place. It's a tumbled muddle of odds and ends - needlework, woolwork, church papers, girls' club stuff, letters, and accounts all over the place. In the cupboard she keeps gardening things - gloves and basket and clippers, and what not - and there was this ball of green string. And what else do you think I found?"

"Oh, weed - killer. Arsenical weed - killer."

"That's right," Underwood nodded. "It does look like a case now, don't it?"

"Yes. If we could prove Mills got his arsenic here. Which we can't. However. What about the shoes?"

"Minnie Colson's shoes, put out to clean last night, are black kid, and they're both scratched. Look here."

"Yes. As you say," Reggie murmured. "And what does the cook say? Does Minnie like saffron?"

"Never eats any cake, sir. Being bilious, I'm told. Only makes cakes and pastry for other people. So there you are."

"Yes. These defects of eatin' power are a factor. Dominatin' factor. If Mrs. Colson junior had only eaten normally, quite a different case. However. What about our Miss Pearse? Could she tell you where grandfather Colson had his stroke?"

"She could, sir. She said he was found out there on the tiles, below the terrace." Underwood looked at Reggie, rather like a dog, admiration and a certain awe in his brown eyes. "That was a facer to me. I don't Imow how you got to it."

"Workin' on a series," Reggie mumbled. "Repetitions probable. Grandfather found unconscious - like Mills - possibly after knock-out dose of arsenic - down there under the terrace - like young Mrs. Colson - possibly tripped on the steps. That was in 1914. Eighteen years ago. After the children grew up. As Miss Pearse was careful to indicate. By the way, has our Miss Pearse been in to condole with the bereaved?"

"Yes, sir. When I saw her, she said she must come in and see old Mrs. Colson, and she came and stayed some time."

"Very proper. She is proper," Reggie purred. "Well, well. At the time of grandfather's death, I should say Minnie was twenty - five or so. And her brother was - what?"

"Oh, about the same. He's over forty, I'll swear. I phoned for him, like you said, and he's come. He's with his mother." Reggie nodded, and sat silent in meditation which seemed gratifying. "Well - I suppose the next thing is to put Miss Minnie through it?" Underwood suggested.

Reggie gazed at him solemnly. "Is she with her mother, too?"

"No. Miss Pearse sent her away to lie down. She's in her own room."

"That's all right. Minnie can wait. I'll talk to mamma. Go and tell the son to clear out, and stand by."

Old Mrs. Colson's bedroom was large and furnished with mid - Victorian state. Through its close - curtained windows only dim light could enter, but that did not conceal the faded age of all its colours. She lay on a couch, in a corner, covered with an eiderdown quilt which had been pink before it turned grey. Reggie saw in her no likeness to her lank, ungainly daughter. The old face was tired and sorrowful, but composed to calm endurance. Above the quilt, her dress showed an ample bosom. Everything about her was in a pretty order - the abundance of grey hair, the little, plump, white hands, the lace at her neck. But her dark, deep - set eyes gazed at the two men as if they were not there.

Underwood began with something apologetic about necessary enquiries. "I understand," she said gently. "Pray forgive me, I am not as young as I was. Ask me what you wish. I will tell you anything I can."

"Needn't ask you very much," Reggie murmured. "Did your son know his wife was coming here last night?"

"Dear me, no. Nobody knew. Nobody thought of the poor child coming till Minnie suggested telephoning to ask her to sit with me. It was just Minnie's idea."

"I see." Reggie nodded. "And how was the lady when she came?"

"Quite well. Just as usual."

"Oh, yes. Did it occur to you she'd been drinking?"

Mrs. Colson raised herself a little. "I never thought of such a thing. It is cruel to suggest it."

"You think so? She did drink, didn't she?"

"That is an amazing thing to say."

"Really? Never thought of it before? Well, well. Was her husband on good terms with her?"

"Perfectly. Alfred was devoted to her. I don't know what can have put this into your head."

"No? Well, well. Do you know where Alfred was last night?"

"He was in Town. He was dining at his club." 

"Oh, he'd told you that. Yes. And when did his wife leave you?" 

"I am not sure of the time. Minnie had only just gone. If she had gone. She always takes so long to get ready." 

"Mrs. Alfred didn't sit with you long, then?"

"She wanted to go as soon as it grew dark. She never liked the dark, poor thing."

"Left at dusk," Reggie repeated. "Half past seven or eight. And Alfred dined at his club. Well, well." He gave Underwood a long, impressive stare. "That's all, Mrs. Colson. Thank you."

He led the way back to the little morning - room, and there turned on the puzzled Underwood. "My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! Get on. Bring in Alfred, the son."

Alfred Colson was brought. He also had no likeness to the lean, long Minnie. He took after his mother: a well - made man, rather solid, with neat, small hands and feet, and a regular oval of a face almost as feminine as hers. But he was not so well preserved. His complexion was mottled; he had a loose double chin; his eyes and his hands were unsteady.

"I want to know where you were when your grandfather died," Reggie snapped.

Alfred's mouth came open. "I don't remember. How should I? It's twenty years ago."

"You were living here?"

"Of course I was. What's all this about?"

He fell where your wife fell. How much money did he leave?"

"I don't know." Alfred stared sullen fear. "He left everything to my father."

"You must know. How much?"

"About seventy thousand, I think."

"And when your father died - gastric influenza that was called - how much did he leave?"

"He left everything to mother."

"Did he? And much less than grandfather?"

"It was nearly fifty thousand," Alfred said loudly.

"Good deal less. Someone had spent some money. Not on this house, what?"

"There was the war in between. Everything was down."

"And when your mother dies, who does the money go to?"

"Under father's will, it's divided between Minnie and me." Alfred licked his lips. "What are you asking all this for?"

"Clearin' up the case. Where were you when your wife died?"

"I was dining at the club."

"Sure?" Reggie drawled.

"What do you mean? I don't know when she died exactly. I dined at the club."

"Time?"

"I don't know. About eight, I suppose. I was in the club all the evening." 

"Any evidence?"

"What do you mean? Fellows must have seen me." 

"Can you think of any fellows?" 

Alfred's hands fidgeted. "I didn't notice. Why should I?"

"Your affair. When did you arrange to dine at the club last night?" 

"I often do." 

"Oh, yes. Told your wife you would?"

Alfred took time to think what he should answer, and decided to say, "Yes."

"Why?" Reggie drawled. "Why leave your wife to dine alone?"

"Nothing unusual," Alfred snarled.

"Wasn't it? Not on good terms with her. What was the trouble? Drink? Money?"

"There wasn't any trouble."

"Oh. Somebody had been spending the family money, though. How much have you and your wife drawn from the estate?"

"I can't tell you. What is it to do with you?"

"Quite a lot. And with you. But you can't tell me. Better think it over. Go on." Reggie waved him away, and, after a flinching look of enquiry and fear, he went in a hurry.

Reggie sat erect and alert. "I say, you handled him rough, sir," said Underwood uneasily. "I - -"

Reggie put up a finger and he stopped, and, in silence, they listened. Over Reggie's face came a slow benign smile. "There you are," he whispered. "Upstairs. Into mother's room. That's the reaction. To talk over my cruel suspicions." He slid to the door, and, without a sound, opened it and sat down again. . . .

After a while they heard more movement overhead: a heavy - footed bustle. "Sister Minnie," Reggie murmured. A door opened and shut on a high - voiced question. "Sister Minnie gone to ask how things are goin'. The more they are together the happier they'll be."

"What's the idea, sir?" Underwood whispered.

"Next reaction. Shut up."

It was some time before the bedroom door sounded again. Then came a hurry of heavy feet on the stairs and away down the hall.

"Gone to the kitchen," Underwood indicated.

"Yes. That is indicated. Come on. Quiet."

They made their way to the kitchen door. That was open, but they saw only the cook and the daily maid sitting over their tea. "Where is Miss Colson?" Reggie said softly.

The cook jumped. "Miss Minnie's in the scullery, sir. Warming a glass of milk for the mistress."

"Oh, all right." Reggie drew back behind Underwood, and whispered in his ear: "Take her away for a minute. Ask how mother is. Something like that. Three or four minutes." He slipped out of sight round a corner of the hall.

Underwood went into the scullery. He saw Minnie Colson's untidy head bent over a saucepan on the gas - stove. At the sound of the door she started back, looking, it remains in his memory, like a frightened horse. When he said he wanted to speak to her, she made stammering difficulties. Oh, but she couldn't; the milk would boil over, and mother hadn't had anything all day. Underwood turned off the gas. "Come along. It's your mother I want to ask you about." He took her off.

Then Reggie strolled into the kitchen. "I can get out to the garden through the scullery, can't I?" He smiled at the cook. "Door opens under the terrace? Thanks."

Into the scullery he went, and closed the door behind him. He sniffed at the milk in the saucepan, looked round, opened the larder, and in it found a bottle of milk three parts empty, another sealed. The sealed bottle he took, and, returning to the scullery, poured a portion of it into a clean saucepan. The saucepan with the milk which Minnie had prepared he set down outside in the garden. Under his own saucepan he lit the gas, and stood by it till he heard Minnie's heavy steps returning. Then he put out the gas and slid away through the garden door, to stop, out of sight, beyond the window.

He watched Minnie take the saucepan with hurried bungling hands, taste the milk, pour it into a jug. She spilt some; she exclaimed hysterically, wiped up the mess, and thudded away.

Then he came in, and followed her quickly to meet Underwood in the hall. "Up you go," he muttered. "After her. See her give it to her mother. Then call her away. Ask her anything you dam' like. Don't let her make any more food for mother, that's all. Anything mother wants, the cook must make. Stay here till further notice. See?"

"What, you mean that milk - -?" Underwood gasped.

"The milk she's taken is all right. I've got the milk she cooked. Get on, get on."

Underwood ran upstairs, and, as he went, Alfred came down, gave a sidelong look of fear and hate at Reggie, and left the house. Reggie followed, but only to take a rug from his car. When he returned to the car, the saucepan and the bottle of milk were hidden under the rug. He drove away to his laboratory. . . .

It was some hours later; he was not in the laboratory, but in the room beyond - in an easy chair, on the small of his back - when the telephone rang.

The voice of Underwood came to him, emotional and aggrieved: "I've been ringing up your house, sir. There's the very devil of a business here. The old lady's been taken bad. Sick and convulsions, and I don't know what. She can't hardly speak now, but she says Minnie poisoned her. Her doctor says it looks like arsenic poisoning."

"Oh, yes. Yes. I should think he's right," Reggie drawled. "I'll come and see."

"Did you expect it?" Underwood's voice rose. "One of the possibilities. Yes," Reggie murmured," probable possibility," and he rang off.

Again he came into Mrs. Colson's room. As he entered, his head jerked back and his nostrils dilated. There was a faint smell of garlic. A doctor and a nurse were by the bed, and from it came a groaning sound. But he went first to the gas - stove, and looked down into it. Though it was not alight, some charred matter lay on the hearth, and the upper part of the cream fire - brick bore a brown stain. He gave that a little  smile of satisfaction. Then he moved slowly to the bedside. The old face I was now of a bluish pallor and drawn with pain, and i beads of sweat stood upon it. The eyes were sunken; looked fear, looked at no one. The body was contorted  in slow faint spasms.

He beckoned the doctor out, and took him to the dingy little room downstairs where Underwood waited, nervous and impatient. He sank into a chair and sighed. "Well, well. Quite clear, what?" He surveyed the doctor with placid eyes. "Acute poisonin'. As you said. Irritant poison. No doubt arsenic. You noticed the garlic smell? Also brown sublimation on the gas - stove? Arsenic has been burnt there. Resolute bit of poisonin'. I should say you won't save her." 

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Fortune." The doctor shook melancholy head. "She's old; she has no power of resistance. It's a dreadful tragedy."

"Yes. Tragic elements," Reggie murmured. "Her own daughter!" the doctor exclaimed.

"Oh no. No." Reggie smiled. "Not her daughter. Herself." 

The doctor drew back. "But she has said it was her daughter, sir. The inspector, here, has it written down. He - -"

"That's right, Mr. Fortune," Underwood broke in. "It's like this. First I knew of her being taken bad - there was a scream, and I ran up, and she was in a ghastly mess; and she said, ' Minnie, Minnie,' and cried, and then afterwards - she couldn't speak properly - she wrote down - look - -"

He produced a paper, and Reggie saw written, in a shaken hand, "Milk Minnie gave me. Tasted strange. She poisoned me."

"Here is some of the milk left, sir." The doctor pointed to a jug and a dirty glass on the table. "You have only to make a test."

"And I shall find arsenic. Yes. I believe you. But this isn't the milk Minnie prepared. This is milk that I prepared from a sealed bottle." He turned on Underwood. "You watched Minnie take it into her?"

"I did, sir," Underwood answered eagerly. "And she didn't put anything into it, I'll swear. As soon as she set it down, I took her away, and I had her here, under examination, till there was a scream, and I ran up and found the old lady being sick and saying it was Minnie. That's how it was. Minnie can't have done it."

"No. Quite impossible. You see, doctor? The milk which Minnie did prepare I took away; and I've tested it, and there was no arsenic in it, nor in the sealed bottle of milk from which I sent up that jugful. Absolutely clear case. Mrs. Colson put arsenic into the milk herself from a store she had in the bedroom, and burnt the rest on the gas - stove; then she swallowed the dose, and, when the pangs came on, accused Minnie. No probable, possible shadow of doubt; no possible doubt whatever. Suicide by mother in order to convict daughter of murder. Case with elements of tragedy, as you say."

"My God! It's horrible," the doctor gasped. "You think so? Yes. However. We've prevented the worst. We've made an end. You'd better go back to your patient."

"I can't do anything," the doctor muttered. "Oh, no. No. But she might as well die as easy as may be." The doctor stared at him, and went slowly out.

"Mr. Fortune," said Underwood, and stopped. "I mean to say, did you expect this?" Reggie gazed at his keen, anxious face with closing eyes. "When you changed the milk - when you sent me up to make sure Minnie didn't dope what you got ready - I made sure you were going to catch Minnie out by testing the first lot."

"One of the possibilities," Reggie murmured. "Never probable possibility. But one must try everything. Broken toad indicated criminal was person of determination - Minnie isn't."

"You did think the old lady would poison herself?" 

A small smile curled Reggie's lips. "What I thought isn't evidence. I was protectin' the innocent. Our job, Underwood. We haven't been very efficient. But some success at last. Also our job to punish the sinner. That we have done. See the sequence, don't you? Murders of grandfather and father committed to enrich the darlin' son. Murder of constable accidental in attempt murder darlin' son's wife, subsequently achieved. Motive of that; deliverance of darlin' son from extravagant and vicious wife. If daughter could be convicted of the murder, whole of family fortune would be left for son. Hence daughter's string used for trip line, and daughter's shoes scratched on the broken toad. Devoted mother. Absolute devotion. When police were gettin' dangerous about the murders - when darlin' son came runnin' to her in a fright that they were makin' a case against him - final effort to save him by proving, with her own death, daughter was the family murderer. Beautiful self - sacrifice."

"Good God!" said Underwood, under his breath. "That's why you bullied Alfred into a funk!"

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!" Reggie murmured. "Experiment made to observe reactions. Where have you put Minnie?"

"She's up in her room, poor woman. That Miss Pearse is with her. When we had the big upset. Miss Pearse came in, hearing the row, and took her in hand. I was glad of it, I own. Minnie was pretty well throwing fits."

"Poor soul. Yes," Reggie sighed. "Go and ask Miss Pearse to come and see me a minute, will you?"

Miss Pearse came. She was tightly neat still, and still her little meek face had the assurance of power over everything.

"You're very kind," said Reggie.

"Minnie is helpless," said Miss Pearse.

"It's all over. Does she know that?"

"I have told her the doctor says her mother won't recover. What do you want her to be told?"

"That there's no blame on her. For her mother. For anything."

Miss Pearse gave him a cold smile. "You have made sure of that? I congratulate you."

"Oh, no. No. Your work. You gave me the key, Miss Pearse. When you made it so clear Mrs. Colson was a devoted mother. Confirmed by broken toad."

"You are very acute, sir," said Miss Pearse primly.

"Thanks very much. I value that." Reggie bowed.

"Mrs. Colson committed suicide, of course?"

"Yes. Last act. Yes."

"I have told Minnie that she did. Can you imagine what Minnie said?"

"I think so. Yes," Reggie sighed. "Probably said it ought to have been her."

"You are quite right. She said, 'Why wasn't it me; oh, it should have been me?' These self - sacrificing people! I have no patience with them."

"No. Nuisance." Reggie smiled. "You'll look after her won't you?"

"Of course I shall," said Miss Pearse.

SECOND OBJECTION: THE ANGEL'S EYE

WHETHER the will of man is free is a question which Mr. Fortune has been heard to answer both ways.

One of his favourite pieces of evidence for the opinion that we have no choice in what we do or endure is the fact that he was introduced to the case of the angel's eye through being in a country house in January. From this he also infers an irrational element in the ruling forces of the universe.

That he should go by his own free will to any country house but his own in winter is clearly beyond belief. The outdoor diversions of the season do not please him. For killing creatures, except in the way of his profession, he has no aptitude. By the social pleasures of the country - house evening he is made melancholy. What took him to stay with Mrs. Mead at her house in Midshire was the gentle sovereignty of his wife.

He will point out that in the particular example of despotism there was no reason, only the illogical emotion that when you are asked often you must go sometimes. Moreover, it was futile. For, though he was thereby introduced to the case before it began, this did no good to anybody. The result of his efforts, which were in his best style, cannot, he laments, be reconciled with faith that the world has any meaning.

Midshire is a various county, with some wooded river valleys of renowned charm, chalk downs good in the second class of their kind, and stretches of rolling sand which produce by nature heath and by plantation miles of solemn conifers.

None of the scenery, as Mr. Fortune pointed out bitterly to his wife, is adapted to the weather of a dank English January. The vapours pervasively wept their burden to the ground, and he spent his days curled up by the fire like a cat.

Mrs. Mead's house is at one end of the county, on a knoll above the most picturesque reach of the biggest river. The family of Mrs. Mead has been in Midshire since it began to be civilised - a process, in Mr. Fortune's judgment, still far from completion.

She is alone in the world, except for a son building up the Empire on the other side of it. Her loneliness and her universal charity drew Mrs. Fortune to her, and Mr. Fortune has admitted that she is the only good woman he ever knew content to let people be what they are. This he considers proof of brain - power in Mrs. Mead not otherwise apparent. Her accepted importance in Midshire is wholly ancestral.

Her house - party consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Fortune and two young friends of her son, negligible in the case and out of it. She announced an invitation to take them all to dine and dance and sleep at Letley Hall.

Horror made Mr. Fortune dumb, and, with some perception of his anguish, Mrs. Mead proceeded to explain the charms of the prospect. Letley Hall was occupied by Mrs. Healy, an Argentine widow of wealth. She was just giving it up, and her party was by way of farewell to the county. They would meet everybody - Mr. Fortune's sad eyes grew larger - and it was sure to be a very pretty affair.

Letley Hall was one of the oldest houses in Midshire, beautifully Elizabethan; you could not find anything better. It was absolutely unspoilt, though the Maminots had brought it quite up to date. It still belonged to the Maminots. Of course, that poor boy, Oliver Maminot, could not afford to live in it. He was just farming the old home farm, the only land he had left. People had hoped Mrs. Healy would buy the Hall. Really much better for Oliver to have it off his hands altogether. But what would become of it now, or of him, Mrs. Mead shuddered - at some length - to think, and Mr. Fortune's aspect was plaintive.

Letley was quite a legendary place. But the strangest story was about the Mrs. Maminot of Napoleon's time. Her portrait was in the gallery - a lovely Romney; she must have been the sweetest girl. She was just married, and her husband brought her home to Letley Hall. He was called away on some false alarm of an invasion by the French, and the morning after he went she was found dead in her bed. It made a great scandal. She had brought her husband a fortune. Of course, people said he had just gone away to have her murdered by his servants. But there wasn't a wound on her; the doctors couldn't find any trace of anything wrong; she looked just beautifully asleep, just as she always did, only there was a story that she was blushing. At least, somebody made up a ballad with a refrain, "The blushing bride of Letley."

"That's horrible," said Mrs. Fortune. She looked at her husband, but his round face did not awake from its plaintive weariness. "What did the doctors say?" she asked.

"My dear, they said the poor thing must have had spasms of heart; so it was called a broken heart - because her husband left her on the honeymoon, you see." She also turned to Mr. Fortune. "Isn't it a strange story?"

"Oh, yes. Yes. Happened a long time ago," he murmured. "Let's hope it isn't true."

When his wife went up to dress for dinner, she found him lying on the rug in front of the fire, with his eyes closed, over a volume of Paul Bourget - the most modern French literature in Mrs. Mead's house. The eyes opened slowly to watch her get into a wrapper; slowly he rose and put his arms round her, and kissed the back of her neck. 

She submitted; she disengaged herself and contemplated him severely. She crooned the nursery rhyme, "Was a lady loved a swine. 'Honey', said she. 'Hunk,' said he."

"Oh, no. No, Joan," he protested.

"Yes. She was being very nice to you and you were pig, merely pig."

"My dear girl! Condemnin' me to awful things. Dance of all the county, and Argentine widow an' all. And why? Because there was a nasty little crime a hundred years ago. I ask you! Just wantin' to put me through my tricks. Make me show off to the Philistines."

"Vanity!" She pulled his ears. "My good child! Too much ego. Far too much ego. The poor lady wasn't thinking in the least of the wonderful Reginald's wonderful powers. You sat there like a bored cat, so she tried to bring up something about the place that would amuse you."

"You think so? "Reggie moaned. "I wonder. But, anyway, I hate bein' amused."

"Nasty temper."

"No it isn't. She's like the Highland fellow with Dr Johnson; when the doctor was feelin' forlorn, made a lot of goats jump and said, 'See! Such pretty goats.' Don't want to see the goats dance, Joan."

"You will dance yourself, my child," said she. He drew back. A piteous noise came from him. "Not me, Joan. No."

"Yes. It is hard on the women." She made an opprobrious gesture indicating the forward curve of his torso. "But I must think of your good, dear. Victims shall be found." And it was so.

Letley Hall is at the other end of the county, among modern plantations on the primeval sand - heaths. To drive through the dense woods which surround it on a moonless winter's night is to feel that you have run off the earth into a void of darkness.

With many windows alight, Letley Hall blazed out of the gloom less like a house than a shapeless illumination; As their cars came to the door, it was revealed as a building on the lines of a capital E, with an overhanging upper storey, and above that gables innumerable.

"What a pity you can't see it," said Mrs. Mead. "It's all timbered red brick, you know, the loveliest rich colour. But the outside isn't really the oldest part. There's a great wall built into that western wing, part of a castle which was here before, and some of the rooms there are ages old."

They went into a passage between two screens of elaborate carving; they were taken to a room in which the black panelling and the emblazoned ceiling glowed to constellations of electric chandeliers. Their hostess, the Argentine Mrs. Healy, a large, dark woman who had been handsome, also glittered with many decorations, and was exuberant. She had a number of people about her, she could talk to everybody at once, and there was a noise. But in her general attentions it appeared to Reggie that she made much of Mrs. Mead and of a man with a lot of brow and little features on a shrewd, coarse face, whom she called Clarence and introduced as Mr. Burchard.

The name stirred vague recollections in Reggie's mind. Clarence Burchard was some sort of a money king. Just the sort of man Mrs. Healy would delight to honour. Reggie was not interested. There was something much better to look at.

Beside a man who was the incarnation of all the world's retired colonels sat a girl like an early Italian madonna. Not the most ethereal of them - say a Lippo Lippi madonna - not wistful, but of a simplicity of childish beauty. She was old - fashioned, or of no fashion. Her hair, which was of the madonna gold, she had drawn back smooth and flat and strained from her full, white forehead, to bind in a heavy knot above her long neck. The delicate colours of face and lip were supplied by nature. The frock, of the blue of her eyes, was plain from neck to foot and hand. She sat very still. She looked straight before her, neither shy nor asking notice, not ill at ease but as if she found them all strange people. . . .

Mr. and Mrs. Fortune were taken to a room the walls of which were hung with tapestry of goddesses and the ceiling moulded into wreaths of cherubs. Out of it opened a bathroom like an operating - theatre.

Reggie sat down on the fourposter bed and found in it the resilience of box springs, and gazed with respectful admiration at a tall chest painted red and gold and the carving of strange beasts and birds on the chimney - piece above the great hearth which held an efficient electric fire.

"Well sir!" Mrs. Fortune's tone menaced.

"Yes. Feelin' like Queen of Sheba. The half had not been told me. Fine place. Wonderful place."

"I thought so." Mrs. Fortune was still severe.

"Did you notice the staircase? There's richness. Grand design. And the detail - the little monsters on the pillars - very crafty."

"Don't prevaricate," said Mrs. Fortune. "I also noticed Ann Bracy."

"Which was that?" Reggie opened eyes of dreamy innocence.

"Yes, you were all eyes and no ears. The only creature you looked at."

"My dear girl! Oh, my dear girl! Not just. Not even clever. You mean the madonna girl with the colonel. I was lookin' at her because I was thinkin' about Burchard. Where does he come in? Everybody else seemed to be local. And it was Burchard Mrs. Healy shoved at Mrs. Mead. Gettin' him into county society, what? And why?"

"Humbug," said Mrs. Fortune. "She is a beautiful child. A young madonna, yes - springtime - and one is so wise and wicked and fat. Too bad." For which there was vengeance.

Many more people sat down to dinner. Between two vigorous sporting matrons, old and young, Lady This and Lady That - he never distinguished their names - Reggie learnt a good deal of the company. Almost everybody was somebody in Midshire. Dignitaries were pointed out to him. Oh, that man; that was Colonel Bracy; no, he didn't belong to Midshire; he was just a friend of Mrs. Healy's from somewhere. The fair girl in the blue frock? His daughter, of course. Pretty creature, wasn't she, in her childish way? Such a pity Mrs. Healy was going. Letley Hall was really one of the finest places in Midshire, but terrible to keep up nowadays. What was going to happen to it nobody knew. The poor Maminot boy! That was Oliver Maminot, the big youth at the far end. Such a nice boy. But, of course, not a bean! Absolutely.

Reggie surveyed Oliver Maminot. He had a genial and open countenance. His dubious future was not troubling him. He liked his dinner and his neighbours, and gave not a look beyond. A stalwart youth.

For Mrs. Healy's housekeeping Reggie has maintained a respectful admiration. It provides him with one of his favourite examples for a theory which he maintains against the incredulity of mankind - that a woman can give you good claret. In spite of a master of foxhounds who would talk horses to him, her Haut Brion brought him to the dance in a benign humour.

So he admitted the justice of Mrs. Mead's prognostication that to see the great hall of Letley at its best you must see a dance in it. No daylight could make as much of the heraldry on the screen and the windows as the blaze of the many electric candelabra which hung in mid - air from the lofty roof, and the great curved beams up there in the half dark loomed as a vast, intricate pattern of mysterious harmonies. In the minstrels' gallery the light fell on a band of comical, gay uniforms bringing the flash of folly which the hall needed to set off its formal grandeur. The slow kaleidoscopic rhythm of the dancing crowd furnished just the pageantry for which it was made.

"Great place," Reggie murmured to the frisky matron with whom he was walking a careful foxtrot.

"I'll tell the world," she smiled. "Nothing like Letley for a big show. Decent of Ma Healy to give it a send - off like this. Get it talked about, and Oliver ought to get a buyer if anybody's got any money left."

Oliver was not then in need of sympathy. His dancing had more power than grace, but it was Ann Bracy he pushed round the hall, respectful of her fragility with a droll self - satisfied concentration.

The dance stopped on a clash, and Reggie, conceiving that he had done enough for duty, slid round the edges into obscurity.

He found the door ajar, and a man drew away from the side of it, a black - jowled fellow in morning dress - some gentleman's gentleman who had been at pains to look on.

Reggie gave himself a small cigar and a glass of seltzer water before he thought of coming back. Then he wandered upstairs, and surveyed the dance from the back of the minstrels' gallery behind the band. Burchard had Ann Bracy in his arms. A faint dislike of the man entered Reggie's languid mind. He was possessive. He had a grin.

The girl did not seem aware of it. She yielded to his pressure as if she felt nothing unusual in it. Her face was poised to look up at him in ritual attention, but with a calm, childish candour neither excited nor exciting.

Burchard took her out of the hall, and Reggie went downstairs again, and, as he went, saw the black - jowled man flitting in front of him.

On his return to the hall he obeyed a glance of command from Mrs. Fortune, and she assigned him to a robust Diana, whose talk was of Pekinese, whose legs moved on a larger scale. After the first round he kept his feet out of her range, but the effort was exhausting.

When Mrs. Fortune came upstairs, she found him in bed. He rolled over and blinked at her.

"Coward," said she.

"Oh, no. Casualty. Why are wives so social? These are the riddles nobody can solve. Backward animal, woman. Not yet fit for marriage. Still in the herd stage. However. What did you make of it Joan?"

"A coward," said she, and wrinkled her attractive nose. "A superior person."

"My dear girl! Treatin' serious subject with levity. Why was it? What's it all about?"

Mrs. Fortune let down her hair. "Why? Oh, infant. Do you want a reason for a woman giving a dance? How like you!"

"Yes. This dance. With these people. Farewell to the county by Mrs. Bountiful. All right. Then why the honoured friends who are not of the county, the Burchard and the Bracys? Why thrust them on the local gods?"

"My good child, the woman can have friends of her own. She may even like to see them. We're not all self - sufficient."

"No. Lot of mindin' other people's business. That's what I complain of. However. We're goin' away tomorrow." He turned over and with placid concentration went to sleep.

His hope had been to escape before lunch. Late in the morning, when people began to come down, Mrs. Healy proposed to show the house to the Bracys and Burchard, and Mrs. Mead was taken into the party, and to his dumb despair she told Reggie that he would like to come too.

It was a comprehensive inspection. They were marched through the great chamber and the library and the winter parlour and the dark chapel which had been turned into a lounge, retaining of its sanctity only the stained glass apostles of the windows. There Oliver Maminot was discovered, and commanded to act as guide because he knew all about everything. He seemed to expect the commission. But it was Mrs. Mead who made the most of the best things, with Mrs. Healy playing a tactful second. They had ready applause from Colonel Bracy, interest from Burchard, and his endeavours to interest Ann Bracy were politely received. She walked through the exhibition with the docility of a good child.

They went up the great staircase and turned to the west wing. "This is the oldest part, you know," Maminot explained. "The jolly old castle wall makes one side here, and the gallery was built on in Queen Elizabeth's time when the family made their pile. The state bedroom is along here." He looked a question at Mrs. Healy.

"Sure," said she. "Mine, you know." She gave a general wink; she bustled them in; they saw its ancient and modern splendours, and she was facetious. Maminot took them away down the row of family portraits in the gallery - Maminots with ruffs and stomachers, Maminots with periwigs and hoops - and, between the state bedroom and the staircase, a male and female Maminot of later date, the man a big, blond creature like Oliver, but military in a red tunic and white tights, the woman of a graceful fragility of body emphasised by her Empire dress and a child's face of large, troubled eyes.

"The Romney." Mrs. Mead touched Reggie's arm. "Like a sad fairy, isn't she? But Romney loved to make his women look wild."

"Yes. Rather fine. Yes," Reggie murmured.

"Oliver!" said Mrs. Mead. "Where's the room of the tragedy?"

"What? Well, it's a sort of dressing - room, you know," said Maminot. "Want to see it? "He turned to Mrs. Healy. "Do you mind?"

"Good gracious, no. But there's nothing to see." Mrs. Healy laughed.

"What, what?" said Colonel Bracy. "What's the story?"

"Well, it don't amount to much," Maminot grinned. "Let me see. The lady up there" - he jerked his head at the Romney - "rather a beauty, isn't she?" And Reggie, still contemplating the portrait, saw Ann Bracy look at it too, and discovered a likeness - only their youth, perhaps, only the blue of their frocks; Ann was the calmer, the more virginal. "Well, she was the first wife of my great - great - grandfather. Is that enough 'greats'? Never mind. She's not really anything to do with me, you know; she had no children. The old man - that's the warrior beside her - he had to nip off soon after they were married. So the lady was left alone, and she slept in this little room" - he opened the door of it - "and in the morning she was found dead, the idea being it was a broken heart. They say the old boy was frightfully cut up. He'd been dead keen on her. That's why he had their pictures hung up outside their room. And he made no change when he married number two. There you are. Our only tragedy. Moral: never leave your wife alone on the honeymoon."

"And a devilish good moral too," said Colonel Bracy, and Burchard laughed loud.

"But you're spoiling the story, Oliver," Mrs. Mead objected. "You haven't told them - when she was found, she was all flushed."

"Oh ah. I forgot. Title of story, 'The Blushing Bride of Letley.' Well, that's where it happened."

Reggie went into the little room. It had a few pieces of old furniture. It was panelled all over. Reggie glanced at Maminot. "Never had a fireplace?" he murmured.

"Not that I know of. One of the rooms that's never been touched."

Reggie wandered to the narrow window. It looked across the turf and gravel in front of the house to the big trees on the eastern side. He turned away and looked round the panelled walls. Most of the wood was plain but for some faded painting of coats of arms. On the wall opposite the window was a large, elaborate carving. A bush rose from the floor, and out of the bush flames, and in the flames was an angel, his face cut deep, his eyes black depths. Over all was inscribed in old English letters:

NEC TAMEN CONSUMEBATUR

"Quaint - what, what? Quaint," said Colonel Bracy. "What's it mean, Maminot?"

"Search me," Maminot yawned.

Reggie gazed at him. "My dear chap. Oh, my dear chap. From the Bible. Burnin' bush in which the angel of the Lord appeared to Moses. Though burnin', nec tamen consumebatur - yet the bush was not consumed. General meanin' by the fellows who put it up, something or other was going to endure, whatever happened. Possibly the old religion. Place looks rather like an oratory. However." He wandered round the room inspecting the walls, and went out.

They proceeded through the rest of the house, and so at last to lunch. It was a passover of a meal, though heavily and too alcoholically luxurious. Most people were going immediately after. Mrs. Mead's party had to wait till her afternoon nap was finished. Reggie did not omit the opportunity for one of his own. He waked in the early winter dusk with a vague consciousness that doors were opening and shutting.

As he came from his room to the staircase he saw someone leaving the state bedroom. It was the black - jowled man who had watched the dance. He did not look pleased. He went swiftly past Reggie towards the back stairs.

Reggie went on his way down. As none of his party was visibly waiting, he turned into the lounge. That was populated. Under the stained - glass window which showed St. John writing, with a lamb at his side, Ann lay on a big couch, her bosom moving to a slow, peaceful rhythm, her eyes closed, her face pale and calm and gentle as the saint's.

Maminot was in the corner beyond her with a pipe and a sporting paper, but over the paper and through the smoke he watched her and Burchard. Burchard sat close to her, made no pretence of looking at anything else, and his look was greedy.

As Reggie came in, Burchard jerked a glance over his shoulder, then returned to contemplation of the sleeping Ann. Reggie dropped into a chair and, with eyes which narrowed, gazed at the black beams in the ceiling.

It was not long before he heard the dominant voice of Mrs. Healy speeding parting guests. Reggie came to his feet. "Well, well," he said as a general salute to the silent party, and went out into the arms of Mrs. Healy. Her farewells were effusive in a breathless gush.

After tea that evening, Mrs. Mead got rid of the young people and made herself comfortable with knitting - needles and a ball of silk. She looked over her glasses at Reggie, curled up in a big chair by the fire. "Now, do tell me, what did you think of it?"

"Didn't think," Reggie murmured. "No material. Only wondered. What was it all about? Why was it?"

"Oh, do you mean the dance? I told you, it was a farewell party."

"You did. Yes. Explanation not adequate. Why the Burchard and the Bracys?"

Mrs. Mead smiled. "My dear! Isn't she a lovely girl? -"

"Yes. Beautiful," Reggie said.

"You're terribly acute." Mrs. Mead beamed over her clicking needles. "Mrs. Healy is the kindest creature. Of course, she's always been fond of Oliver Maminot. It's a shame that Letley should go out of the family, but really what else was there to do? And this will almost put Oliver on his legs again."

"I see. Yes," Reggie murmured. "Object of party, to exhibit Letley Hall in splendour to prospective purchaser: also to introduce him to leaders of county society. The purchaser bein' the man Burchard, what? Mrs. Healy was bein' kind to Maminot - or to Burchard. However. Where do the Bracys come in?"

Mrs. Mead bent to her needles and gave them a confidential smile. "You know, I shouldn't be surprised" - she spoke in soft, slow jerks - "if Ann Bracy was asked to Letley to see if she would like the place."

"Oh, yes. Yes. And the prospect of bein' Mrs. Burchard of Letley Hall," Reggie mumbled.

Mrs. Fortune's agreeable nose wrinkled. Mrs. Fortune gave a little sound of displeasure.

"What?" Reggie murmured. "Showin' her the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them, as it were."

"Oh, but you shouldn't." Mrs. Mead was shocked. "She's such a sweet girl. And it's not like that at all. I believe it was as good as settled before. Only Mrs. Healy wanted to help things. Nice women do like matchmaking, don't they, dear?" She turned to Mrs. Fortune.

"Sometimes," Mrs. Fortune said.

"Yes. As you say," Reggie murmured. "Such a sweet girl. Is Burchard a sweet man?"

"Oh, of course he isn't quite - - " said Mrs. Mead. "But I'm sure he's a good fellow. And devoted to her. It will do very well." She put down her knitting and leaned forward to Reggie. "Now, my dear, you know you weren't really interested in these people. What did you think of the Letley mystery?"

Reggie curled up closer in his chair and looked into the fire, where, between the glowing logs, a blue flame flickered. "The blushin' bride," he mumbled. "Allurin' picture. Beautiful woman."

"She is charming, isn't she? "Mrs. Mead said eagerly. "And she looks so happy and well."

"Happy? "Reggie asked. "I don't know. Looks quite well."

"Yes indeed. You wouldn't think there was anything wrong with her heart."

"Painter didn't see any symptoms. No."

"What do you think she died of?"

Reggie stared into the fire. "I should say she died of gas poisoning," he drawled.

"Gas!" Mrs. Mead cried. "But it was in 1800 - 1805, or something like that. There wasn't any gas then."

"Not laid on. No. However. Gas existed. Carbon monoxide was in the world before the gasworks. Blushing is a characteristic symptom of poisoning by carbon monoxide: which can be produced in quantity by a simple charcoal fire."

"But there's no fireplace in the room," Mrs. Mead protested.

"I did notice it," Reggie moaned. He turned slowly and gazed at her without expression. "As a consequence there is no chimney. And so she might have had a charcoal brazier."

"Like a movable electric fire or something," Mrs. Mead cried. "My dear! I shouldn't wonder. I'm sure that's it. How clever you are." She dilated on that theme, and Reggie's eyes closed.

When his wife and he went up to dress for dinner, "Reggie," said she, " did you believe all that?"

"Oh, yes. Yes. Provisionally. Only hypothesis accountin' for the available evidence. She was gassed - by accident or otherwise. Don't worry."

"I didn't mean about the bride," said Mrs. Fortune. ' About Ann Bracy and this man Burchard."

"Marriage has been arranged? I don't know. I should say that is our Mr. Burchard's purpose. No visible repugnance to him by the beautiful Ann. However. I'm not an expert in girls. What did you think, Joan?" 

"I think he's a horrible man," said Mrs. Fortune "with quiet intensity. "And she's just a child. She doesn't know."

They were to leave Mrs. Mead's house next day. The morning, therefore, found Reggie in a state of dreamy benignity, enhanced when, as he smoked his after - breakfast pipe, Mrs. Mead was called away from conversation with them to the telephone.

"My dears!" She came back in a flurry. "There has been an awful thing at Letley." She paused for appropriate exclamations of horror and curiosity.

"Well, well," Reggie murmured. "Who is the casualty?"

"Don't be ghastly." Mrs. Mead shuddered. "Nothing like that. Poor Mrs. Healy, it's horrid for her; she has had her rubies stolen - a ruby chain, you know. She had to call in the police, poor thing, and they've arrested Mr. Burchard's valet. They found the rubies in his room. And somebody saw him go into Mrs. Healy's room before. She's in a dreadful state, naturally. She says she can't believe it. She rang me up to ask if any of us had seen anything."

"No," said Mrs. Fortune, "nothing. Our room wasn't in that wing."

"As you say," Reggie murmured. "And I don't know what Burchard's valet looks like."

"Of course not," Mrs. Mead approved. "I told her none of us would. How could we? But isn't it a horrid thing?"

"Yes. Very unpleasant all round. Yes. How does Burchard take it?"

"She says he's been very nice about it, but of course he's dreadfully annoyed."

Reggie has admitted - he may be said to insist - that he did not see what this episode of the valet had to do with anything. He never fails to add that, if anybody had guessed what it meant, the course of events would have been in no way affected, because there was not evidence to act upon. His grievance against himself is that he did not recognise in the introduction of the valet to the case the mocking humour of the irrational element in the universe.

But he is inherently careful. Expecting nothing from it he obtained the report of the valet's trial in the local paper - the London papers ignored it - and read that Herbert Arnold was convicted, and received a light sentence as a first offender of good character. His defence was feeble. He denied that he had taken the rubies, and protested that he could not tell how they came to be in his room. The evidence of his having been seen to go to Mrs. Healy's room he did not contest; he said that he had been sent there by Burchard to ask if she could see him. Burchard denied it, and the cross - examination of Burchard by the valet's counsel lacked confidence. "I never sent him," Burchard repeated. "Why on earth should I send my valet to my hostess's room? It's idiotic." And counsel made a nebulous suggestion that he had some reason for wanting to see Mrs. Healy. "What reason?" said Burchard. "I met her at lunch. I was going to meet her at tea." Counsel gave it up, and fell back on the old story of malicious enemies in the household and a plea for mercy.

Reggie saw no reason to feel merciful. He had small doubt that the gentleman's gentleman whom he had seen furtive at the Letley dance, and coming from the state bedroom - Mrs. Healy's bedroom - the next day, was this gentleman. A purposeful, calculating fellow. He put the affair out of his mind, and for a month or two was concentrated on his momentous investigation of the tumour in the Siamese cat.

But he was not thus to escape from the case. There came a night when, at the end of dinner - a rite which she always respects - Mrs. Fortune spoke sadly. "I suppose you've seen, Reggie. Ann Bracy is going to marry that man."

"Which one?" Reggie opened his eyes.

"The Burchard man, of course. Did you think it might be the Maminot boy?"

"No. No. Didn't think."

"It's horrible," said Mrs. Fortune. "Mrs. Mead is so pleased. She wants to come and stay with us and go to the wedding."

"My poor girl," Reggie purred. "Do you have to go too?"

"She'll expect me to."

Reggie looked at her with plaintive affection. "My dear girl! Oh, my dear girl! Not virtue to do the unpleasant because it's expected of you. Not noble. Only feminine."

But of course she did go. Returning from his laboratory, Reggie heard from Mrs. Mead that it was a most beautiful wedding, and Ann looked a perfect angel, the loveliest bride, and you could see that Burchard simply worshipped her. "It was all so just right. Wasn't it, Joan?"

"I never saw anything more correct," said Mrs. Fortune. And, when she had Reggie alone, "It was awful," she told him. "The child was as if she didn't know what was happening to her, like a saint in a trance, and the man was devouring her."

Some months later, in the early autumn, Reggie was writing his classic monograph on the Siamese tumour when he was called to the telephone by the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. "Yes. Fortune sneaking," he moaned. "I hate you. What's the matter?"

"Can you go down to Midshire right away? They're bothered. Clarence Burchard has been found shot. In bis own place. Letley Hall."

"Oh, Peter!" Reggie mumbled. "That's what's happened."

"Why, what do you mean? Were you expecting something like this?"

"No. No, both ways. Wasn't expecting anything. And I don't know what this is like."

"Rather cryptic, aren't you? " said Lomas.

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! You're mistakin' ignorance for profundity. The mind is blank. What do you want me for?"

"They're puzzled about it. And Burchard's a big man, of course."

"Grrrh!" said Reggie.

"What?"

"Poetry. By the late Mr. Browning. ' Grrrh, you swine!' All right, I'll go. We may avoid the worst errors."

Inspector Underwood came with a police car to fetch him. Pipe in mouth, Reggie sank down deep in his corner. "Well, well. Here we are again. And why are we? Any information on that subject?"

"Nothing to speak of, sir. I should say the Midshire police are just protecting themselves. Millionaires getting shot make a stink, and they'd like us to be in it, not them. All I know is, Mr. Burchard was found shot in his dressing - room and the doors were locked."

"In his dressing - room," Reggie mumbled. "Well, well. When?"

"This afternoon. About tea - time. Police got there just after five. The chief constable rang us up at six. He promised not to have anything touched till we got down."

In the black of a cloudy October night they drove up to Letley Hall. It was not lit as Reggie had first seen it. So few windows showed a light that its bulk and shape were lost in the gloom.

A chief constable with the look and manner of a shrewd farmer, a police superintendent who had made a good copy of him, received them and brought them into a sombre place behind the stairs used as a gunroom. "Taking one thing with another, I thought this would be best for our headquarters," said the chief constable. "You'll see why. Now let's go through it from the beginning. Mr. Burchard bought this estate at the end of the winter; he got married in the spring; he went on his honeymoon to the Mediterranean, and he brought his wife home here in September. I just give you that because we've got to take it into account; people do sometimes commit suicide after getting married."

"Yes. I've noticed that," Reggie murmured. "Well, now, this afternoon, just after four o'clock, we had a telephone message that Mr. Burchard was lying dead in his dressing - room, and he seemed to be shot. I came out at once with the superintendent. The butler told us that he had heard a noise upstairs in the west wing - that's where Mr. and Mrs. Burchard have their bedroom and so on - and it seemed to him like a shot and he went up to see if anything was wrong. The bedroom was empty, but Mr. Burchard's dressing - room was locked and he couldn't get any answer from inside. So he went down again and looked about for Mr. and Mrs. Burchard. He found her in what they call the great chamber - that's a fine old room with coats of arms on the ceiling - -"

"I know," Reggie murmured. "Not in the west wing." 

"Oh, you've been here before?"

"Yes, before they were married. Before Burchard bought it. In Mrs. Healy's time. Get on."

"That's odd." The chief constable frowned. "Mrs. Healy's here now."

"Well, well," Reggie sighed. "Do get on."

"I was saying, the butler went to the great chamber - that's where they have tea. Mrs. Burchard was there waiting for it, alone. He asked if she knew where Mr. Burchard was. She said he'd gone upstairs. Just then Mrs. Healy came in and asked what was the matter. So the butler asked her if she'd seen Burchard, and she said no. He didn't tell 'em anything about what he'd heard; he went out and got a gardener with a ladder. They put it to the dressing - room window and went up and looked in. There was a pane of glass broken, and, inside, Burchard lying flat, with a wound in his head. They spoke to him and he didn't answer, and they made out he was dead. Then the butler telephoned through to me, and we came along and broke open the dressing - room. There you have all we started from. Now you'd better come and see him."

So Reggie was taken again to that little room between the staircase and the state bedroom. Furniture for a man's dressing had been put into it; there was whisky and soda on the table. It had an electric fire. He saw no other change except that the body of Burchard lay on the floor, and a gun.

"The gun." Reggie pointed at it. "You didn't tell me that. Didn't the butler and the gardener see the gun when they looked through the window?"

"Sorry. Yes, they saw it. But that's a shot - gun - and look at the wound. I can't make out any scorching or blackening, and there seems to be only one small hole in all that blood. I don't understand it, Mr. Fortune. A charge of shot might not spread if it was fired close - say it was accident, or suicide - but then you'd expect marks of the firing, wouldn't you? More like a wound from a rifle bullet, to my mind. And you notice they found the window was broken and the lights were on. He might have been shot from outside."

Through this exposition Reggie was kneeling by the body. The wound was in the face, by the base of the right ear. "Yes. As you say. Single point of entry. No marks of powder visible. As you also said. Curious. If the wound was made by this shot - gun, muzzle was near his head, yet not so very near. However. No definite inference. The modern nitrate powders don't mark much. Whether killed by shot or bullet easily discovered." He sniffed at the shot - gun. "This has been fired recently." He gazed at the chief constable. "Small bore, what?"

"Yes. Twenty - bore. Lady's gun. There's no mystery about the gun. It's Mrs. Burchard's. Burchard had just given it her. He'd been teaching her to shoot."

"Had he? Well, well." Reggie wandered round the room. "And here's two cartridge - cases. Twenty - bore. Speakin' provisionally, discharged from this gun. Two. Curious and interestin'. Provisionally, one killed Burchard and one broke the window."

"I saw the cartridge - cases," the chief constable nodded. "But I'm not satisfied about the window."

"No. Nor am I. No. However. Most of the glass went outside. Not conclusive, as you say. But whether shot - gun or rifle killed him - that's an easy one for the post mortem." He contemplated the chief constable mournfully. "The only easy one," he moaned. "Well, well. You can have him taken away now. I'll do him in the morning."

But, while the chief constable and his superintendent went out, he lingered, and Underwood watched him drift round the panelled walls, sniffing and peering, touching here and there.

When they reached the gunroom, the chief constable was exhibiting impatience and demanded, "Have you found anything fresh?"

"Oh, no. No. I was only considerin' the possibilities. By the way, did anyone else hear a shot or shots?"

"I can't get anything definite about that. The ladies say they heard some noise somewhere, and the servants put it the same way. None of 'em seem to have thought of a shot."

"But the butler did?" Reggie drawled.

"Well, yes, he was pretty sure. It's hard to get it precise. He thought the noise was like shooting, and then he thought he smelt powder. See what I mean? Sort of gradual. One thing led to another in his mind. You can't make much of it."

"No. As you say." Reggie nodded and Underwood leaned forward, intent and watchful. "Fancy a shot and fancy a smell. It would be like that! However."

"There's a lot more," said the chief constable. "And pretty useful stuff to my mind. Now, I was telling you Burchard gave his wife a twenty - bore gun. That was when they came back here at the end of September. He was a keen shot - that's one of the reasons he bought Letley. She didn't know anything about shooting, and he wanted to teach her. I got that from the head keeper. Several times they've been out together walking round the woods near the house. They were out yesterday, just the one keeper with 'em. She couldn't do much good. Burchard chaffed her, and she complained of the gun, said it went off before she meant and that sort of thing - all quite nice and friendly. The keeper tried the gun, and he says it was rather a light pull, and Burchard talked of having a look at it when they got home. He rather fancied himself as a gun expert. Well, you see, that does point to him playing round with the gun in the house - though why he should do it upstairs, rather than down here in the gunroom, I don't understand. But Mrs. Burchard says he did take the gun upstairs with him. That isn't the whole story. I don't know if you ever heard, Mr. Fortune - you said you were over here when Mrs. Healy had the place - Burchard had a valet who was caught stealing some of Mrs. Healy's jewellery. He got off lightly; first offender and all that humbug. He's out of prison now. He turned up here yesterday."

"Well, well." Reggie smiled. "Curious and interesting. Mrs. Healy comes on a visit, and the valet who stole her rubies comes to call. Interesting and curious."

"That's what I thought," said the chief constable. "He didn't exactly come to call, though. He turned up when the Burchards were out shooting. The gamekeeper says he kind of stuck himself in Burchard's way, grinning and impudent, and Burchard didn't seem to recognise him till the fellow said who he was. ' Forgotten me, have you?' he said. 'I don't think.' And he turned round on Mrs. Burchard. 'I'm Arnold, madam. Mr. Burchard's old valet. I just want a few words with him.' Then Burchard told the keeper to run the fellow off the place, and took Mrs. Burchard away, and Arnold called after him, 'All right. All right. I'll get back on you and your ruddy woman, you swine!'; and the keeper hustled him off. He didn't utter any more, only to curse a bit. Well, there you are. I've asked Mrs. Burchard about it, and what she says just tallies with the keeper's story. She didn't recognise the man at all; never knew him, and Burchard just said to her the fellow was an infernal rogue. They went back to the house, which took 'em half an hour or so, and Burchard was laughing about her bad shooting and talking about the gun, and when they got back he said he'd have a look at it, and he went upstairs, and the next thing she knew was the butler asking where he was. You see, there was time enough for Arnold to get back and have a snap shot. So I'm having a hunt for Mr. Arnold."

"Yes. We want him," Reggie murmured. "Presence of Mr. Arnold may be one of the factors. Strikin' repetition. Burchard and his Arnold and Mrs. Healy get together and there's a robbery. Mrs. Healy and Arnold reappear with Burchard and there's a death. I wonder. Mrs. Burchard also bein' present on each occasion, single or married. Yes. Mr. Arnold is required. However. We will now call this a day. Body been taken to Wanchester, what? I'll put up in Wanchester too. Are you leaving any men here?"

"I hadn't thought of it." The chief constable stared.

"Oh. I should."

"What, you mean Arnold's still at large?" 

Reggie's eyelids drooped. "That is so. Yes. Where are the ladies sleepin'?"

"Oh, Mrs. Burchard's moved out of her room; naturally she didn't want to sleep next door to where her husband was killed. I don't know about Mrs. Healy. But we needn't frighten them. I'll have the house watched."

"Yes. I should like a man inside," said Reggie. "You never know."

Underwood had not spoken, but through all the talk watched Mr. Fortune with expectant attention, like a dog eager for the sign to act. "What about me, sir?" he said quickly.

"All right, you take that on," the chief constable answered. "I'll put a patrol outside." He and his superintendent went off to give their orders.

Underwood grinned at Reggie. "What's the idea, Mr. Fortune?"

"Primary duty, watch the room. Secondary, pick up whatever may be going."

"Meaning anything in particular?"

"Association of the butler's ideas. When did he smell powder? Where did he smell powder?"

"I get you," said Underwood, with a frown of puzzled intelligence.

"You think so? "Reggie's round face was plaintive. "I wonder. Good night. I'll be back in the morning."

He was so early that he surprised Underwood, who started up from a chair in the gallery. "Hallo, sir. Have you put off the post mortem?"

"Oh, no. No. All over. Simple job. He was killed by a twenty - bore shot - gun. Charge didn't spread till it entered his face. Muzzle of gun must have been within two or three feet of his head but not quite close: no scorching or stain. Direction of shot, slightly upward from base of ear. And the gun has a very soft pull. That's all. I've told the chief constable."

"Queer, isn't it? " said Underwood. "A bit like suicide or accident, but not very like. You'd expect the muzzle to be right up against his face for either."

"Yes, you would. But it might not have been. No certainty. Bafflin' case. I don't like it, Underwood. I don't like it at all. However. That's all we shall get from the body and the gun. The rest is here. What are you going to tell me? Had a good night?"

"It was all quiet. Nothing doing. But I picked up some funny stuff this morning. This wasn't the first mysterious death they've had in this room, Mr. Fortune. There was a lady found dead here a hundred years ago. Died in her sleep, she did; no cause ever discovered. They talk about a broken heart, because her husband was away from her for a night or two. I ask you! Even if she was a young bride! Burchard was a young bridegroom, wasn't he? The lady was found locked in, too, so the story goes. The servants are all windy about it, talking about a curse on the room."

"Yes. They would. I know the story. That's why I left you here last night." Underwood's eyes, more than ever like a wise dog's, gave him a look of respectful, eager enquiry. "No. No. I can't tell you what I mean. I'm not sure. What's the state of feeling about Mr. Burchard and Mrs. Burchard and Mrs. Healy and all?"

"Nothing to signify. They love Mrs. Burchard, those I've talked to. They rather shut up about Burchard - I should say he wasn't a gentleman - but no sign of bad blood. Mrs. Healy - well, I haven't heard anything."

"All normal. Except Mrs. Healy's presence. What about the butler?"

"Well, that is rather queer. He's no fool, and I should say he's straight. He thinks he smelt powder as he came upstairs. He sticks to that; couldn't swear, of course, but he's got it fixed in his head. And yet the doors of the room were locked."

"Yes. Curious and interesting. You didn't put that to him."

"Not me," Underwood grinned. "I saw it was your point all right."

"Good. Now we'll try to see what it points to. Shut the door."

Underwood stood against it and watched Reggie inspect the panelling. His methods seemed to Underwood inconsequent. He approached first the carving of the burning bush and the angel. To the angel's eye he gave a long examination by smell and touch as well as sight. Then he stood back from it and surveyed that side of the room as a whole. Finally he dropped on hands and knees to crawl along that side and peer and feel at the lower part of the panelling.

With a sigh he rose; with a gloomy smile he contemplated Underwood. "I don't know what you're after, sir," Underwood said.

"Oh, my dear chap! Investigatin' the case of the blushin' bride of Letley."

"What, the lady who died in here before?"

"Yes. Her death is the primary factor in this death."

"But she wasn't shot," Underwood objected.

"No. She was gassed. However. Anything occur to you about this room?"

"I don't know. It's a sombre, solemn sort of place. And that burning bush and the angel - that's out of the Bible, isn't it?" 

"Yes. Quite good. With text. NEC TAMEN CONSUMEBATUR. 'Yet it was not consumed.' Suggesting that the old religion was still observed here after the Reformation. The room was an oratory."

"Place to pray in, eh? That's rather grim," said Underwood.

"Yes. Considerin' subsequent case. Yes. Bein' a private oratory where the old proscribed religion was kept up, probability is there would be a place handy to hide the priest."

"A priest's hole!" Underwood exclaimed. "That's the name, isn't it? I've read about them in old houses. I never saw one."

"You will," Reggie sighed. "Notice the wall where the door from the gallery comes through. Thick, isn't it?"

"Four or five foot thick," Underwood agreed.

"Yes, all of five feet there. That's the old wall of the castle which was here before it was turned into this house. Now then. Look along the panelling below the burning bush. Notice anything?"

"Looks like some holes that have been plugged. But it's all old work."

"Oh, yes. It would be. Datin' from the death of the blushin' bride, a hundred years ago. Through those holes the gas came in to kill her. Investigation of that case not thorough. Let us study to improve. We infer that behind the burnin' bush there's a hiding - place."

"The priest's hole," said Underwood, and began to tap the panelling. "Sounds pretty solid. Sounds just the same as the other side of the room."

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! It would. It was made to. Thick oak panelling all round. Nowhere close up against the brickwork. Thus producin' the same sound at any point. So that nasty fellows searchin' for a priest's hole shouldn't find any clue. But look at the angel's eye."

Underwood came to it, put his finger in. "That's all solid behind," he frowned.

"I said look," Reggie murmured.

"What - why, the edge of the eye is a bit burnt! My Lord, Mr. Fortune!"

"Yes. It is. Unfortunately, you can't be sure when it was burnt. However. I should say we are approachin' the explanation of the second death in this nice little room."

"You mean Burchard was shot through there - through the angel's eye? That means we've got to have this panelling down."

"One method. Yes. Crude method. Must be a way in. Easy way. The priest would have to be able to pop in quick." Reggie began to work over the burning bush with slow, delicate touches ... a leaf moved, a faint sound of creaking wood came. "How's that?" He looked up, and put his finger into the angel's eye. The solid wood behind had gone.

Gripping the eye, he pulled downwards. Slowly the bush and the angel slid down behind the skirting - board, leaving a gap by which a man could worm himself into a dark cavity.

Reggie flashed a torch on the gloom. They saw a space cut out of the old massive wall. They crept in.

It was a tiny chamber barely large enough for a man to stand up or lie down. On two sides and above was the raw flint rubble of the old wall. A square brazier stood upon the floor, its rusted bars powdered with the wall's dust.

Reggie gave a melancholy smile, and then, turning back to the panel by which they had entered, pulled it up. As it rose, and darkness covered them, they heard the creak of moving wood. He switched on a torch.

In the light, Underwood examined a simple mechanism of cross - bars. "Good Lord, that's neat," he exclaimed. "Just closing it brings this bar across the angel's eye, to work like a bolt into the staple there and hold it fast."

"Yes. Primitive and efficient. Yes." Reggie swept the light away to the brazier. "There's the explanation of death number one. A brazier full of charcoal provided the gas to poison the young bride who expired blushin' from excess of carbon monoxide, enterin' through the holes subsequently plugged. However. We can't deal with her murderer. What about death number two?" He drew back the bar from the angel's eye. "Look. Shot could be fired through there to hit anybody in the head who was sitting or standing in the room outside. Considering the slight burn on the wood, we may infer that shots were so fired with the muzzle restin' just close to the angel's eye. However. No absolute proof the burn was so caused. No sort of evidence who fired the shot."

"Bit difficult to aim, sir," Underwood objected.

"Oh, yes. It would be. It was. Only a narrow look at the target possible. Hence the two shots. We are left with the fundamental question, who fired?" He swept the beam of the torch all round the floor of the little chamber.

"Plenty of dust, but it's all mucked up," Underwood grumbled. "I don't believe you could get any sort of footprint anywhere."

"No. You couldn't. And, if you could, no proof when it was made. Baffling case. Disheartenin' case. However." The light was directed to the sides and the roof. From the rough wall by the side opposite to that from which they had entered he drew away two long glistening hairs.

"Golden, eh? "Underwood peered at them. "Good Lord, sir, Mrs. Burchard has golden hair."

"Yes. That is so," Reggie sighed.

"I'd never have believed it," Underwood said slowly. "She looks such a child. She looks so good."

"As you say," Reggie murmured. "However." Again he swept the torch round, and they searched everywhere. "Nothing else. That's certain. Absolutely nothing else. Well, well."

Underwood turned to the panel by which they had entered. "Oh, no. No." Reggie stopped him. "Must be another way out."

"Sort of trap - door in the floor." Underwood pointed. "If you want that." He tugged at it, and a black shaft in the wall opened.

"I don't think so. No," Reggie said. He went to the side opposite that by which they had entered - panelling with cross - bars against it. "Here you are. Same sort of dodge." They slid back one of the bars and pulled the panelling down, to look out at the back of a picture. Sidling round it through the aperture, they found themselves in the gallery, and the picture which they saw was that of the blushing bride.

Reggie gave her a mournful smile. "Yes. That's why your husband put you there," he murmured. "Shove the panel up. Underwood. Ah, that boss is the fastening here. All right. Now we know how the smell of powder met the butler as he came upstairs. The fumes got out this way. And so did the shooter." He gazed up at the picture. "Well, well. Not a good place for matrimony, Letley Hall. Innocent child bride murdered by means of the priest's hole. Suggestin' a method for murder of the bridegroom who wasn't a child and wasn't innocent. One thing leads to another. Well, well." He contemplated Underwood with large, plaintive eyes. "Now we've got to tell the chief constable. The rest is his job."

"Yes, it's up to him, thank God," said Underwood. "I don't want it."

They went downstairs to the telephone - box between the hall and the servant's quarters, and on the way met Ann. She was in black; she moved slowly; her face was pale, and the more beautiful in its weariness. Her shadowed eyes gave Reggie a look of puzzled recognition. She said nothing; she passed on with a little smile, sad and grateful, and a bow.

Reggie rang up the police headquarters and was told that the chief constable was not there; the chief constable had started for Letley Hall.

"Well, well." Reggie turned to Underwood. "He's comin' here. I wonder why that is. However. You'd better get some sleep, young fellow. Nothing more for you to do."

While Underwood went to rest after his night's watch, Reggie also abandoned the house. He wandered about the gravel space in the front, to the pines and cedars which shut it in, contemplating the broken window.

He was thus engaged when the chief constable's car drove up. Quickly he returned to meet it. "Hallo! I didn't expect to find you here, Mr. Fortune," the chief constable greeted him. "Taking another look at the scene of the crime?"

"At the room. Yes. You're making it crime? " 

"I am. I've got some new stuff. That fellow Arnold has come in. Came in of himself, if you please. And he's telling a queer story. Look here, we may as well talk outside here. I don't want any chance of being overheard. It's like this. Arnold turned up at my office this morning saying he'd read of Burchard's death in the papers and he had some information. Well, of course, that means he knew he'd be under suspicion and he wanted to get his story in first. So I don't say I believe a word of it, but it's nasty, awkward stuff. The tale is that his conviction for theft was a put - up job between Burchard and this Mrs. Healy. He says they had been carrying on together before Burchard was married, and they knew he knew and were afraid he'd make a scandal of it. What it comes to is, he was trying to blackmail the pair of 'em with the threat of telling Miss Ann Bracy they'd been living together. He wouldn't own to that, of course, but I got it out pretty clear when I grilled him. His way of putting it is he was so shocked, if you please, at the two carrying on while Burchard was making up to this nice, innocent girl. He says he talked to 'em both, and, the next thing he knew, was being charged with stealing Mrs. Healy's rubies. He swears he never touched 'em; Burchard and the Healy woman faked the charge. His lawyer told him it wouldn't do him any good to bring out the scandal at his trial, because that would only have got him charged with blackmail as well as theft - and I don't say he's wrong there - so he took his sentence as a first offender. When he got out, he wanted to get a bit of his own back. He tried to see Mrs. Healy, and was turned away from her house in London. He came down here and lurked about, trying to catch Burchard and the young wife and have it all out. That's what he was after yesterday. Well, you see, this tale does hang together, and it gives us a reason why Mrs. Healy blew in on the married pair, which was a bit of a puzzle."

"Yes. As you say." Reggie nodded. "Strikin' explanation."

"And there's more to it." The chief constable lowered his voice. "Arnold says that when the gamekeeper ran him out of the wood where they were shooting, he came round to the drive here to have another try. By his account, he was lurking somewhere under these trees. Where's the window of the room Burchard was shot in? That's it, yes; the end one in that wing with the broken pane. Well, Arnold says he saw Mrs. Healy in there with Burchard. All it meant to him at the time was that the Burchards had got in, so there'd be no more chance of catching them that night, and he went back to the pub where he was staying. That's plausible, you see. It was when he read this morning of Burchard being found shot in that dressing - room he thought he ought to tell the police. Quite reasonable again; quite correct. But what do you think of it all?"

"Persuasive story. Attractive story," Reggie said. "Some of it should be true. However." He sighed. "Fundamental question. Could the man Arnold see who was in that room from anywhere here? Try everything. I'll go up there, sit down and stand. You see if you can see me." He made haste into the house.

When he came out again, the chief constable met him with a shake of the head. "I couldn't see a sign of you, couldn't see anybody was there at all. It's impossible. Arnold was lying."

"Yes. I think so. Even after dusk, with the room lit. Nobody would show up with this angle and that window. However. The man Arnold's story remains interestin'."

"I'm not satisfied, Mr. Fortune, I tell you frankly." the chief constable frowned.

"My dear chap! Satisfied! Not so, but far otherwise."

"I'm going to put this woman Healy through it," the chief constable announced.

"Yes. Try everything," said Reggie drearily.

As they went in, a small old car came rattling up the drive. "Hallo! That's Oliver Maminot," the chief constable remarked. "Chap who used to own the place, you know."

"I did know - yes. Ancestral owner payin' a visit of condolence to the widow."

"Decent fellow, Maminot," the chief constable said.

They established themselves in the gunroom again and sent the butler for Mrs. Healy. She kept them waiting some time. She entered with a flood of conversation. She was so sorry; she had been with poor dear Ann; she hardly liked to leave her; they had a dreadful night, and then Mr. Maminot coming, the child was so agitated and excited. Now what did they want? She'd told the chief constable everything last night. It was really too terrible to go over it all again.

"You told me you didn't see Mr. Burchard after he came in from shooting." The chief constable glowered at her. "Was that true?"

Mrs. Healy's ample form shook her black frock; under its layers of powder her handsome face flushed purple. She scolded him.

"That sort of thing won't do you any good," said the chief constable. "I have a statement from the valet Arnold. What do you say about it?"

Her dark eyes defied him with a hard, contemptuous stare. "Arnold?" she sneered. "The rascal who stole my jewels! I don't know what he may say, and I don't care."

"He says Mr. Burchard and you had a liaison, and you both knew he knew it and had him put away in case he should tell of you to young Mrs. Burchard."

She laughed. "Oh, he's a blackmailer as well as a thief, is he?"

"Had he ever asked you for blackmail?"

"He would have been in prison for that too if he had. There's no creature could blackmail me." The bold ferocity of her face bore out the words.

"You say there was nothing wrong between you and Mr. Burchard?"

"I suppose you have to ask these insolent questions," she sneered. "Of course there wasn't. It's an idiotic idea. Everyone knows I did everything to help on his marriage to Ann." She glanced at Reggie. "Mr. Fortune can tell you that."

"I thought so. Yes," Reggie murmured. "What bothers the chief constable is that Arnold says you hurried off to Burchard because he was out of prison and he tried to see you in London."

"What a fool of a liar!" she laughed. "I didn't know he was out of prison. I don't care where he is or what he does."

"Well, well. That is that." Reggie looked at the chief constable.

"Have you finished?" said Mrs. Healy with contempt.

"Not quite. No. You had this place a long time. You knew your way about it. Did you ever use the priest's hole?"

"The priest's hole?" She repeated the words. "What's that mean? I don't know what you're talking about."

"No? Remember the story of the blushin' bride of Letley?"

"Of course I do. Oliver Maminot told us when you went over the house."

"That is so. Yes. Room where she died was your dressin' - room - -"

"I never used it," she said.

"Burchard did, though, and Burchard died there too. With the doors locked. That didn't suggest anything to you?"

"Nothing in the world," she cried. "What is all this about?"

"I wonder," Reggie murmured. "Thank you. Nothing more now."

She gave him a queer look; she laughed and went out.

"What on earth were you getting at, Mr. Fortune?" the chief constable exploded. Reggie told him what had been found behind the angel's eye. . . .

"Good God Almighty!" the chief constable muttered. "That means he was murdered by this young wife."

"Natural inference, yes."

"It's a facer. I can't get my mind to it. She seems such a child: just wondering and dazed. When I talked to her I felt as if she might be my own daughter."

"Did you?" said Reggie. "I haven't a daughter. Irrelevant, isn't it?"

The chief constable looked at him with a sort of awe. "Oh, well, you've made out a case against her," he said slowly.

"You think so?" Reggie murmured.

"No doubt about that." The chief constable squared his shoulders. "We'll have to make her face up to it." He rang the bell and sent for Ann.

She came quickly. "You wanted me again?" Her tired face was flushed. "What did you want? What can I do?"

"Sit down, please," the chief constable said, and she sat on the edge of a chair and looked at them as Reggie had seen her first in Mrs. Healy's noisy company, neither shy nor frightened but as if she found them strange. "Now, Mrs. Burchard, I have to warn you, you must be careful what you say. You told me last night your husband took your gun upstairs with him."

"Oh, yes," she answered at once.

"You stand by that? Now, take care."

"But he did," she said plaintively.

"But we know what really happened," said Reggie. "That was the only twenty - bore gun in the house, Mrs. Burchard."

"Was it? I haven't any idea. I don't know anything about guns."

"Don't you? He'd taught you something about shooting, hadn't he?"

"Oh, yes. A little. I was no good." She gave a faint smile. "He told me so."

"Who told you about the angel's eye?" Reggie asked.

Her eyes opened wide. "I don't understand. It doesn't mean anything."

"Come upstairs, please." Reggie rose. Between him and the chief constable she was taken up to the gallery and the picture of the blushing bride. He moved that away from the wall. "You see, we've found out how it was done," he said. He pulled down the panelling and flashed a torch into the priest's hole, and crept in.

She gave a cry. "Ah, what a strange place!" She drew back.

"Yes. Come in again," Reggie said.

"Come along, ma'am." The chief constable gripped her arm.

"Oh, if you please," she said faintly. "But it's horrible."

They helped or compelled her in. Reggie closed the panel again and turned his torch to the other side. "You see? We know all about it. Somebody came in here with that twenty - bore gun. While your husband was in his dressing - room on the other side. Somebody moved this bar -" He drew it away, and a ray of daylight came through the angel's eye. "Somebody looked through that, saw your husband sitting down with his whisky and soda. Somebody shot at him through that hole, and the shot missed; went too high and broke the window. He started up. Somebody shot again and killed him. Then somebody pulled down the panel like this." Reggie put his hand in the angel's eye and opened the way to the dressing - room. "Somebody locked the doors, put the gun in the room by him, and the cartridge - cases, and shut the panel and went off by the way we came in. Somebody was very clever. But left behind golden hair on the wall scrambling through. I found that hair, Mrs. Burchard." He turned the light of the torch upon her.

In the glare her face was white and still; she stared wide - eyed wonder, trying to see them in the gloom behind the torch. "I don't understand," she said. "You are sure he was killed like that? How can you be? He had the gun himself."

"Oh, no. No," Reggie said sadly. "Scorch of the shots in the angel's eye. Golden hair on the wall."

She cried out, "Golden hair? You mean it was mine? Oh, that's cruel. That's impossible. I never knew there was such a place. Besides, why should anyone tear out hair on the wall?"

"Scrambling out in a hurry," said Reggie. "It was there, by the way out behind the picture." He turned the torch to that side. "Just there." As the light fell, he started. "Oh, my Lord," he moaned.

"Yes, look at that too," the chief constable exclaimed. "A bit of cloth. Bit of a brown tweed." He picked it up and held it out on the palm of his hand. "You were wearing a brown tweed costume when I saw you last night, Mrs. Burchard."

"Yes, I was, of course. But it wasn't torn, was it?"

"I've got to own I didn't notice anything," the chief constable said slowly.

"There, you see! I'm sure there wasn't a tear in it. You may ask my maid. Oh, it's all absurd. I can't believe it ever happened like this. It's like a horrible bad dream. But if it did - if it did - I don't know anything about it. I couldn't. You see? Oh, you've been cruel to me. And it's so useless. Let me go!"

Reggie opened the panel for her; she scrambled out and hurried away.

"Well, that's a queer turn, Mr. Fortune," the chief constable said. "I'd have to swear I saw nothing wrong with her frock, and yet this is like it - just as the hair was like hers. I'd better get on to her maid quick."

"Oh, yes. Try everything," said Reggie drearily. "The last trial - -"

He sat in the gunroom smoking a pipe with closed eyes when the chief constable came back from the lady's maid. "It has me beat, Mr. Fortune. Her skirt's torn now, and this bit o' stuff matches the tear. But the maid swears blind the skirt wasn't damaged when she put it away last night, and I'd have to back her, you see. Somebody must have faked the bit of cloth."

"Yes. Somebody did. I knew that as soon as I saw it. It wasn't there this morning. Which is fatal. All the evidence has gone to the devil."

"I suppose so. I can't make anything of it."

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!" Reggie blew smoke - rings. "All quite clear. Charmin' young wife shot him, as stated. Lots of motives. She'd found out he was carrying on with the Healy woman; she'd learnt that he was a beast as a husband - he would be; when he was dead, she'd have herself and his money to give to somebody else."

"My God! You mean Oliver Maminot?"

"It could be. However. She shot Burchard. Chose the particular moment because Mrs. Healy was in the house: which would confuse the issue. As it has. Suspicion' was roused against Mrs. Healy. When she found that out, she ran away to make evidence against Ann."

"You mean it was Mrs. Healy tore the frock and put the bit of cloth there?"

"Oh, yes. No proof. Never will be. But quite certain. Nobody but Mrs. Healy had any motive. Mrs. Healy knew we thought Burchard was shot from the priest's hole, and so provided for us evidence that it wasn't her who had been there, but Ann. Very ingenious. Very kind. With the result of smashing my perfectly good evidence that it was Ann did the murder. So we daren't do anything. We know Ann murdered him; if we tried to prove it, any jury in the world would decide that the evidence against her was fraud. As it is. Humorous case. Depressin' case. Impairs faith in the nature of things. All silly; all futile."

"It is a rotten business," the chief constable agreed. "We're beat. We can't do a thing. The young woman will have to tell her story, I daren't challenge it, and the verdict will be death by misadventure. Burchard was examining the gun, and shot himself by accident."

"Yes. Very disheartenin'. What is truth?" Reggie sighed. "Well, well. I want to go home."

As they made their way to the door, Oliver Maminot met them, with Ann behind him. "I say - Mrs. Burchard tells me you've been bothering her about the priest's hole upstairs," he said fiercely.

"Oh. You knew it was there?" Reggie smiled.

"Of course I did. What I want to say is, Burchard knew, and Mrs. Healy knew. It's always been an owner's secret. So I told them, but nobody else. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Absolutely," Reggie murmured. "Where were you yesterday afternoon?"

Maminot laughed. "It's me now, is it? All right. Get on with it."

"Oh, don't," Ann cried. "You were in London. You know you were."

"Yes. I'm sure he was," Reggie said. "All very well done." He gazed at Ann's sad, beautiful face with dreamy admiration. "But you'd better not do it again. Good - bye."

As he drove away, his car passed Mrs. Mead's, which was bringing her maternal spirit to condole with Ann. His one consolation in the case is that he has never been asked to Mrs. Mead's house again.

THIRD OBJECTION THE LITTLE FINGER

THE LITTLE FINGER

IN A SCRAPBOOK of Mr. Fortune's which is labelled "Critics: Vol. VII" there is a postcard. It comes between an analyst's report and a frantic letter in a woman's hand. The analyst records the amount of strychnine found in a brace of partridges sent to Mr. Fortune's house, October n, 1931. Mr. Fortune's neat handwriting adds: "Varley certified insane i5.x.3i. Not by me." The woman's letter is a summons to meet her at the Day of Judgment and answer for the blood of Clement Smith, whose child she has just borne. Mr. Fortune's annotation is: "Fifth and only surviving wife of Clement."

The postcard is stamped with the postmark of London, 8.17, which is the suburb of Bournham. It is inscribed, in block letters, with the simple message:

"GOOD FOR YOU CULLY." Beneath it, Mr. Fortune has written: "The little finger."

He has been heard to describe it as the most damaging criticism of police work in his experience, and a criticism wholly justified. Yet he takes a candid pride in its personal tribute. That, he insists, was quite sincere, and it came from one of the very few experts whose praise he would value.

His part in the case was, however, played throughout under protest. He was, by his own estimate of the course of things, never in control, he was merely the collaborator who makes objections. The whole of the original, inventive work was done by others - not, as he points out amiably to the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, by the police.

On a brisk morning of early March, Superintendent Bell came to see him. Mr. Fortune does not like brisk mornings. He was curled up before his fire with a pipe and a volume of Remy de Gourmont. At Bell's square red face he gazed with sorrow. "Oh, my Bell! Welcome wild north - easter. Which I never could. You look offensively ruddy and strenuous. You mustn't work it off on me. No."

"Well, I did rather want your advice, sir. It's a matter of a burglary - -"

"Oh, no. No." Reggie squirmed and sat up, looking reproach. "Not in my line. Not for me, Bell."

"Just let me tell you," said Bell. With a plaintive noise Reggie submitted. There is an official theory that he will take more trouble for Superintendent Bell than any man alive. "Do you know Bournham, sir?"

"Not intimately. Too many tramlines. Always go out of London some other way that way. Sends a good many cases to my hospital. Serious, self - helpful middle - class cases."

"That's right," Bell nodded. "It's a good suburb. Pleasant place. Rural, you know - that's the fine open spaces. Well, this last month or two, they've had several neat burglaries out there - all looking like local knowledge. The last was Sunday night. There's an insurance broker, name of Goldschild, lives at Bournham. Not been there long. Sort of man that keeps a couple of servants and can dress his wife in diamonds. Well, last week - end, Mr. Goldschild and his wife went away to Brighton, leaving the house in charge of his chauffeur - gardener. Cook and housemaid had the week - end off. Sunday night, the chauffeur chap, who sleeps over the garage, says he saw everything fastened all right, and went to bed about eleven. Heard nothing till he was knocked up by a bright young constable, who saw a light in the house and knew the family were away. They went over the house, and, of course they didn't find anybody. All they did find was a first - floor window open at the back. It didn't look as if anything had been taken, and the chauffeur chap didn't know exactly what there was to take. But, when old Goldschild came back on Monday, he said all the jewellery that his wife had left behind, locked up in her dressing - room, was gone. He puts it at ten thousand pounds' worth, mostly diamonds. So then our fellows out there got busy. Like all these suburban houses, it simply asked to be broken into. Lock on the front door a craftsman could manage with some thread or a few needles. It isn't certain which way he got in, but we know how he got out. Jumped from a first - floor bedroom at the alarm, and took a toss and left some blood on the crazy paving. There's some more blood on the hedge at the bottom of the garden. That's the way he went off."

"Yes. I dare say he did," Reggie yawned. "Not in my line. Not in my line at all. I don't like diamonds. Futile things. Decorations for the aged. Who should not be decorated. Owners of diamonds and thieves of diamonds alike without interest. Sordid vocations both. Nothing human in it. Bell. Go away."

"Oh, there's some more yet, Mr. Fortune." Bell protested. "I give you my word, it's really tricky. I want some of your science. Let me tell you. When they got to examining this chauffeur chap, he remembered that as he came back from having his evening pint at the pub - that'd be about ten o'clock Sunday night - he saw a fellow, name of Blunt, strolling about the road. This Blunt is well known in Bournham. He's come down in the world. He picks up a living as a jobbing gardener; he's got an allotment, raises a bit o' flowers an' green - stuff, and so on. But he was a tradesman, and his people before him. They had a draper's shop, quite a nice business, in his father's time. Blunt never made much of a do of it. Matter of fifteen years ago, he had a fire in his shop." Bell winked. "You know, sir. The sort of fire a chap does have when his business is going downhill. Well, Mr. Blunt was charged with arson. The jury disagreed, and he got off, but he went broke and never made a start again. He's just hung on in Bournham, loafing round and scrounging. You know, the kind of chap people turn a blind eye on when he palms off rubbish on 'em or begs a job he don't do. He's had a pretty close call, once or twice, with some larcenies out there, and his daughter, that's been a shop assistant and cashier and what not, she could never hold down a job. Nothing definite, you know, but always a little something. There you have the Blunts."

"Yes. Father and daughter." Reggie uncoiled himself, and sat up. "What about the mother, Bell?"

"Dead," said Bell. "Died soon after Blunt went smash, while the girl was still a tiny kid. Well, you see how it is, he knows Bournham inside out, and now we have this run of burglaries by somebody who had good information, and Blunt gets seen up Goldschild's street just before the Goldschild diamonds were pinched. So, of course, our fellows looked up Mr. Blunt. Why was he in Goldschild's road that night? Mr. Blunt says he wasn't; he went for a walk after church - oh, yes, h goes to church, Mr. Blunt does - and walked on the common after. With his daughter. And she says the same. Nice and lively on a March night. Our chaps noticed Mr. Blunt had a thumb bound up. How did that happen? Oh, he cut it, chopping wood. Now, you remember, I told you there was blood on Goldschild's crazy paving and blood on the hedge at the back. Well, that hedge is against the road which leads to Blunt's allotment. So our fellows went down there. Blunt has a sort of hut for tools, and in that they found more bloodstains, on some coconut matting. That's what I want you for, Mr. Fortune."

"Oh, my Bell! This faith is affectin'. You show me a bloodstain, and I tell you who shed the blood. Yes. I am very good. But I can't do that. Nobody can. I could tell you if Blunt had been killing a chicken, rabbit, lion, or what not. I might tell you which of the four groups of human blood the stains belonged to. And also from which of the four the stains on Goldschild's paving and hedge came from. If you think that will give you a case against anybody, you are wrong."

"Maybe so." Bell nodded. "But, if you found that the blood in both places was from the same group, we should have reason to believe the burglar laid up in Blunt's hut. Suppose we got blood of that group on Blunt's bandage, then it would be pretty useful evidence."

"You think so?" Reggie stared at him with sorrowful surprise. "Oh, my Bell! Do you hear me handing out that evidence to a jury? I do not. Any counsel who knew his job would make me look an ass. Which I should be. Suppose I could swear the blood in the garden, and the blood in the hut, and Blunt's blood were all of the same group. Just like swearing the burglar is a blond and so is Blunt. Countless other people too. And there are countless people in each blood group. You can't get an identification out of the serological test."

"I could get a hint, though" - Bell gave a knowing nod - "and a pretty good hint. You give me that, sir and I'll do the rest."

"I wonder," Reggie murmured. 

"You know, Mr. Fortune, it is a clue; it sticks out, and we did ought to work on it."

"What?" Reggie opened wide, aggrieved eyes. "Are you tellin' me to do my duty? My dear Bell! Oh, my dear Bell!"

"Well, I beg your pardon, sir," said Bell uncomfortably.

"Yes, I think so. I'm coming - I was coming. To your painful suburb. In this painful wind. Get on."

As they drove away to Bournham, Bell made propitiatory conversation on the value of Mr. Fortune's work. Mr. Fortune remained aloof and morose. "No. No more butter thanks," he said at last. "Get this clear, Bell. The only force of blood group evidence is negative. Say the blood in the garden and the blood in the hut came from different groups, that does prove the fellow who bled over the burglary wasn't the fellow who bled in the hut. But, if the dollops of blood come from the same group, it proves nothing at all. You think of science as an automatic machine - put in a penny and it'll give you a box of matches. But that's not the way it works. Just as likely to push on to you something you never thought of. Your penny don't get you a box of matches, but a cold shower - or a white elephant."

"I'm having a cold shower from you, Mr. Fortune," said Bell reproachfully. "What's in your mind? Do you think there's something fishy about these blood traces?"

"No. Not specially. No. But I should say the essential, effective truth is not in 'em. However. When we've got the wrong man convicted, let's thank God we've done our duty."

Their car turned away from the trams of Bournham and its shops, and came into a road which preserved some of the big trees of its rural past, and had set among them the shrubby gardens and houses of suburban opulence.

A constable paced by Goldschild's gates. Reggie picked up a leather case, and they walked round the house, which was of whitish brick with sandstone trimmings, and came upon a man, in plain clothes, trying to get out of the wind. A patch of the crazy paving was covered by tarpaulin. "Take that off, George. Careful," Bell ordered.

Reggie knelt down by some purple marks on the stone, worked at them, and put the results away. He stood up, and looked at the house. "Which is the window found open? That one. I see. More than twelve feet up. Theory is, he jumped from that, caught his foot in the crack of the paving by the saxifrage there, and fell prone. Yes. It could be. No blood on the window - sill or in the house?"

"Not a mark anywhere. Not even on the bureau where the jewellery was. The job was done in gloves, and with a neat outfit. Locks opened like cutting butter."

"Oh, yes. That bein' that, the next thing, please. Blood on the hedge."

Bell took him across a lawn, past a bank of daffodils cowering from the wind, and on by a severe straight path between flowerless, dusty flower - beds. A high laurel hedge made the end of the garden, and there was a bolted gate in it. Beside the gate, sacking hung on the hedge. Bell drew that away. "Here you are, sir." The laurel leaves bore clots and smears of blood. Reggie cut off the laurel twigs and stowed them in his case. "Now we go to Blunt's humble agricultural hut." He shivered. "Brrh! Is it far?"

"Five minutes sharp walking."

"Sharp! Oh, my hat!" Reggie turned up the collar of his fur coat, and sank down inside it from the searching wind.

He did not walk sharply. It is doubted whether he can, though men have seen him run. The road beyond the hedge was in a primitive rural state - sand loosened by the dry March weather. He picked his way among the ridges and the ruts, huddled, stooping, peering at the ground.

For some little way there were garden hedges on either side. Then they came to a decayed fence, behind which was an allotment even less beautiful than allotments are wont to be in a cold March. Some of the worn - out greenstuff of the year before still raised bare stalks and shrivelled heads. Much of the ground was still undug.

At the hurdle which served for a gate a constable stood talking to a man and a woman. There seemed to be some temper in the conversation.

The man was lanky and shabby. He had a brown beard, long enough to move in the wind. He fidgeted, and looked from the policeman to the woman as each spoke. She talked up into the policeman's face, her small bosom almost touching his bulk.

"I tell you, you can't come in now, and that's all about it," the policeman said. "You clear off."

Bell arrived. "What's all this, George?"

"Blunt and his daughter, sir. Making out they want to get digging here."

"Oh do you?" Bell turned on them. The man drew back, deprecating, cringing. His blue eyes, vague and melancholy, looked from Bell to Reggie, and looked away. 

"You've got no nght to stop us," the woman said. "It's our ground." She was a compact little person; she quivered anger and energy.

"Your ground wants digging all right," said Bell stolidly. "Funny you didn't get on to it a bit earlier. Won't hurt you to wait another day now."

"You brute," she cried. "You know father's been ill."

"Has he? Oh. Move 'em along, George."

"Think you can trample on us," - she stammered - "you're all like that - you - -"

"Jessie, Jessie," her father wailed. "Don't, dear. It's no good."

"That's right, you take her home, Blunt." The policeman shepherded them away.

"Funny, eh?" said Bell to Reggie.

"You think so?" Reggie watched their departure. The man stooped and limped. "Well, well." He went into the allotment.

"I mean to say, leaving the ground all waste and then suddenly having to get on with it," Bell explained, as he followed. Reggie made a plaintive sound. "There's the hut, over there." Reggie gave him a look of wonder and gloom, and stood still. The allotment had no path in it, but some footprints marked the dry crumbling soil - confused footprints, small and large. "Rather a mess, isn't it?" said Bell.

"Yes. Somebody's made a mess," Reggie sighed.

"Of course, our fellows have been here." 

"That is indicated. Yes. In daylight. I suppose policemen can walk straight in the light."

"There's a woman's footprints too," Bell pointed out. "Looks like the Blunts have been here already."

"My Bell! Oh, my Bell!" Reggie complained. "Your theory was that a Blunt or so had been here. From the burglary. Leavin' blood behind."

"I didn't say the girl had."

"No. You did not. However. Don't go on sayin'. Don't go on movin'." Reggie wandered about the allotment. The footprints of a woman were clearly marked, to and from the hut, in among many prints of men. Elsewhere there were dragged footmarks, inconsecutive and obscure.

"Like Blunt's limping walk," said Bell.

Reggie turned to look at him. "You noticed that? Yes. He does limp. Oh, my hat; what a case!"

They came at last to the hut, a ramshackle thing of old timbers and corrugated iron, and went in. Tools stood in one corner, an old chair in another. In the middle, the bare earth of the floor was covered with empty sacks and some ragged coconut matting. On that, Bell pointed out dark stains.

Reggie surveyed them and frowned at them, and wandered about the hut.

"We couldn't find any anywhere else," Bell explained.

"No. And yet there aren't any," Reggie sighed. "Marvellous. However. Certain other things. Several breadcrumbs, not very ancient. An empty bottle which has held milk lately. And a scrap of clean cotton rag."

"I don't know what you can make of all that," said Bell.

"Not conclusive. No. Nothing is. But interesting. And what is most interesting is why the bleeder bled just there on the matting in the middle. If we knew, we mightn't know anything." He cut out the bloodstains and packed them away. "That exhausts that. Come on."

They came back to the policeman in the lane. "They've beat it, sir," he said. "Telling me off proper. She's a wild cat, that Jessie Blunt."

"All in the day's work, George," Bell comforted him, and went after Reggie. "I say, where are you going, sir?"

Reggie had not gone back by the way they had come, but on down the lane. He stopped, contemplating a swirl of the loose gravel made by the wheels of a car. "I don't know," he said. "Where does this dirt track go to?"

"Round by the edge of the common, and then into the high road. Matter of two miles to the police station, that way."

"My only aunt," Reggie mourned. He wandered on some little distance, and then turned back. "Well, well. Such heroism is futile." He shivered, and huddled into his coat. "' Home, home the nearest way,' same like Appius Claudius."

They trudged back up the lane, and he was morosely silent. They came to Bournham police station. With a sigh of satisfaction Reggie settled down before the hot fire in a close little room, and Bell introduced the local detective - inspector. "Now, George, got anything new?"

"I have, sir; and I reckon Mr. Fortune will be glad of it. I've got a sample of Blunt's blood."

"Good for you," Bell grinned.

It took a bit of wangling. We had him in again, and, going over his story quite civil, I said something about his bandaged thumb, sympathetic, you know - nasty thing, didn't look too good and so on - leading up to the divisional surgeon having a look at it. It's a long, dirty gash. The doctor says he couldn't be sure how it was done - might have been from a chopper, like Blunt told us; might just as well have been from a fall on a sharp stone in that crazy paving. But he put on a nice fresh dressing, and so we got the old, bloody bandage. That's what matters. Here you are, Mr. Fortune."

Reggie contemplated the stained rag with disgust. "Yes. Quite improper," he murmured. He put it away. He turned a gloomy gaze on the inspector. "Anything else?"

"I don't know as there is." The inspector hesitated. "Not anything new. What were you wanting, Mr. Fortune?"

"Only a fact. One solid certain fact. Just to go on with."

"I thought we had quite a lot." The inspector was annoyed.

"Then you'd better think again," Reggie drawled. "What have you got? An old insurance broker who goes off for the week - end, leaving ten thousand pounds' worth of jewellery in a house anybody could walk into - -"

"Well, of course it's silly. But it's just what people do do. Every day."

"Yes. And he knows all about insurance. So that makes it more natural. And the man left in charge strolls away at night to sit in the pub. Also natural. Yet he manages to come back in time to see the chief shady character of your district prowling round. Very thoughtful of him. Very convenient. And he can't be waked, except by a row to warn the burglar, and then nobody can find out what's gone till the insurance broker comes back some time next day. Most convenient."

"That's how burglaries are," the inspector protested. "If people weren't such ruddy fools there wouldn't be any. The way you put it, all this case is fishy. Anybody might be suspected. Everybody."

"Oh, yes. Hadn't you noticed that before? Policemen are so trustful. Try not believin' anything you're told. Then you might get to something. Good - bye."

Bell escorted him to his car. "Well, you shook that lad up," he grunted.

"Cross, wasn't I?" Reggie sighed. "Cross with myself. We're all so pleased and futile."

"I'll have it all gone over," said Bell. "But I want your results, Mr. Fortune."

"Yes. Quick. And then - ' there may be heaven, there must be hell.'" Reggie drove away...

On another bitter morning he came back to the fire in that little room. Bell and the inspector were waiting for him. "Well, well." He put his feet on the fender; he stretched his long, capable surgeon's hands to the blaze. "What are you going to tell me?"

"I hoped you were going to tell us something, Mr. Fortune," the inspector grumbled. "I have nothing new here. Your notion of suspecting Goldschild or his chauffeur don't work out at all. Nothing shady about Goldschild. He really is rich. He's been in the City all his life. Reputation there, A1. The chauffeur's always been in good service, and kept his places a long time, first - class references, and people who know him here say he's a straight steady - going fellow. So all that falls down."

"Grateful and comfortin'," Reggie murmured. He turned to Bell. "Anybody seen the insurance assessor?"

"I haven't seen him. I rang him up. The insurance people are satisfied Goldschild's all right."

"There you are," said the inspector truculently.

"Where?" Reggie looked at him with narrowing eyes. "Any further indication from the Blunt family?"

"I can't see there is anything new."

"Well, well. You haven't done any work on 'em?"

"I've had 'em under observation all the time. We let 'em go back to their allotment, and had a man in concealment down there."

"Splendid. What did they do?"

"Just dug a bit and mucked around. I wouldn't put it past that girl she knows she's being watched."

"No. Nor should I. She does not love the police force. She has some intelligence. Isn't that sad? However. You'd better have the Blunts brought here. We shall want 'em."

"Right, sir." The inspector's hostility was mollified. "I thought you'd come back to them." He bustled out to give orders.

"One of our rougher diamonds, what?" Reggie murmured.

"He is a bit surly," Bell apologised. "One of the dogged sort. Not a bad chap. You do rather pull his leg, Mr. Fortune. He don't understand that."

"No. So I gathered. Hard head and thick skin. Or thick head and hard skin. Qualities often mixed."

"Our job don't soften men much," said Bell.

The inspector came back with a brusque, complacent question. "So you got something out of your bloodstains, Mr. Fortune?"

"Oh, yes. Yes. That was inevitable. Results quite clear. Blood on crazy paving of house; blood on coconut matting in hut; blood on bandage taken from Blunt's thumb - all of same group, which is group two. Moreover, blood on paving and blood on the matting shed by the owner at approximately the same time - late Sunday night or early Monday morning. Those are the solid facts. Our first solid facts. And very disheartening."

"What?" the inspector cried. "They're all right. They mean Blunt did the job."

Reggie gave a dreary glance at Bell, and turned back to the inspector's exultation. "Oh, no. No. Don't mean anything like that. Merely mean Blunt might have done it, and so might all the thousands of other people who have blood of group two. Speakin' practically, they mean nothing at all. The one hope from them was that they would prove Blunt didn't do it. Then we might have got on. Now the only hope is gone. Case remains merely a nasty mess."

"I don't follow." The inspector glared at him. "Sounds to me as if you were trying to get Blunt off."

"My poor chap. Oh, my poor chap," Reggie moaned. "I didn't say it wasn't Blunt. I want to know something about the Blunts."

A detective came in. "Oh, they're here, are they? Have Blunt in first. And what about holdin' your tongue?"

Blunt was brought. He stood before them, shabby and bent; his vague, unhappy blue eyes would not look at any of them. "Good morning, sir," he cringed to the inspector, and his hands made the motion of washing themselves. "What can I do for you?" Reggie gave him a chair. He made a nervous humble gesture of refusal, and was put into it, and sat on the edge holding his knees. "That right knee bothering you?" Reggie asked.

"It's much better, sir, thank you, sir. Just a touch of rheumatism. I'm subject to it in the cold weather. Nothing of any consequence, thank you." He looked past Reggie at the wall, as if he saw things far away.

"Well, we're still worrying about this burglary. You say you didn't see anybody by Goldschild's house on Sunday night?"

"I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't say that. I said I wasn't in Mr. Goldschild's road on Sunday night. My daughter and me, we went to church; and after church we took a turn on the common and went home."

"Not very good for a rheumatic knee, walking the common on a freezing March night."

"We like a breath of air, sir; and they do tell me exercise is good for it."

"Well, well." Reggie sighed. "And after the burglary, when did you go to your allotment next?"

"Not till the Tuesday. I was tidying up for Mrs. Brown on Monday."

"I see. About that cut on your thumb - did you do that on the allotment?"

"Oh, no, sir; that was chopping wood at home."

"It never bled down in the allotment?"

"Not to notice. I couldn't say for sure." The vague eyes stared. "Never anything, though."

"So that's that. Have you ever had any trouble with the police before?"

There was a contortion of the bearded face. "I had my bit of trouble years ago, sir." Blunt looked furtively at the inspector. "You'll have heard of that. I hope there's no complaints since."

"Oh. Any complaint from you?"

"Not at all, sir." Blunt was earnest. "I have nothing to complain of, I'm sure."

Reggie sat silent, watching him for a moment. Blunt looked away and stroked his straggling, brown beard with a hand that twitched. The unsteady eyes confessed pain and fear. "That's all I was going to ask you," said Reggie.

"Thank you, sir," Blunt stood up, clumsily bowing and smiling. "You won't require my daughter?"

"Get out. Clear off," the inspector snapped and he shuffled away. "Snivelling humbug," said the inspector. "He's always done that sob - stuff as long as I've known him. You trapped him nicely about taking his poor rheumatic knee for a night walk this weather, Mr. Fortune."

"You think so?" Reggie looked at him under drooping eyelids. "Well, well. Now I want to talk to Miss Blunt."

She came in vehemently, and shot at them the question, "Where is my father? What have you done with him?"

"That's not your business," the inspector told her. "You're here to answer questions, not ask 'em."

"I shan't answer a word till I know where he is," she cried. She stood before them, a slight, tense shape of a woman, her face white, her nostrils quivering to quick breath, her gleaming eyes so dilated that they seemed black.

"Now, Miss Blunt, taking things this way won't do him any good," said Bell. "Sit down, please."

She pushed the chair which he offered back on him, compressed her pale lips, and stared defiance.

"Yes. Unwise, but quite natural," Reggie said. "Your father has gone home. Or he's waiting for you outside. And now you can listen to me. He says he has some rheumatism."

"Of course he has," she said fiercely. "He's only just out. He couldn't move his leg for a week."

"Too bad. What did the doctor say about it?"

"We can't afford doctors."

"That's very hard. I don't think he should have gone for a walk in the cold of Sunday night."

"What do you know about it? Exercise is the only thing that does his knee any good."

"Well, well." Reggie sighed. "Stern treatment. However. When did you go to your allotment first after Sunday night?"

"You saw me yourself. You were there when that brute of a policeman sent us away."

"Oh, yes. That was on Tuesday morning. But you'd been there between Tuesday and Sunday. And you were there with a man who limped. A man who left some blood behind in the hut. And the blood was the same sort as the blood on the bandage of your father's thumb. You'd much better tell me the truth, Miss Blunt."

She took a step forward; she looked from one to other of the three of them with sneering fury. "You tricky, lying bullies. Yes, that's what you are, and you know it. Faking up false witness against a man because you've got a down on him and you think he's too weak to help himself. Oh, there's no prison got such dirty crooks in it as you police. You had my father here, and made believe you wanted to be kind to him, and had a doctor to dress his thumb - just for you to take the old bandage with the blood on it and then pretend you found the blood somewhere else. So you could fix this burglary on a poor, sick man. Oh, thank God, there's hell waiting for such as you."

"Yes. 'There may be heaven, there must be hell,'" Reggie said. "But you're too quick, Miss Blunt. I didn't say that your father was the man who limped to the hut and left some blood there. That was your idea."

She flushed, she gulped. "You liar," she said, trembling. "You cunning liar. You haven't trapped me like that. I said father wasn't there, not on Sunday nor Monday nor Tuesday, not till these brutes let us go."

"Yes. I agree. That's what you said. No trap. But you mustn't pretend I said what I didn't. I should say that you went to the hut by yourself early on Monday morning, and when you got there you found a man lying inside on the coco - nut matting. He was a man who had tumbled in there with a damaged leg and a bleeding arm. Rather a tall man, with black hair, but his skin was white, fair complexion altogether. Had he blue eyes or grey? Well, anyway, he had long legs, and small narrow feet for a man. He was pretty well all in when you found him. He couldn't move except at a snail's pace. His right ankle was sprained, wasn't it? You talked to him. He told you he was down and out and being hunted by the police. You sympathised. You would sympathise. You brought him some food and some milk, and tied up his arm with the same sort of cotton stuff that you'd used to bandage your father's thumb. And in the dusk of Monday a car came and took the wounded warrior away. I should say you sent his message for the car. Now, that man was the fellow who did the burglary at Mr. Goldschild's. But, as you've managed the business, all the suspicion is on your father. That's what you have to think about now, Miss Blunt."

She had listened intently, her white, fierce face showing them nothing but rage. "It isn't true," she cried. "There's no suspicion of father except in your beastly minds. You haven't any evidence against him at all, and now you've confessed it. You're just trying to trick me into telling lies against your lies. I won't do it. Think yourselves so clever! You've shown me all your dirty games now. You won't get another word out of me."

"Come on," the inspector spoke loudly, "cut out all that bluff. We know too much about you. If you aren't straight with me now I'll see you - -"

"That'll do, George." Bell stopped him. "Now, Miss Blunt, I'm asking you to tell me exactly what you did from Sunday night onwards to Monday night." He waited. She stood silent, sneering at him. "I take it, you refuse. Then you can go now. My advice to you is, go and see a lawyer." She laughed. "Show the lady out, George." He followed her and the inspector. They were gone some time. When they came back, Reggie had a foot on each side of the fire, and was bent over it, smoking a pipe.

"Do you know what I've been doing, sir?" Bell grinned.

"I haven't the slightest idea." Reggie spoke through closed lips. "Muck of a case."

"I've phoned 'em to dig out the Smiler."

"What?" Reggie opened dull eyes. "Who is the Smiler?"

The inspector chuckled. "You don't mean to say you don't know, Mr. Fortune? I thought so. I told Mr. Bell you were just bluffing that vixen."

"You're so zoological out here," Reggie complained. "Your constable called her a wild cat. You call her a vixen. Seems to me just like a woman."

"Same thing." The inspector was very pleased.

"You made her sweat all right. That was a fine tale you put up -" Reggie turned and surveyed him with dislike.

"Don't be a fool, George," Bell growled. "I've had enough from you, and a bit more."

"I didn't mean any offence, sir." The respectful words were belied by the surly tone. "I was only saving it was wonderful how Mr. Fortune could describe a man in the hut, and what he did, and what the Blunt girl did for him, all out of two or three drops o' blood."

"Yes. You would wonder," Reggie said. "Simple results of doin' a job marvellous to a fellow who don't do it. I found the evidence you ought to have found. Man who jumped from Goldschild's window caught his foot as he fell - left white skin and black hairs from the arm that he scraped, besides his blood. Limped badly going down the lane: small footprints, with long strides growing shorter and shorter; same footprints on the allotment, up to the hut. Hence the inference that the burglar was a tall man with small feet, black hair, and very fair complexion - which makes the probability that his eyes were blue or grey - -"

"And that's the Smiler, to the life," Bell broke in.

"Very gratifyin'," Reggie murmured. "And who is the Smiler?"

"Irishman, name of Leary. That, and his good looks, got him called Smiler. We've only caught him once, and then for a little job. But he's been in a lot of things. He's as smart as they make 'em. He's just the man for all these neat burglaries you've had out here, George, and you've never got a line on him. Spent all your time sniffing after that poor old wreck, Blunt, I suppose."

"Begging your pardon, sir." The inspector gave a sullen, contumacious stare. "I've got to say that's not right. Suppose you believe all Mr. Fortune's tale, it don't let the Blunts out, does it? Not much! He says the burglar went straight to the Blunts' hut to hide, and Jessie Blunt nipped off there, good and quick, doctored him and fed him, and got him safe away - and now she won't tell us anything about him, though it leaves her and her father in the soup. If that don't mean the Blunts were working in with him, it don't make sense at all." He stopped, and gave a resentful, distrustful look at Reggie. "Oh, I'm not saying it's true. Too much guess - work for me. You wouldn't dare put it up to a jury. How can you tell what Jessie Blunt did in the hut - and your limping footprints when old Blunt has a limp - who's going to believe there was another man? - and - -"

"Don't you ever notice anything?" Reggie asked sadly. "Blunt has big feet. Blunt don't lift 'em. He shuffles. Blood in the hut was on the middle of the matting, just where it would be if a man with a bleeding arm lay there all out. Very unlikely Blunt's thumb would drop blood just in that place and nowhere else. Bread and milk had been brought to the hut just lately, and stuff to bind up a wound. And, finally, a car came up to the allotment, and went away again. Quite clear what happened. Jessie Blunt attended to the wounded warrior, and he was subsequently removed by motor transport."

"I dare say," the inspector sneered. "Are you going to tell all that in court, Mr. Fortune? I don't mind, I'm sure. The more they believe you, the worse for the Blunts. That's all."

"Yes, that is so," Reggie murmured. "And you'd like that. I had noticed it."

"I only want to get a straight case." The inspector was loud. Reggie inspected him with bleak curiosity. Reggie stood up, wearily, bit by bit. "A straight case!" he mumbled. "Disgustin', composite, increasin' mess. And we're futile, wholly futile." He wandered out.

"Lardy - dardy way with him," the inspector complained. "What has he really got in his head?"

Bell exploded. "Much about the same idea of you that I have. You'd better do some work on tracing the Smiler down here. Look over all those other burglary cases. It don't do you any credit drawing blank every time." He went after Reggie.

So, themselves irritated, they left the inspector in a furious temper with them and all the wicked world. It has been remarked by Reggie, philosophising, that the power of the case to generate bad temper points to something wholesome in the nature of things: a moral reaction comparable to the angry inflammation of the body against toxic matter; and equally unreliable as a cure.

Reggie was standing outside the police station, a hunched back to the wind, looking along the high road. The trams clanged between a diversity of buildings, some humble survivals from the time when Bournham was a village, some showy modern blocks of shops. "What did you think of doing, sir?" Bell asked.

"I want to see the shop Blunt had." Reggie was plaintive.

Bell went into the station again, and soon returned. "Blunt's place was pulled down after the fire," he announced. "All along there has been rebuilt. Makes part of a big store - Garner's, the shop of the place. I can take you to it, if you like, it's only a little way down the road."

"Yes. Let's go and look at the shops." Reggie took his arm.

Garner's store was of ample, suburban grandeur. Its brilliant windows stretched far, its upper floors were show - rooms and store - rooms. In the service road, at the back of the block of which it was part, stood vans emblazoned with Garner's fame.

"Now, Blunt's shop was somewhere here." Bell pointed. "It was the draper's of the old village, you know. Garner's used to be a sort of general shop. After Blunt crashed, Garner built on his site."

"I see, yes." Reggie strolled on to the end of the block, and looked down the service road at the back. Garner's had a yard of its own there - behind gates defended on the top by spiked railings, which looked new. "Oh. Protectin' themselves," Reggie murmured.

"Put up since the run of burglaries, I reckon," said Bell. "Don't blame 'em. I wish everybody would be as careful."

"Yes. Considerin' the efficiency of our detective work. Yes."

"Well, now," Bell remonstrated. "You're taking it hard, Mr. Fortune. Some of us ought to be sore about this case. But I don't know why you should be."

"My dear old Bell!" Reggie sighed. "Because I'm useless. Painful condition."

"You don't have to think that, sir. You put us on to the Smiler. That's the right line, I'll lay a dollar."

"Yes, it could be," Reggie agreed. "Who did you say the insurance assessors were? Moss & Moss? Good. I'd like to hear what they think of things."

Reggie drove to the office of Moss & Moss. Mr. David Moss, who had met him before with agreeable results, was very pleased to see him. A sharp face appraised his dreamy melancholy. "Going to do me a bit of good, Mr. Fortune? What is it?"

"I don't know. Bell says you're in the Goldschild burglary, and quite happy about it."

"No complaints, thank you."

"Meaning to say - the burglar did take ten thousand pounds' worth?"

"We don't contest it," said Mr. Moss.

"I see. And unofficially - do you believe it?"

"Yep." Mr. Moss's teeth shone, and he gave an unofficial wink. "Taking things by long and by large, don't you know, I dare say Goldy won't lose when he's paid in full. Not much! But he had some good stuff taken, all right. Look, they've had a run of burglaries out there, and all neat jobs. There's some first - class pro. and his gang working the place, if you ask me."

"Yes, you may be right," Reggie agreed. "What about Goldschild's chauffeur?"

"Sleeps sound, don't he?" said Mr. Moss. "But they can't get anything on him, I'm told."

"No. He also gave information he'd seen a local man with a bad name by Goldschild's house that night."

"So I've heard. And then he put himself to bed." Mr. Moss winked. "I see what you mean. Not too good. But that's up to the police."

"Yes. As you say. I wonder if you were in a case at Bournham fifteen years ago. Fire in a draper's shop. The insurers wouldn't pay."

"Eh, eh? Where are you getting to?" Mr. Moss made a grimace. "I couldn't tell you anything that old off - hand."

"No. Look it up, will you? The man whose shop was burnt, Alfred Blunt, is the man the chauffeur says he saw by Goldschild's house. I'd like to know something about Blunt's fire."

Two days after, he had a letter from Moss & Moss. They begged to state that they had not been concerned in dealing with Blunt's fire, but they were informed that he was charged with arson, and, though he was not convicted, payment of his insurance was refused, and he had not ventured to sue for it. The only sum paid in connection with the fire was over another insurance to one Garner, the owner of adjoining premises which had been consequently damaged. They hoped this would be satisfactory to Mr. Fortune, and remained faithfully, Moss & Moss.

"You do. Yes," Reggie murmured, and quoted to himself the Meredith maxim: "' Yes, dear Van, that is how you should behave: imply things.' I wonder what you think you're implying, David?"

Once more a resigned chauffeur drove him out through the trams to Bournham, but not to its police station. They discovered the home of the local paper, the Bournham Guardian, Norton Post, and Wyford Gazette. This triune journal announced, over its door, that it was born in 1850, and the bearded ancient who received Reggie in a hutch of an advertisement office looked as if he had assisted at the birth. But his wits were not worn out. In a few minutes he had the file of the Bournham Guardian of fifteen years ago on the counter.

Reggie found a full report of the trial of Alfred Blunt. A fire - brigade officer testified that the fire had started in several places at once, and he considered this in itself suspicious. Moreover, though for some of the outbreak he could detect no cause, on the floor behind the counter in the back shop he had found a candle beside some celluloid goods - a candle which had been lighted and gone out, and this in his opinion could only be explained as an attempt to fire the premises. Employees gave reluctant evidence that Mr. Blunt had stayed on in the shop after everyone else had gone home. There was proof of the decay of his business, and the precarious state of his finances, and the payment of his fire - insurance premium only just in time to prevent its lapse.

The only witness whom the defence could produce to show that Blunt was back in his house before the fire broke out was his wife, and she fainted under cross - examination. Blunt went into the witness box, and swore that he knew nothing of the cause of the fire - said that he had only stayed on at the shop to go over his books, and left everything safe. When he was cross - examined, he admitted financial difficulties from the growing competition in Bournham, and confessed that he had borrowed to pay his fire premium - in fact, his wife had borrowed for him - from a friend of her family, he was told - from Mr. Frederic Garner.

There was an acid summing up. The judge made it plain that he did not think much of Blunt, and instructed the jury to consider the evidence as reasonable men. But when they sent him a message asking for more guidance, he declined, and he accepted without comment their decision that they could not agree.

Reggie shut up the file, and saw the ancient factotum of the Bournham Guardian displaying from his white beard a toothless grin. "Funny business, ain't it, mister?" he said.

"Which is that?" Reggie looked surprised.

"Oh, come off it! You was reading up Alf Blunt's trial." The old man winked. "And you ain't the only one, neither. What's doing?"

Reggie laughed. "You're a sharp young fellow." He put a hand in a pocket. "I was looking it up for the fire - insurance people." He produced a brown note. "I don't know why anyone else should bother about it."

"No more do I." The old man watched the note. "Nor no one never did till t'other day. Day before yesterday it was, I had a fly cove come asking for that there file, and reading over all about Alf Blunt same as you did. Don't ask me what he was after."

"Isn't that any use?" Reggie fingered the note which the bleared eyes watched. "He didn't tell you?"

"Not him. He wasn't a gentleman like you," the old man complained. "Flash bloke, I'd call him. A tough. He'd got a pair of shoulders on him, he had, and a thick ear. Didn't read fast like you, neither. Fair spelt it out."

Reggie held out the note to the gnarled inky fingers. "Nothing to do with me," he said carelessly. "Thanks."

He went back to his car, and drove away, but he stopped it at the first telephone box, and rang up Superintendent Bell. "Fortune speaking. The Bournham case. Has your intelligent inspector down there been looking up the files of the local paper? Find out, will you? He should have, but, if he hasn't, tell him not to. I have."

"Why, what were you after, sir?" said Bell.

"I didn't know. Don't know now. I read the report of Blunt's trial for arson. The late Mrs. Blunt borrowed the money to pay Blunt's fire premium from Mr. Frederic Garner. Then the fire happened. You didn't tell me that."

"Well, what about it?" Bell protested. "It makes the case against Blunt worse. It don't seem to have any other bearing." 

"Bearin' not obvious. No. However. Some discreet man in the force, if any, might find out what were the relations between Garner and the defunct Mrs. Blunt. Have you found a trace of the Smiler yet? You have not. Well, well. Does he look like a prize - fighter? Oh, he hasn't got a cauliflower ear?"

"Not him," said Bell, with scorn. "You'd take him for a nice college - boy. What ever have you got on to now?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. But a man as described had been looking up the Blunt trial in the files of the local paper just before I did."

"My oath!" Bell grunted. "It don't make sense."

"No. We don't, do we? Have you put Goldschild's chauffeur through it?"

"I have not," said Bell impatiently. "What's that mean?"

"Oh, my Bell. Meanin' simple and obvious, Chauffeur slept very sound, didn't he? That struck David Moss. Why was the chauffeur so sure that he saw Blunt near the house?"

"All right, sir," Bell grunted. "I'll try it. Not very hopeful to my mind. But I've got to own it's a stinker of a case."

Mr. Fortune is fond of arguing that if the police had been efficient from this stage onwards the case would have been brought to a quite different conclusion, which must have been still more unsatisfactory. From this he infers that it may be a mistake for the human race to reform itself suddenly.

That night. Bell telephoned to him inability to find the chauffeur. The chauffeur was reported gone with Goldschild on a business tour to the North.

On the subsequent Friday, which was three weeks all but two days since the Goldschild burglary Bell rang him up again, and asked if he could come to a conference. He found Bell with his favourite lieutenant, Underwood, both importantly solemn, in front of the Bournham inspector, who wore an air of bitter self - satisfaction.

"Well, well." Reggie sidled round to the fire, and stood in front of it and surveyed them. "Are we downhearted? Yes."

"Thank you, sir. I don't see anything to be downhearted about." The inspector was truculent. "The theories seem to have gone west, that's all."

"He means he can't trace the Smiler in any of these Bournham cases," Bell explained.

"I cannot. Never a sniff of him," the inspector said loudly. "I have no reason to believe the Smiler was ever working in my division - except Mr. Fortune's theory." He gave Reggie a baleful grin. "And you may be surprised to hear, sir, that nobody else can get a line on the Smiler anywhere."

"No. I had heard," Reggie murmured. "And I wasn't surprised. Just like the rest of the case. However. The decision of the experts is that our Smiler has faded out?"

"Looks that way, sir," Bell nodded. "He may be in the provinces somewhere, or left the country altogether."

"Or gone out of business," Underwood suggested. "They do sometimes - the clever ones, and the Smiler was always brainy, wasn't he, sir?"

"First - class brains," Bell grunted. "Educated too. Had a bit of some Irish college, Mr. Fortune. Anyhow, he seems to be out of it."

"Stwrlos versenkt," Reggie murmured. "'Sunk without trace.' I wonder." 

"What - you mean somebody's done him in?" Bell asked. 

"Oh no. No. I wouldn't say that. No evidence." Reggie sighed, and surveyed the three detectives with the patient, pensive curiosity of one who seeks a reason for the human race. "Well, well. What about the gentleman with the thick ear who went to the local paper office to read up Blunt's trial for arson - sounds like the house that Jack built - but an actual gentleman - are you making anything of him?"

"No, I'm not," the inspector sneered. "I want facts, Mr. Fortune. That story's all up in the air."

"I can't make it fit in, sir." Bell shook his bead. "Very difficult. Yes. Only, it happened." 

"I dare say," the inspector broke in again. "What then? If it means anything, it means the chap had his reasons for looking after Blunt. All right. Why would that be? We've got it clear the Blunts were mixed up in the Goldschild burglary. You say that yourself. So what it comes to is, this thick - ear chap knew something about the burglary too, and was trying to make sure he had Blunt where he wanted him. Either blackmail or keeping Blunt from squealing. That was his game, you bet."

"Yes. That's not bad. Rational argument," Reggie said slowly. "The thick - eared gentleman is in the burglary enterprise. Yes, it could be. I wonder."

"And you may wonder," the inspector said. "How many crooks are there with thick ears? And that's the only identification you have. All this stuff don't help to put anyone in the dock."

"Oh, no. No. That's a long way off. But you might try." He looked plaintively at Bell. "Relations between the late Mrs. Blunt and the man Garner?"

"There's no mystery about that." The inspector was quick to answer. "Mr. Garner and Blunt were both after the woman, and she chose Blunt. That was a bad bet, if you like. Mr. Garner must have been really gone on her, too. He's never married. He was always helping the Blunts as long as she lived, and Blunt, going downhill, took all he could get - that's how Mr. Garner came to lend her the money for Blunt's fire insurance when it was overdue just before the fire. You saw that in the report of the trial, did you?"

"I did. Yes. Very interesting," Reggie murmured. "Well, well. My other little point. What about the chauffeur. Bell - the soundly sleepin', vanishin' chauffeur?"

"We've found him, sir. Nothing in his disappearance," Bell answered. "Regular business with Goldschild. Underwood's put him through it."

And Underwood took up the tale. "I should say the chauffeur's quite straight, sir. But there's a bit of funny stuff. He had more than a pint at his pub on the Sunday night. He don't own to being fuddled, of course, but you can take it that's why he slept heavy. Then, about his saying he saw Blunt round Goldschild's place as he came home - he thinks he saw a man; he believes it was Blunt. But he seems to have got that out of talking things over with this chap Garner, who lives near Goldschild. He met Garner next morning, and was telling him about the burglary, and Garner said when he was coming home from chapel he thought he saw Blunt about. That's his story now."

"Oh." Reggie's voice was soft. "My little point was a point, Bell."

"Yes it was," Bell agreed. "That identification of Blunt won't do."

"No. Elusive evidence, the evidence against Blunt."

"I like your saying that, Mr. Fortune," the inspector exploded. "It was you worked out the burglar lay up in Blunts' hut - you, and nobody else but you. And now you take it all back."

"My poor chap! Oh, my poor chap," Reggie moaned. "Not a good listener. I said the burglar went to the hut. I didn't say he was Blunt. Far otherwise. He wasn't. I described him for you. You can't find him. Your error."

"You said the Blunts were in it with him."

"Oh no. No. You only listen to yourself. I said Jessie Blunt helped him when he was out of action."

"I don't mind telling you, I don't believe in any other man at all," the inspector said vehemently. "It's just theory, your stuff about the Smiler, not a scrap of fact to corroborate. I believe the damaged chap in the hut was Blunt himself."

"You would, yes," Reggie murmured. "Your only evidence against Blunt havin' gone west."

"Has it!" The inspector laughed. "Would you be surprised to hear I've got some more? Look at that."

It was a letter addressed to the Chief Detective, Bournham Police Station. It said: "If you want to catch the Blunts, watch them after church next Sunday." All this was in block letters.

"Well, well." Reggie looked up from it to survey the inspector. His round face was without expression. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to watch 'em, you bet," said the inspector.

"Yes. I should say you're right," Reggie agreed. "Try everything. Without prejudice."

"Thank you. I'm glad to have your approval." The inspector was heavily ironical. He turned to Bell. "Well, sir, that's the whole of it, then. We finish up with what I started from. I'll just get on with it, eh?"

"Carry on." Bell dismissed him.

"Forceful fellow," Reggie murmured.

"You don't like him, do you?" Bell frowned.

"Not much, no. 'All zeal, Mr. Easy.'"

"He's straight, you know."

"Yes. Absolutely. Havin' no power of direction. Dangerous type. Queer case. Bell. Confusin' case. So many factors. And we're not doin' anything ourselves. We're only makin' objections. I don't like that. Good - bye." . . .

On the Sunday night, as he was smoking his last pipe over the final glass of seltzer water, his telephone rang. "Underwood speaking, Mr. Fortune," said the telephone. "The superintendent says could you come out at once to Bournham Hospital. We've got that man Garner here in no end of a mess. Smashed up and unconscious."

"Well, well." Reggie's gentle voice conveyed a mild surprise, a mild satisfaction. "While the zealous inspector was watchin' the Blunts. As instructed. All right. I'll come and look at Mr. Garner. A duty and a pleasure."

Garner lay in a private room, unconscious. His face was swollen and discoloured with bruises. His left hand had a bandage on it. Reggie bent over him. . . . The resident doctor and a nurse assisted. . . . After head and body had been examined, Reggie looked at the bandaged hand, and looked at the doctor with rising eyebrows. "That beats me, Mr. Fortune," the doctor said. He took off the bandage, and showed that the little finger had been torn away from the bottom joint. Reggie studied the wound. ..." Well, well." He sighed and frowned at it, and took the doctor out of the room. "What do you say?"

"Bad concussion, sir. Skull not fractured. No serious spinal injury. Two ribs fractured. Looks to me more like a fall than anything else. Fall out of window or something of that sort." 

"Yes. I agree. And the missin' little finger?" 

"I can't account for that at all."

"No. Quite bafflin'. Was the finger brought in?"

"No. They couldn't find it, I'm told."

"Curiouser and curiouser. What about his clothes?"

"I couldn't see anything to help in them. I'll show you."

The clothes Garner had worn were of Sunday respectability - a black jacket and striped trousers. They were dusty, the cloth had been grazed in several places, and the trousers were torn. "All that fits in with a fall or a running - down case," the doctor remarked.

"As you say," Reggie murmured. "And his hat?"

"No hat brought in. They didn't find that either."

"Well, well. What they didn't find seems to be the evidence," Reggie murmured. "Now we'll talk to Inspector Underwood."

He was summoned to the doctor's room. Reggie contemplated him with a slight, ironic smile. "Medical opinions in perfect agreement. Underwood. Serious concussion from injury to skull above right ear. Prospect of recovery - good. Other minor injuries. Probable cause - fall from a height, possibly running down by a car, or possibly"  - he glanced at the doctor - "possibly bein' knocked about by man - power, what?"

"It is possible," the doctor agreed reluctantly. "I should hardly think so, Mr. Fortune."

"No. Injuries complicated for that. Rather resemblin' effects of fall. However. One injury not accounted for by any of these theories - left little finger torn away by violence. How that happened, quite obscure." His smile was more definitely ironical. "Is the detective intelligence satisfied?"

"That's all right, sir," said Underwood cheerfully. "As far as it goes. Now you'd like to see the superintendent, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, I should. You're bein' impudent. I suppose you know that."

"Beg your pardon, sir. Sorry you take it that way." Underwood got into a police car with him. "Superintendent Bell said he'd be glad to hear what you'd make of it. He'd never met a case like it."

"Did he? He was laughin' at you," Reggie murmured. "You're all bein' very facetious."

"Are we?" Underwood turned to peer at him through the dark. "I didn't know it, sir. Where do you suppose we found this chap Garner?"

"No medical evidence," said Reggie. "However. I shouldn't wonder if you found him behind his shop."

Underwood made a profane exclamation. "I don't know how you got to that, Mr. Fortune."

"The little finger," Reggie murmured.

"I don't know what you mean?" Underwood gasped.

"No. You're quite young. Also, you haven't inspected the Garner shop. How did you find him?"

"There's been a fire in his shop - -"

"Oh, my hat!" Reggie murmured. "Another fire. Go on."

"Constable saw smoke; gave the alarm; fire brigade came. This chap Garner was found in the road at the back, like you've seen him. They'd got the fire under by the time we had the news. The superintendent's going through the premises."

In the main road, the car was stopped by a policeman diverting traffic. They went on afoot, through a small crowd and a police cordon, past fire engines, to Garner's store. Hoses lay along the pavement, doors had been broken in, some windows were gone, but the building stood.

Underwood spoke to a fire - brigade officer, and a fireman was sent in to find Superintendent Bell. His square face, sweating and dirty, appeared in the mingling light of dawn and the street lamps. "Hallo, sir. Here we are. Well, what did you make of Garner?"

"Concussion. Probably from fall."

"I believe you," Bell grunted. "This is a rum turn. You'd better come in. I've got something to show you."

Reggie followed him into the shop. The beam of a torch flashed round upon draperies bedraggled by water. Bell went on to the back. "See that." It was a taper between two celluloid plates set under a display of muslins. But the taper had gone out. "That's one," said Bell grimly. "Come on." He led the way into another department. There a smell of dank smoke hung heavy on the air. Some baskets of stationery were charred but not consumed. "Number two," said Bell. "Now this way." He turned back to a staircase - a wooden staircase, sodden with water - and the flash of his torch showed it discoloured with scorching. "All ablaze, this was. And look at the black above. Smell it? Petrol or paraffin. Come on." He led the way to the floor above. "This is where the fire really did a bit." He swung the beam of the torch round. The place was a mess of burnt materials. "Cotton and flannelette stuffs, all burning good, this was. But you notice the fire started twice below - and yet this burnt independent - this is where they saw it; this is where the smoke came from. Well, I ask you! A clear case of arson, isn't it?"

"Yes. Quite clear. Yes." Reggie smiled. "Somebody struck a match or so. Who was it?"

"That's what I'm asking you. When the firemen got here, they found Garner lying unconscious out at the back. And that window at the back was open."

Reggie went to it. It looked out on to the yard in which the vans of Garner could be seen in the dawn twilight. It was close to the wall with the spiked railings on it which shut in the yard.

"Yes. Very suggestive. Yes," Reggie murmured.

"It is," said Bell with gusto. "Somebody set fire to the place. Somebody who knew it well. I reckon all these separate outbreaks were managed with a taper and celluloid arrangement like the one we found. Works like a time fuse. A very old dodge."

"Quite old. Yes. Candle and celluloid used in Blunt's fire. By the way, did the zealous inspector have the Blunts watched to - night, as intended?"

"He did!" Bell gave a grunting chuckle. "He was on the job himself too. They went to church, and after church they were shadowed going a walk across the common just like they said they did on that other Sunday night when Goldschild was burgled. They didn't speak to a soul, nor meet anybody. He followed 'em right home, and when he got back to the station he heard Garner's shop was on fire. So he's managed to prove they had nothing to do with it."

"Very neat. Very useful. He must be pleased." 

Bell laughed. "Not half, sir. Do him good. Just as well they were followed though, isn't it?"

"Oh yes. Yes." Reggie looked at him sideways. "Essential."

"That's right. We'd have been bound to think of Blunt this fire being so like his. But there you are! Well, the chap that started this fire got in quiet and easy, no trace where. He began down below. One arrangement went out, the other didn't get a fair hold. He came on up here, and this one went a bit too fast for him, I reckon. Or else he always meant to skip off by that window over the wall. And Garner was found in a heap underneath it. That's a pretty good case, eh?"

"Yes. Quite strong. Yes. Might be stronger. You haven't found Mr. Garner's little finger?"

"No, we have not. That's a queer turn. We'll have another look in daylight. But I can't make out how it was broken off."

"My Bell! Oh, my Bell!" Reggie sighed. "Didn't the finger suggest anything to the experienced mind? There was a case of a lost finger just like this - Clerkenwell case."

"My oath!" Bell muttered, and came to the window and put out his head.

"Yes. The spikes," said Reggie. He flashed the torch. "What is that on the fourth spike?"

Bell climbed out on to the wall. The fourth spike of the railings held, piercing between a ring and the flesh, a little finger, He drew it off, came back with it, held it out to Reggie.

"Thanks." Reggie examined it. "Bloodstone signet, engraved F. G. Thus fitting our Mr. Garner. I'll see if the finger fits him. Which I do not doubt. Quite like the Clerkenwell burglar, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," Bell growled. "He was on the wall he grabbed the railings, that spike ran up between the ring and the finger, he hung by this little finger, and it broke off with his weight. Just the same as that Clerkenwell case. My Lord, we've got him."

"Evidence very impressive. Yes. You haven't got his hat. I should say you will if you look. I'll go and try the finger on him. More convenient while he's unconscious. Good - bye." . . .

The finger did fit, and in the van yard Bell found a man's hat, scorched and crushed, in which were the initials F. G. . . .

Some days afterwards another conference assembled in Bell's room. No sign of chastening appeared in the Bournham inspector. His self - satisfaction was more truculent than ever as he greeted Reggie with, "Seen anything of the Smiler, Mr. Fortune? We haven't."

"That's enough," Bell snubbed him. "You haven't laid any egg for you to cackle, my lad." He turned to Reggie. "Well, we've got a statement from Garner, Mr. Fortune. His story is: he was going home from chapel, as his custom is; he's a senior deacon or something. He went home alone; he'd got into his own road when somebody hit him from behind, and he don't know any more till he came to in the hospital. He can't account for the fire in his premises - he don't know of any enemy he has, except Blunt, who always had a grudge against him."

"And that won't do," the inspector announced. "Whoever did anything fishy that night, it wasn't the Blunts. I can swear to that."

"Yes. You've been very useful," Reggie purred.

"I work out the facts, Mr. Fortune. And I've got it clear enough, now, Garner had his reasons for wanting money. He's bit off more than he could chew with that big store. He's heavily insured, and a fire would have suited him nicely. If you ask me, he's been working to have us watch the Blunts while he faked the fire. I lay it was him sent me that letter turning us on to them for Sunday night. I - -"

"I didn't ask you," Bell growled. "Now, Mr. Fortune, about Garner's injuries - what would you say as medical evidence?"

"I should have to say - all his injuries are consistent with fallin' from the spikes of that wall - might have been the result of an attack as claimed - but, if so, someone planned them very skilfully to simulate exact effects of having fallen with his little finger caught on that spike."

Bell nodded and pondered. "On that I should be justified in charging him," he said slowly.

"Oh, yes. Yes. Failin' further explanations from Garner. Better put it to him."

"That's what I was thinking," Bell agreed. "Can you come along now?"

They drove out to the Bournham Hospital. They found Garner sitting up in bed, the swelling of his face subsided into a yellow green puffiness beneath a dingy sprouting of beard. He greeted them with a nervous gush.

"That'll do. I want you to think," said Bell. "I warn you anything you say may be used in evidence against you. I'm going to ask you to explain your statement. This is Mr. Fortune, the expert who saw you when you were brought in unconscious. You may not be aware that we found a little finger on the spikes of the wall at the back of your shop. Mr. Fortune tells me that it's yours, and he says that all your injuries might have been caused by your breaking off your finger on that spike and falling as you made your escape from the back window after starting the fire. What do you say?"

Garner said a great deal. He did not know what it was all about. He could not imagine how the fire started. Bell told him. He became incoherent. When he could be understood, he was protesting that it was just like the fire in Blunt's place years ago - it must have been Blunt.

"It wasn't Blunt," Bell broke in. "We know that. We know a lot."

"If you're going to tell us anything, you'd better tell the whole truth, Garner," said Reggie quietly. "Who was it started Blunt's fire?"

Garner fell back on his pillows - his lips moved and his jaw - he made a gasping noise and fainted.

"My oath!" Bell muttered, and stared at Reggie. "Never know what's coming next with you."

"Oh, my dear chap!" Reggie murmured gentle protest. "Thought of that a long time ago. Didn't you?"

Bell drew a long breath. "Well, that settles it, anyway. He's for it."

"Got to go through with it, yes," Reggie murmured. . . .

So the day came when Frederic Garner stood in the dock charged with setting fire to his own shop. Mr. Fortune, following the hospital doctor, gave evidence in his quietest, most aloof manner. He had examined the scene of the fire; he was of opinion that a fall there as described by the prosecution might produce such injuries as those he saw in the accused; he had a record of a case in which a finger had been broken off and found as Garner's finger was found. ... No, he could not swear that Garner had not been assaulted, as he said, and mutilated in order to make a charge against him. It was - possible. ... No, he found no evidence pointing to that. It would be - extraordinary.

As he left the witness box he saw Jessie Blunt watching him, a white fierce face.

The jury took the judge's plain hint that they must think Garner's defence incredible and found him guilty, and he was sent to penal servitude. . . .

"Well, that went all right, Mr. Fortune," said Bell, as they left the court.

"Yes. Justice has been done," Reggie agreed. "No thanks to me or you. We're futile, wholly futile." They got into Reggie's car.

"I don't know what you mean, sir," Bell complained.

"Garner told the truth. He didn't start that fire. He did start Blunt's fire. So we punish him for what he didn't do, having failed to detect him in what he did. Which is called clever police work. Not our work at all. But very clever. Work of your friend the Smiler. My dear chap! Don't you see? The Smiler was found by Jessie Blunt, in her hut, helpless and hunted by the police. Just the sort of fellow for Jessie to take to. She has a life's grudge against the police. He found that out. He got her story out of her. And it is a nasty story, Bell. Garner set himself to ruin Blunt because Blunt married the woman he wanted. And he did it - some agony in that business - shamming favours to the distressed wife - Blunt must have liked that - besides leaving Blunt and his child to a misery of a life. Nice man, our Mr. Garner. And your bright policemen saw nothing in it. Well - the Smiler told the tale to Jessie, and Jessie told him hers. She got him clear and was ready to face anything for him. Probably the only man that was all a man she's ever known. And he is a sportsman. As soon as he was safe away, he had Mr. Garner looked up. Hence the pugilist going over the file of Blunt's trial. A humorist, the Smiler. He fixed up another little fire for Garner, and, my hat, his evidence was clever! Very clever. That finger touch was brilliant. Of course he'd know the Clerkenwell case, being in the trade. But turning it into a fake - I never met anything better. Oh, a great man. I'd like to meet him again some day. Or would I? He's very good."

Bell stared. Bell said slowly, "It's a fine story. Like you tell it. You don't mean to say you believe all that, Mr. Fortune?"

"Oh, yes. Absolutely. But you'd better not. Might shake your nerve. Policemen ought to believe in the police. Or where are we?"

"You're making fun of me, sir," Bell complained.

"My dear old Bell," Reggie smiled.

Two days afterwards he received that postcard with the inscription "GOOD FOR YOU CULLY."

But he has never met the Smiler.

FOURTH OBJECTION THE THREE BEARS

THE THREE BEARS

Mr Fortune held to his nose a glass of claret. He lifted it and examined its colour. He sipped it and put it down, and sighed and looked remorse at Lomas.

"A very sound wine," said Lomas cheerfully.

"My dear chap!" Mr. Fortune was shocked. "Dead. Quite dead. Please don't have any more. I ought not to have given it you. It's a 1914. Hope, hope, fallacious hope! They promised so well, the nineteen fourteens; they had such charm; and now - -! A sad world. Waste, waste! The great mystery of existence, Lomas. Life takes no end o' trouble to turn out fine things and then lets 'em go corrupt before they've been any use. Very disheartening."

But all that was afterwards.

The introduction of Mr. Fortune to the case, though he did not then perceive it, was nearly a year before. Rather late in the season, Cosmo Florian, a young painter accused of low, hybrid birth and flashy talent, gave a one - man show. Florian's work annoyed alike the fashionable artists and the superior critics. Both found it contumacious. Naturally, Mr. Fortune took his wife to see it.

There was no doubt of Florian's talent. He could paint light. He could compel emotions. But he had no style of his own. Here he was imitating old Flemish pictures, there he had made a composition of figures defying any likeness to reality.

"He is immensely clever," said Mrs. Fortune. "I suppose he might do anything, if he knew what he wanted to do."

"Yes. As you say," Reggie agreed. "Not a man yet. But he ought to be some day. Roped in all sorts of people, hasn't he?"

The people were various. Surveying the mixture - the elaboration of smart clothes and cosmetic work mingling with an arrogance of shaggy slovenliness - Mrs. Fortune wrinkled her engaging nose. "They're really all the same," she said.

"Common desire for self - assertion, yes," Reggie murmured. "Common desire to be in the movement, and the front of it. General inferiority complex. But with marked divergence of taste. However. Other species also present. The natural man who just wants to be ordinary. Like me. Correct, commonplace, and simple." His eyes indicated a large young man, dressed, like himself, in sombre professional respectability, but exhibiting, unlike himself, a plain contempt for his company.

This man, however, found friends, or they found him. His large correctitude was caught in a group of which the other members were a little man, dark, sleek, side - whiskered, in bright violet clothes with a waist, a man of middle size in loose tweeds and a mop of sandy hair, a girl with whom pains had been taken. Her thin, bare arms had a marble sheen; some of the shape of her slim body was displayed, the rest concealed in a froth of filmy frills, the same colour as her turquoise eyes, which invited attention to the concentration of art on her head. The lips, the complexion, had the emphasis of a magazine cover; the eyebrows were orange lines. A little blue hat was cocked askew, to show that her flaxen hair had been cropped short and put into tight poodle curls. She smiled and smiled. The three men - the black morning coat, the shaggy brown tweeds, and the waisted violet jacket - were not amused. Their diversity was made uniform in sulkiness. "Goldilocks and the three bears," Mrs. Fortune whispered. 

"What? "Reggie gazed at her. "You're so subtle, Joan."

"My child, you know the story. The great big bear and the middle - sized bear and the little wee bear, and they lived in a house of their own in a wood, and there was a little girl called Goldilocks, who wasn't a well - brought - up little girl, who came in and ate their porridge and broke the chair of the little wee bear, and - -"

"Oh, yes. Yes." Reggie put his arm in hers and drew her away, for the small man in the violet clothes was looking at them. "I remember. Pleasant tale."

"Goldilocks was a little pig," said Mrs. Fortune.

"Yes. You may be right," Reggie murmured. "But indiscreet. I know the great big bear. It's Golly Dodd."

"Who is he, Reggie?"

"Oh, quite a good boy. Eminent at football, and a conscientious house physician. Now in practice in Kensington. Doin' quite well. People like that physique. Gives confidence in illness. Golly - short for Goliath, you know." Reggie turned to the pictures.

They came to one which stopped them. The painter had played some of his favourite tricks with light falling across a dark interior, and the work was of a flagrant skill, but he had tried for something more - a tragic mystery - and only achieved the macabre. Something like a naked man lay in the darkness - something like a woman vanished into it; and the light fell on a childish face distorted by a smile of silly hate.

"Whatever does he call it?" said Mrs. Fortune.

Reggie turned over the catalogue. "Happy Families," he read. "Very young, isn't he?" He glanced round. Golly Dodd, the large doctor, was at his elbow. "Well, well. Fancy meetin' you," - the greetings were made - "didn't know you were an amateur of art, young man. Is this risin' genius a friend of yours?" Reggie asked.

"I'm not sure that I've ever seen him," said Mrs. Fortune.

"There he is," - Dr. Dodd indicated the little dark man in the violet clothes still talking to the painted girl - " talking to Faustine Rook."

"Faustine?" Reggie murmured.

"Well, that's what she's called." Dr. Dodd gave an embarrassed laugh. "Her real name's Fanny - Fanny Rook, daughter of old Rook, the East Indies merchant."

"Well, well." Reggie turned to the lurid picture. "What's all this about?"

"I don't know." Dr. Dodd's large face showed a. puzzled dislike. "I'm no art critic." He found beside him the middle - sized bear, the man of shaggy, sandy hair and tweeds. "What's this picture, Lindsay?"

He was answered in a mellow, oratorical voice: "Florian's conception of husband murder, I am instructed. The classical tragedy in the manner of the moment. The case of Agamemnon as reported by the artistry of modern journalism. You are to behold Agamemnon slain in his bath - 'Alas, I am stricken! Alas I am stricken again' - and the lady Clytaemnestra retiring. One must allow, Florian has made a horror of it."

"What is the child's face for?" said Mrs. Fortune.

Lindsay gave her a condescending smile. "You observed that? Yes, one feels that his best touch. But here he is; you shall tell him so."

The little man approached, and Dr. Dodd, with visible reluctance, introduced everybody - Mr. dark Lindsay, Mr. Cosmo Florian, Mr. and Mrs. Fortune.

Lindsay resumed charge of the conversation. "Mrs. Fortune requires an explanation of your hateful child, Cosmo. One feels the force, mon maitre. But your own emotion, come."

Florian frowned at the picture. "Bah, it is a failure." He swung round upon Mrs. Fortune. "Why should you care for it? You cannot. What would you have? I am mixed. It tries to be grand and it is only shocking. It is not of me. If you please, look at my quiet things. They are succeeded."

"I thought they were immensely clever," Mrs. Fortune said.

"Ah, yes. That is me." Florian smiled. "Thank you very much." He made her an obsequious bow and bustled away.

"One is so modest when one feels an artist," said Lindsay. "But it is sincere. He does not know what his best strokes are. That flash of the Electra complex is a new thing in art."

"Well, well. Very interestin'," Reggie murmured, and took his wife away.

When they were in their car, "What creepy people,' said Mrs. Fortune. "Did you know that Lindsay man?"

"Know of him, yes. Psychologist. Modern popular psychology is Mr. Lindsay's trade. As indicated by his profound learning."

"What is an Electra complex?"

"Jargon for daughter who loves father and hates mother. Electra was the daughter of the late Agamemnon. When her mother Clytaemnestra slew father, she grew up with the simple purpose of slaying mother."

Mrs. Fortune stirred. "That's what the painter meant by that spiteful, silly child's face."

"Yes. Accordin' to the profound Lindsay. I wonder."

"What?"

"I wonder who called Fanny Rook Faustine. I don't think it was Golly Dodd." He murmured the Swinburne ballad: "You could do all things but be good Or chaste of mien, And that you would not if you could, We know, Faustine."

This was the first time Reggie met the case, and he did not meet it again till the next year. . . .

London was steaming to an early spring when Golly Dodd rang him up and asked him if he could come round to Alien Place, Kensington, at once.

"I don't want to," Reggie said. "Why should I?"

"I should be very much obliged if you would." Dodd's slow speech was unsteady. "I'm rather worried. The man's dead, sir."

"Thank you. Till then I am useless, as you say. Patient of yours?"

"Not exactly. In a way. I mean, I'm the family doctor. It's Samuel Rook."

"Is it? Don't mean anything in my virtuous life. Oh. One moment. Rook. Father of damsel with flaxen poodle hair? Fanny, alias Faustine. Is that right?"

"Miss Rook's father." Dodd sounded stiff and annoyed. "That's the man. Can you come? The Lindens, Alien Place."

"Oh, yes. Yes. You'll be at the house, what? Right." As Reggie drove out to Kensington, other verses of the ballad were in his head:

"If one should love you with real love (Such things have been Things your fair face knows nothing of), You'd give him - - poison shall we say? Or what, Faustine?"

Alien Place, Kensington, was a relic of the quiet past. Old - world houses stood each apart in its walled garden, half hidden by trees breaking into leaf, limes and aspens glistening lemon green in the sunlit rain.

Opening the gate of The Lindens, Reggie passed through a garden well contrived to look big and wild, with a Victorian pagoda of a summer - house commanding its vistas.

Windows opened on the garden, but all their blinds were drawn. He had hardly rung the bell before he was let in by a tremulous butler, and in the hall Golly Dodd met him. "Awfully good of you, sir." Dodd was boyish in his nervousness. "He's not been moved. I've had nothing touched. Would you come up?"

On the floor of a bathroom, naked except for a towel across it, lay a man's body. The bath was nearly full of dirty water, the floor damp. The man was of mean physique, bearded, bald. Except that he lay completely still, he looked in ordinary health. Reggie knelt on the bath - mat beside him. . . .

Reggie stood up and gazed at Dodd with large and pensive eyes. "I've finished," he complained.

Dodd took him away into a room which seemed to be the study of a man who used few books. There was a large desk, a cabinet of files, and on the walls nothing but a map and a few Asiatic curios - a golden mask, an elephant's tusk deeply carved, a scimitar, and a pair of long daggers, an ancient gun with engraved barrel and inlaid stock.

Reggie surveyed them dreamily. "Well, well." He sank into a chair. "Been in the Far East, had he? Yes. Not wholly irrelevant. However. I should say death from natural causes. Failure of the heart's action. Fatty degeneration - valvular disease from endocarditis - something like that. Circumstances familiar and corroborative. Went for his bath - had it hot - rather too hot - felt faint, struggled out, and collapsed. As he didn't come out of the bathroom, they knocked, got no answer, broke open the door, found him dead, and sent for you."

"That's what they told me." Dodd was quick to agree. "The water was still quite warm when I got here. He must have had it very hot. He did hate cold, I know. Of course, he'd spent all his life in the East - Malay States and so on."

"Yes. Man of sixty - five - sixty - five plus. Worked himself pretty hard in the tropics. Nothing abnormal his having a heart that would conk out. What's worrying you?"

"Well you see, I've never actually examined him. He was never ill that I know of. I've only attended Mrs. Rook." 

"Pity. Must be an inquest, of course. But why the question?"

"Oh well - - - " Dodd hesitated. "Nobody likes an inquest on one of his patients. And then there's the family. Mrs. Rook's not too strong, and the death itself has shaken her badly." He looked uncomfortably at Reggie. "What I was thinking was, would you do the post mortem, sir?"

Reggie's eyelids drooped. "Are you bein' quite frank, my boy? Do you expect me to find something?"

"No, not at all, not in the least," said Dodd in a hurry. "I only want to get it absolutely above suspicion."

"Oh, all right. I'll do it." Reggie stood up. "Said anything to the coroner yet? No? I'll talk to him. He'll do as he's told. Good - bye."

Two days afterwards, Golly Dodd sat uncomfortably in Reggie's consulting - room. "Well, young man, here you are." Reggie looked down a half - sheet of notes. "Endocarditis, in advanced stage. Valves on the left side of the heart much affected. Must have been symptoms for some time - breathlessness, faintness, and so on. Heart liable to fail at any moment under strain. Adequate cause for death as found. No other cause present. Satisfied?"

"Oh, absolutely, sir." Dodd's big face flushed in a broad smile. "That's conclusive, from you."

"Yes. I think so," Reggie murmured. "But there never was any doubt. Why did you doubt?"

"I don't know. These sudden deaths - and I'd never had Rook through my hands, you see. There might have been something."

"You mean shock or worry?"

"I couldn't say. He did take things hard, I believe."

"Any particular worry? "Reggie drawled. "Family - daughter - what's her name - Fanny, alias Faustine?"

"I'm not aware of anything," said Dodd quickly.

"Well, well." Reggie looked at him with closing eyes. "So that's that. Medically speakin' - death from natural causes."

"Quite - er - thanks very much, sir. Poor old fellow. Not a bad sort of death, though."

"No. Easy way - as the ways go," Reggie said; and, still returning thanks, Dodd went off.

Reggie watched him stride largely down the street, a certain exuberance, a certain violence, in the progress of his bulk. "Well, well," Reggie murmured. ...

He met the case again on a night in June, beneath a thunderstorm.

A police car carried him to the corner of a back street in Bloomsbury. A half - circle of the black mackintosh capes of policemen gleamed in the lightning flashes. At its centre, against the wall, there was a cluster of umbrellas.

One of these came to the door of the car, and between lightning and lamplight, the square face of Superintendent Bell was revealed. "Sorry to bring you out in this, Mr. Fortune. But you'd want to come." A crash of thunder roared and rumbled away.

"Exaggeratin' my virtue," Reggie complained. "I didn't want. I don't want. What's the matter with your tiresome corpse?"

"Come and see, sir," Bell invited, and, holding the umbrella over Reggie assiduously, conducted him to the other umbrellas.

Beneath them a man lay on his face; a flash of light showed that one hand was flung out, the other at his throat, and by the throat a puddle. Then he was a dark shape in the darkness.

"Hasn't been moved since the constable found him," Bell explained. "He was dead then. About two hours ago."

"I want a torch," Reggie mumbled. It was given him, and he turned the beam on the dead man's face. He bent closer. . . . Crushed against the pavement he saw the large features of Golly Dodd, dabbled red. The hand at the throat was red too. Blood oozed still from the wound on which the hand was pressed.

Reggie turned the body over carefully. The wound in the throat gaped wide. He gave the torch to Bell, and in its light worked on. . ..

"Yes. Take him away now," he said slowly. "Poor chap." He stood frowning at the body. He took the torch from Bell and swept it about the pavement and the wall. "Nothing, what? Nothing but that puddle of blood."

"No, we haven't found anything. The knife it was done with isn't here. So that means murder all right, eh?"

"Impressive evidence, yes. And the medical evidence is that the wound was inflicted by some other person, but of unusual type. The personal evidence is that I don't think Golly Dodd would commit suicide."

"What, you know him, sir?"

 I knew him, yes. Good fellow. Straight fellow. I resent this."

"Ah. It gets you like that when you knew the man" Bell sympathised profoundly. "Butcher's work, isn't it?"

"Not delicate, no. That may be a point - or not. Somebody  being wrought perplexed in the extreme or somebody with a brutal mind. However. There are other points. Wound made by an uncommon weapon. Longish narrow blade, double edged, wavy edge. And Dodd, being a doctor in practice in Kensington, comes down in evenin' dress to a back street in Bloomsbury to be killed therewith."

"That's a couple of teasers," Bell grunted. "I don't know as I ever saw a knife like you say. And it's going to take some time to find out what brought him here to Bloomsbury."

"As you say. How he came is obscure. Why he came is the first point. Is the local constable who found him still here?"

"Standing by, yes." Bell turned and called, and a dripping constable approached the umbrellas.

"Is this your regular beat? "Reggie asked. "Good. Now, do you know anybody living round here of these names: Cosmo Florian, an artist; Clark Lindsay, some sort of lecturer and writer; Miss Fanny Rook or Faustine Rook, a young woman with money?"

The constable sucked his teeth. "I don't know anything of those two you said first; never heard of 'em, sir. But Miss Faustine Rook - that'll be the lady that has her picture in the papers. She has one of those little houses in the dead end there." The constable pointed. "Very smart too. Keeps it up. Lots of parties on all night sometimes. The neighbours have been complaining."

He led them on some fifty yards to a short street of old two - storey houses. All but one were dark, as respectable houses should be after midnight. In that one all the windows shone, and the row of cars which began by its door expanded into a double rank across the roadway at the dead end. Not a chauffeur was to be seen. The cars were of many kinds: most of them two - seaters, some shabby, low - powered antiques, some pretentious speed types. From the house came the blare of a gramophone playing dance music, with voices shrill and raucous taking up scraps of the insistent, hectic rhythm.

"The lady's got a party to - night, you see," the constable proudly corroborated himself.

"I hear," Bell snorted. "Very smart!" He went up to the door, which was painted in a diagonal pattern of red and black, grunted at it, and rang and rang again and again.

At last it was opened by what seemed to be a girl, though in shorts and shirt. "I've come to see Miss Rook," said Bell.

"Law love a ducks." The girl made eyes at his square solemnity and giggled. "Faustine," she shrieked. "The hangman's called for you."

"That'll do." Bell pushed back the door and her and strode down the hall to the room from which the noise came. Hot air also came from it, foul with many odours - the smoke of cigarettes, crude and exotic; the vapour of mixed spirits and of heavy perfume; the harsh exhalations of sweating bodies.

The room was full of people. They sat round the walls on cushions and divans and one another. In the centre there was a maul of dancing. One and all they used the top of their voices. It was a piebald crowd, the most conspicuous the few in evening dress; all the rest in varieties of carelessness or blatant eccentricity, plus fours and flannels and cotton frocks, men in vests and shorts, women in next to nothing, men wearing bright silk and velvet, women disguised and undisguised as men.

"I want Miss Rook," Bell boomed through the din and it dwindled and the crowd began to stare and whisper.

Reggie saw her fair cropped curls. She was in white trousers and a white shirt, sleeveless and open deep down her white, thin chest. She was dancing in the arms of a fat youth, correctly conventional with black tails and a face of imbecile bliss.

"Miss Rook!" Bell repeated in a voice of doom.

"Damn and blast!" she called out, and the crowd laughed. She wriggled from the fat youth's arms, with a "Go on, take Pussums; her feet are soft," and pushed her way to Bell. "What do you want? I don't know you, do I?" She blinked at him, and her turquoise eyes were glassy.

"You're Miss Fanny or Faustine Rook?"

"I was, I will be, and perhaps I am. Not quite sure at the blessed moment. What are you?"

"Come with me, please." Bell took her arm and drew her out into the hall, and over her head he informed the staring crowd: "None of you is leaving this place till the police let you go. Get that." A constable and a plain - clothes man filled up the doorway.

"What a thrill!" Faustine laughed, and called out: "On with the dance, my infants, on with the dance."

Bell took her aside. "I'm a police officer. Superintendent Bell. Do you know Dr. Dodd?"

"Golly Dodd? Of course I do. What's he been doing?"

"Was he coming here tonight?"

 "I don't know. I dare say. He often does."

"Oh. He came regular?"

"We're all very regular, officer," she giggled. 

"Has he been here?"

"I haven't seen him. He may have looked in. He often funks a rag. Rather a dull old thing. What's it all about?"

"Any friends of his here?"

"Oh, hell! Friends! What's a friend? Half this push knows him to drink a cocktail with."

"I see." Bell glowered at her. "Nobody's friendly. But half of you knew him. Did anybody know him particular besides you?"

"What do you mean?" Her thin face flushed. "You've no right to ask me all these questions. I won't stand it. I told you, I just know him, and lots of the others do. I'm not going to be kept here to be worried by you."

While Reggie listened to their talk, his eyes were searching the room and the crowd within. The gramophone blared the tune of "The Gigolo's Wedding," but few continued to dance. Most of them had gathered into little parties to talk, nervously, angrily, spitefully, or with cackling laughter, over the invasion of the police.

The plan of the room became clear to him. Square front and back parlours of a house of the year of grace 1800 had been made into one. Furniture, except for cushions and divans and a bar counter, had been abolished. The curtains were in two shades of purple On the walls and ceiling many shades of yellow were combined in a dazzle of a pattern to conceal the room's shape and size, so that the frieze running round it seemed to hang without support from above or below. The frieze was painted in the manner of a primitive tapestry, with stunted figures. Reggie made out scenes of the story of the three bears and Goldilocks - the child and their porridge, the child and their beds - and always the bears were grotesque and Goldilocks a malicious sprite.

A stab at his mind from unconscious memory made him think of the moment when his wife had seen Faustine with Golly Dodd and Lindsay and Florian, and called them Goldilocks and the three bears.

Though one was going, a corpse, to the mortuary, two were in Faustine's rooms. He saw Cosmo Florian, decorated with a violet dinner - jacket and a soft ruffled shirt over which a cascade of blue tie fell, drinking at the bar. Lindsay's mop of sandy hair rose from between giggling women, and his tweed - clothed arms were round two of them.

Bell's interrogation of Faustine went on. "I want a lot more. When did this party of yours start?"

"Oh, don't be silly. Any old time. People come along when they like."

"When did you expect Dr. Dodd?"

"I didn't expect him," she snapped. "I told you so."

"You said he often came. What time would he come?"

"God knows. Don't be a fool. People don't have fixed times to look in."

"Did he look in or didn't he?"

"Oh, I don't know. Go to hell!"

"Have you been in your house here all the evening?" That shook her. She did not answer for a moment. She drew back against the wall. "Of course I have. Is it likely I'd go out with this push here? Look here, what are you asking all this nonsense for? If it means anything, I have a right to know."

"I'm investigating a crime," said Bell. 

"What crime? What's happened? There's been nothing here. Do you mean something about Golly Dodd?"

"I do. Did you expect it?"

"Me? Golly? "While she gasped that out the telephone rang. "Oh, hell!" She ran to it." Yes. Speaking. Who's that? Phipps? What's the matter with you? Well, don't gobble; go on. What? . . ." She swayed and staggered, and dropped the receiver and reeled, and, as Reggie caught her, Bell snatched it up.

"Speaking for Miss Rook. Give that message again, please. ... I understand." He clashed back the receiver, took it off again, and rang up the Kensington police station. "Superintendent Bell speaking. Send round to Mrs. Samuel Rook's house at once. Big job. I'm coming along." He rang off and turned to Reggie. "What's wrong with this woman? Only a faint, eh? All right. I want you, sir." He strode to his chief assistant at the street door. "Now then. You're left in charge. Name and address of everybody, and the time they came here and where they came from. Look 'em over for any bloodstains. Then you can turn 'em loose. And take the chance to search the house for traces of blood or a weapon. What's it like, Mr. Fortune?"

"Narrow blade, double edge, wavy edge: handle probably at an angle to the blade."

"Queer thing. Know that if you see it, won't you George? Now, Mr. Fortune, come on, will you? This is a merry night."

"Yes. As you say." Reggie went with him along the street. The rain had stopped; moonlight made a silver sheen on the wet pavement. They came to the police cars. "I infer we're going to Mrs. Rook's house. Did you get the address?"

"Pick it up at the station," Bell told him.

"Unnecessary delay. I've been there, I'll take you."

Bell checked. "What, did you know her?"

"Not from Eve. But I know the house. Golly Dodd called me in when Rook died last winter."

"Did he? Why would that be?"

"Professional conscientiousness," Reggie mumbled. "He had a lot of conscience, poor lad. He wasn't sure about Rook."

"My oath!" Bell grunted. "That's queer. Were you sure?"

"Oh, yes. Absolutely. Rook died of heart disease."

"Well, if you say so - -" Bell muttered. "But what do you think has happened now? Mrs. Rook's been found dead. And she didn't die natural. Her throat was cut. That's the message that knocked out her bright young daughter. Her throat was cut. Just like your friend Dodd's."

"I wonder," Reggie murmured. "Come on. Here's my car." . . .

The car slid to rest before the walled garden of The Lindens. A constable stood on guard at the gate. They were admitted, and a divisional detective - inspector came to meet them and led them across the garden, turning a torch on the shrubs and flower - beds and crazy paving to guide them.

Thev came to the pagoda summer - house. The torchlight was reflected from a dark puddle and turned to a woman's body. Reggie saw a black dress sunk down shapeless in a cane chair, the pale glimmer of a neck and bosom across which lay a stream of blood. The woman's head drooped to her right shoulder, a mass of grey hair almost touching it. Her mouth was open, and blood lay upon her lips. The left side of her neck was cut with a gash which gaped and from that blood had streamed and spread.

"My oath!" Bell muttered. "Just like the man."

"You think so?" Reggie said. He took the inspector's torch and swept the light all round the summer - house and on the garden outside. Then he turned it on the woman's feet, her dress, her hands, and at last on the wound again. He gave the torch back to the inspector. "Like that: hold it steady," he said and bent over the wound. . . .

"Well, well." He stood erect and breathed deep. Bell saw his round face without expression. Once more he took the torch from the inspector and wandered out into the garden. Just beyond the summer - house he stopped, with the beam of the torch turned on a clump of saxifrage in the crazy pavement. He picked his way about the garden to and fro, and it was a long time before he came back to the inspector and Bell.

"You haven't found a weapon, sir," said the inspector with gloomy satisfaction. "No more could I."

"Weapon not on the scene of action. No. Bafflin' fact."

"Just like Dodd's case, isn't it?" said Bell. "No weapon again, and the same sort of wound."

"Not the same. No. Curious and interestin' likeness. Might have been made by the same weapon. But this is not in the same place. More to the side. Less vigour. Less certainty. As much of a cut as a stab. However. The weapon again is missin'. Interestin' and curious. Well. You can take her away now."

He linked arms with Bell and led him towards the house. They came to the door, which was open, with a detective standing by. "Is the butler about?" Reggie asked, and a frightened man came in a hurry along the hall. "Has Mr. Rook's study been changed since his death?"

"No, sir. Mrs. Rook wouldn't have anything touched."

"Good. Take us up there."

So Reggie came again to that room on the first floor with its business apparatus and its Asiatic curios. He surveyed it; he gave a sigh of satisfaction and sank down into an easy chair, filled a pipe and lit it, and spoke.

"Well. Here we are, Bell. Mrs. Rook died three or four hours ago. Say between nine and ten. Before the rain began. Died in that summer - house, in that chair. Cause of death, large incised wound in throat. Which was probably made by herself."

"You believe that, sir?" Bell frowned.

"Oh, yes. That is the provisional probability. Requires checkin' by further examination of the body. Both bodies. But my present opinion is, Mrs. Rook killed herself and Golly Dodd was murdered. And if I change it I shall be surprised. Though the weapon used in both cases was of the same unusual kind. Weapon just like that." He took out his pipe and pointed with it to the wall, where, beneath a scimitar engraved and inlaid with gold, hung a dagger.

Bell turned, started up, and inspected it. "My oath!" he muttered, and stared at Reggie. The dagger had a long thin blade, each edge of which was waved, and the ivory hilt was almost at a right angle to the blade. "Just what you said. That was a wonderful shot. I never saw a knife like this."

"Not common, no. A Malay kris. Rook had lived out in the East."

Bell examined the dagger. "But look here, sir, this can't have been used to - night. There's dust on it."

"Yes, I dare say. Quite good, Bell. That wasn't used: I never thought it was. Practically impossible to put it back. But, when I saw this room last, there were two daggers under the scimitar. That's why I came up here."

Bell looked close at the wall. "You're right," he announced. "There have been two. Two of 'em hanging crossed. Here's marks on the paper where the other was." He rubbed his hands. "My oath, that's a bit of work, Mr. Fortune!"

"You think so? "Reggie murmured. "Gives us one primary fact. Place where the operatin' dagger came from. Further movements of dagger obscure. Place where it's gone to unknown. Lots more work to do. However. Nature of it quite clear. You'd better find out whether anything happened here in the early part of the evening to account for the sudden severance of Mrs. Rook's throat. And meanwhile have some men watchin' Goldilocks and her two survivin' bears."

 "Sir?" Bell gasped.

"Sorry. I'm feelin' romantic. I mean Miss Rook and Florian and Lindsay. Good night. I'm going to bed. You have my sympathy."

When he came out of the house to the garden, he crossed to the summer - house again. The inspector turned from supervising the removal of Mrs. Rook's body and joined him. "Anything more you want, sir?"

"Your torch," Reggie mumbled. He turned its beam on the clump of saxifrage close to the summer - house wall. "Look at that," he said. "Look at it carefully." He stooped and plucked some tufts and gave back the torch, and left the inspector looking. . . .

About noon on the next day the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department sat in conference with Bell. "You've done very well," he pronounced. "It looks like a straightforward case now. Just a matter of working up the details into corroborative evidence."

"Thank you, sir. It don't look too bad. But I don't know that I've done anything much myself - just taking things as they came and going through the routine, with Mr. Fortune's hints. And there's some snags still. He was very helpful - and he wasn't. This weapon identification of his is all very well, but we haven't got the weapon. And then, if he's going to stick to it Mrs. Rook committed suicide, that's funny stuff to give a jury, Mr. Lomas."

"Quite. I should say they wouldn't believe him. Give a jury a woman with her throat cut and no weapon present, and the verdict will be murder, whatever the medical expert says. That's all right. It suits us perfectly. And it's probably true. Fortune's very good, but he's apt to shy away from plain facts. He always wants to find something mysterious and subtle. Defect of his qualities, of course. Imaginative men don't like the ordinary."

"I don't know - -" Bell was objecting when Reggie sauntered in.

"Morning." He sank into a chair. "Higher intelligence in council? Good. Solved all the problems?"

"Doing nicely, thank you, Reginald," Lomas smiled. "Have you solved yours?"

"Mine? Weren't any. Only matter of verification. Quite conclusive. Provisional opinion confirmed. Mrs. Rook stabbed herself - say cut her throat - sort of feeble waggly blow. Golly Dodd was murdered - one powerful stab - by the same weapon - weapon closely resembling the Malay kris found on the wall of the late Mr. Rook."

"The same weapon?" said Lomas sharply.

"Oh, yes. Same one."

"And yet you say the woman committed suicide while the man was murdered."

"Not while, no. Previously."

"Damme, don't quibble!" Lomas snapped. "You'd better explain how the weapon with which the woman killed herself came to murder the man."

"Not me, no. Not my job. Police job."

"Thank you. It's not necessarily our duty to find proof of your theories, Reginald. And this theory isn't attractive."

"Oh, Peter!" Reggie gazed at him in melancholy surprise. "Isn't a theory. Statement of facts."

Lomas smiled and shook his head. "Not plausible. Hardly credible."

"My poor Lomas!" Reggie sighed. "Doesn't have to be plausible. Not a matter for the will to believe. It happened. It was so."

"Giving us a twister, aren't you?" Bell objected. "Look here, sir, last night you only said it was the same kind of unusual weapon killed the two of 'em. Well, I wouldn't mind taking that. Nor I wouldn't mind taking your evidence the woman committed suicide and Dodd was murdered. But it's pretty hard to believe that the first case was suicide and the other murder and yet there was only one weapon used. You can't be sure, can you?"

"Oh, yes. Absolutely. Dagger which killed Mrs. Rook was wiped before removal. Wiped on a flourishin' clump of saxifrage just under the eaves of the summer - house. I pointed out the plant to your inspector. Didn't he show you?"

"He did. I saw it had been mucked up. That's all right."

"You accept that? Good. There was some luck. Necessary to wipe the dagger on the spot before removal. Otherwise risk of bloodstains to the operator's clothes. The luck was in the projection of that pagoda roof, preservin' smears on the saxifrage from subsequent rain. However. Without that luck I could have managed. In the wound in Dodd's throat there were scraps of saxifrage of the same variety as that under the summer - house eaves. Which proves that the dagger used by Mrs. Rook was taken away and used on Dodd."

"That's pretty good." Bell looked at him with puzzled admiration.

"Splendid," Lomas smiled. "Much obliged, Reginald. Just what we want. But you must notice this evidence does not fit your theory that Mrs. Rook committed suicide. The only reasonable interpretation of it is that she was murdered, and the murderer wiped the weapon and took it away."

"Do you call that reasonable?" Reggie drawled. "Your hypothetical murderer, havin' killed Mrs. Rook with a weapon from her own house, takes it away. Why? If it had been left with her, nobody would have suspected murder. Not even you. Golly Dodd is then killed with the same weapon. Why? And the weapon is again removed. Why? Those are the real questions for the intelligent policeman."

"I don't know the motive for Dodd's murder," said Lomas impatiently. "The overwhelming probability is that it was connected with the murder of Mrs. Rook. Suppose her murderer had reason to fear Dodd - Dodd knew too much - Dodd had seen something - there you are."

"Not anywhere. I dare say the motive was that Dodd knew too much. Dodd knew a lot. More than he ever said, poor lad. But Mrs. Rook wasn't murdered. She cut her own throat. That's fundamental to everything."

"My dear fellow " - Lomas was condescending - "you don't distinguish between your facts and your opinion. You have facts which show the weapon was the same. It's only your opinion that the woman committed suicide."

"That's all. Only the best medical opinion there is," Reggie murmured. "Don't try to set up another against it. You'd make a nasty mess."

"Is that a threat? "Lomas frowned.

"No. Warning. Our little hands were never made to scratch each other's eyes. You can't build a case on the rejection of the medical evidence. Moreover - quite convenient, helpful evidence. Leaves you one perfectly good murder and clues to the murderer: somebody who was round about Mrs. Rook's house last night; somebody who had reasons for killin' Golly Dodd; somebody who has hidden the Malay kris missin' from Rook's room. You have plenty to work on. Why not use it?"

"Very kind of you to teach us our business," Lomas said. "We did notice these clues of yours, Reginald.

And we have followed them up. I'm afraid you'll be surprised to hear that they confirm our opinion Mrs. Rook was murdered."

"Not surprised. No. Your opinion don't matter. Because she wasn't." Reggie turned to Bell. "You remember I told you to search Faustine Rook's disgustin' house last night. Was the missin' dagger found there?"

"No, sir. It was not. Nothing suspicious found."  Bell shook his head. "Wash out, that was."

Lomas cocked an eyebrow. "So the expert was not wholly convinced that Mrs. Rook killed herself?"

"Not before I saw Mrs. Rook's body. No. My convictions depend on evidence. I was dealin' with the problem, Who killed Golly Dodd?"

"Well, you suspected Faustine Rook," said Lomas impatiently.

"Oh, yes. Yes. Fanny, alias Faustine, is a factor. Goldilocks and her three bears are all involved."

"Goldilocks - three bears - -" Lomas stared. "What on earth are you off to now?"

"My dear chap! Sorry. Literary allusion. But very illuminatin'. Recall the children's story of naughty little Goldilocks plaguin' the three bears. Faustine is Goldilocks, Golly Dodd was the big bear, Lindsay the middle - sized bear, and Florian the little wee bear. My wife saw 'em together and recognised the likeness. Mentioned it. And some of 'em overheard. Some of 'em were struck by the spiritual truth. Round Faustine's nasty room is painted a modernist version of Goldilocks bein' naughty to the bears. No doubt Florian painted it. That's very interesting. Reveals the state of feeling."

Lomas was interested. "You mean these three men thought Faustine was a nuisance? That may be. The girl's a nasty little minx. You know all about her, I suppose."

"Oh no. No. Don't know all about anybody."

"Damme, you know her public form. Faustine Rook is news. Objects in life to get herself into the papers and into the scandal which the papers daren't publish. Got a standing in every detrimental class - the rackety smart set, the wild Bohemians, the bold, bad intellectuals. Prodigal daughter of the latest style. Old Sam Rook and his wife were last - century people - respectable Puritans rolling in money. The girl was brought up strict and spoilt. Two or three years ago she broke loose, and set up on her own to paint the town red, and herself. The old people took it hard - -"

"Yes. I thought that," Reggie murmured. "I should say that was the cause of Rook's death - shock and worry on a diseased heart."

"Ah, Dodd called you in to do the post mortem on him," Lomas said quickly. "Well, that can mean only one thing - Dodd suspected foul play. There you have the position. Dodd was the family doctor. Dodd knew 'em all inside out. Dodd thought it quite possible this creature Faustine might have murdered her father."

"I wouldn't say that. No. Dodd wanted to establish that she hadn't. I'm afraid he was fond of her, poor chap."

"I dare say. She's a man - eater, of course, but some of the best men fall for that type," said Lomas profoundly. "Now then, Rook left everything to his wife, and to Faustine after. There was nearly a million. Alluring bait for Faustine. She'd worried her father to death, and there was only the mother's life between her and the money. But the mother hadn't a weak heart, I take it."

"No. Quite a healthy woman. Only her head was weak, poor thing."

"Was it? Still believing in suicide, Reginald? Would you be surprised to hear that Faustine dined with her mother last night? Faustine and that dago artist, Cosmo Florian."

"Not the least," Reggie murmured. "My dear chap! Quite obvious something had just happened between Faustine and her mother. Otherwise Faustine wouldn't have fainted when they telephoned mother had been found with her throat cut. It was a genuine faint. And she wouldn't faint for grief, that young woman. She was afraid."

"I quite agree." Lomas smiled. "But we're getting you well away from your suicide theory, you notice. All this goes far better with murder. And there's more. Florian's name has been linked with Faustine's a long time. They've been away together. She took him last night to show him off to the old respectable mother."

"Not nice, no. Not a nice girl. So that was the last straw."

"You mean it shocked the mother into suicide?"

"Yes. Made the breaking - point. After grief for the father and general woe at Faustine's behaviour - then to be shown Florian as the permanent lover or husband."

"Wait a minute. The butler says everybody was on edge at dinner, and he heard words when he was out of the room. Then they all went out to the garden and sat in that summer - house. He never saw Mrs. Rook alive again. One of the servants says Faustine and Florian came into the house together before ten, but not Mrs. Rook. Somewhere about ten the storm began. When the butler was locking up at midnight or so, he found Mrs. Rook wasn't in the house. He waited a bit, thinking she might have gone off with her daughter. At last he went and had a look in the summer - house, and there he found her dead and rang up Faustine. You see? The time you fix for the murder is just before ten - just the time that Faustine and Florian could have got the dagger from the house and killed her."

"Yes. That is so," Reggie murmured. "Leaving you with the original problems unsolved. Why was the dagger taken away from her? Why was it taken away after Dodd was killed?"

Lomas laughed. "My dear Reginald! Abandon your fixed idea of suicide and everything is perfectly simple. They took the dagger away because it didn't occur to them any brilliant expert could think the woman had committed suicide. They knew they'd murdered her. They knew the dagger would prove the murder had been done by somebody who had access to the house - somebody who'd been in it just when they were. So they went off with it, and then they came up against Dodd. Notice the times. They left round about ten, going back for Faustine's party. Dodd was going there too. He lived in Kensington, close by the Rooks, and he started about ten. They'd all get to Bloomsbury just before the storm. They met. Possibly Dodd had seen something too much. Possibly he'd heard something. So he had to be killed too. And again the dagger couldn't be left or it would have linked his murder with the Rooks' house."

"That's right," Bell nodded. "You haven't heard yet, Mr. Fortune - not far from where Dodd's body was, we found a sodden muck of an evening paper all messed up with blood. That's what the dagger was wiped on the second time."

"Yes - Quite likely. Yes," Reggie murmured.

"Well, Reginald? "Lomas gave him a quizzical smile. "Is it still suicide?"

"Oh, yes. Not a doubt. Actually suicide. Legally suicide. Morally murder. Same like father was murdered. But Golly Dodd was murdered in fact and law. We ought to get somebody for that. We can get somebody." He gazed at Lomas with a cold anger. "What are you doing about it?" he said sharply.

"I've been trying to persuade you to hear reason," Lomas snapped.

"What? "Reggie's blue eyes gleamed. "You mean alter my evidence to make a case? No, thank you."

"I said nothing of the sort. I was putting the whole facts before you."

"The whole!" Reggie's voice went up. "Oh, my hat! One small fraction."

"What did you want us to do, Mr. Fortune?" said Bell anxiously.

"My dear chap! Quite obvious. We must know what Golly Dodd did after leavin' his house last night. How did he go to Bloomsbury - take a taxi, walk to the tube, or what?"

"Ah. I've put men to work on that," said Bell with satisfaction. "You gave me the hint last night. You gave me another, too. About watching the woman and Florian and Lindsay. Well, she went round to Florian first and then Lindsay this morning. Didn't stay long either place. They were both out. Florian was at a cafe - one of those artists' places; Lindsay had gone to his college."

"Well, well. Very zealous of Goldilocks. So she hasn't talked to her two survivin' bears. I wonder. We'd better have a talk with 'em all. It might be usefully conducted in Rook's house, in the room from which the dagger came. And, while the three are thus occupied, further search should be made in the men's homes for the missin' dagger and any clothes with stains." 

Lomas meditated. "Very well," he decided. "That's justified. But I don't hope much from it. Nothing was found in Faustine's place - and the men - they've had time enough to clear up. Most likely the dagger's in the river by now."

"I wonder," Reggie murmured.

"My dear fellow, would you keep a thing which would convict you?"

"No. I shouldn't. No. When I manage a crime, there won't be anything for you to play with."

"What are you thinking of now? "Lomas looked at him curiously. "Things for somebody to play with?"

"You don't see the possibilities," Reggie sighed. "However. Lunch is indicated. Come and lunch with me. Stimulus to the intellect."

While Bell set his machinery to work, they drove to a little quiet restaurant in Soho much admired by Mr. Fortune. "Subtlety is what we need, Raymond," he instructed the proprietor. "Subtlety and a certain cold vigour. Bayonne ham, I think. And then a fish salad. Turbot with my own salad. Don't spare the tarragon. Yes, your mignonettes of veal. Admirable. And raspberries with dry curacao in the cream. Montrachet, please." He turned to Lomas. "Will that do?"

"A charming lady's lunch," said Lomas.

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!" Reggie mourned for him. "No sex in it. Pure mind." And while they ate he talked of the hill towns of Tuscany and the philosophy of Croce. Lomas does not frequent Italy nor read philosophers. The combined consequence was that he came to the house in Kensington impatient.

Bell met them there. "I've got the woman and that chap Florian, sir. Lindsay's being brought along. He's giving a lecture at his college. Which of 'em will you begin with?"

"Ladies first," said Reggie. "And the man can wait. Educative for him."

"That's all right," Lomas agreed. "The woman is the key to everything."

They went up to Rook's study, and Bell brought Faustine. She was not in mourning, unless the little black hat cocked over one eye had been meant to express grief. Her frock had a fierce geometrical pattern of green on white. She was painted as vividly as usual, and dark curves under her eyes emphasised the pain and the sharpness of her face.

"Why ever do you bring me up here?" she said plaintively.

Lomas jumped at that opening. "To your father's room? I thought it the most natural place, Miss Rook."

"Don't be ghastly!" Her voice was shrill.

"Were you much surprised at your father's death?"

"It knocked me out. I knew he'd had a weak heart for a long time."

"Did you? Dr. Dodd didn't know. Your father had been a good deal worried about you, hadn't he?"

"No." She gave Lomas an unflinching stare. "Who's been telling you that tale?"

"You say he never objected to your way of living?"

"Not a bit. Why should he? Father always let me have everything I wanted. We were in love with each other."

"Really? You tell me your mother made no complaints of your treatment of your father?"

"Mother? - mother never complained of anything. What do you mean?"

"I meant that she might have thought you responsible for your father's death."

"That's a foul thing to say! Of course she didn't. She couldn't. Mother wasn't a jealous beast."

"Oh. Nothing was said about jealousy," Reggie murmured. "Till you said it."

"No, I didn't. I said she wasn't. You were making that up. Mother wasn't jealous a bit."

"I'm not accusing her," said Lomas. "Did you ever quarrel with your mother?"

Faustine laughed. "You are silly. Of course I didn't. Mother couldn't quarrel. She hadn't it in her. She'd always do anything for me."

"You must be - very sorry - now," Reggie drawled.

"Of course I am," Faustine was loud. "I'm absolutely down and out. And then you plague me with all this foul scandal. It's perfectly ghastly."

"Yes. That is so. Yes," Reggie murmured. "How do you think your mother died?"

"Why, what do you mean? How should I know? I wasn't here. I suppose it was some burglar." The words came in a rush.

"You say you weren't here," Lomas repeated. "You began by asking me why you were brought to this room here. Look." He turned in his chair and pointed to the one dagger on the wall.

"What am I to look at? "Faustine cried.

"You see that dagger. There used to be another one with it. I want to know what has become of the other."

"Why? How can I tell? I didn't even know there were two. I never noticed. I've hardly ever been in this room. Father didn't like anyone here. He only used it when he wanted to be alone - oh, and for men."

"Which of your friends would be likely to know those daggers were here?"

"I can't imagine. Father may have brought some man in here to smoke."

"Some man? Florian?"

"No, of course not. Father never met him."

"Which man, then?"

"Oh, I don't know. Lots of men have been here." She stopped suddenly. She stared. "What does it matter?"

"That dagger which is gone was used to kill your mother and then to kill Dr. Dodd."

She gave a scream. She sank back in her chair and dabbed at her lips and her eyes, and then, with the handkerchief still held to her mouth, her face half hidden, she looked hungrily at Lomas. "Why - but how can you tell - have you found it?" The words came low and muffled.

"Where do you think we should look for it?" said Lomas sharply.

"Oh, my God!" she gasped. "It doesn't sound real. Mother and poor Golly! Tell me!"

"You were here last night," said Lomas. "You dined here with Mr. Florian."

"Here?" she screamed. "That's a lie. I wasn't in this room at all. Neither of us was."

"You didn't leave Mr. Florian alone a moment?"

She gave a giggling laugh. "I didn't hold his hand all the time. One doesn't, does one? But I'm sure he never came up here."

 "Why did you bring him to dine with your family?"

"Because we're engaged. Quite proper, wasn't it?"

"Was your mother pleased with your engagement?"

"Poor old mums! She was always at me to get married."

 "To this man Florian?"

"How dare you? \" she said fiercely. "What have you got against him?"

"Was there any quarrel at dinner?"

"Oh, damn! Haven't I told you there wasn't? Of course not. Cosmo's a lamb and mother was a perfect old dear."

"After dinner, all three of you went out to the summerhouse - then Florian and you went back to the house. Did you see your mother again?"

"Just as we went out. We'd said good - bye."

"That was fortunate," said Lomas.

"Don't be a beast."

"When did you go away?"

"I don't know the time. Before ten."

"Just about ten your mother's throat was cut."

Again she screamed. "Ugh, you will make everything so ghastly."

"That's all." Lomas turned to Bell. "Bring up the man now. You'll wait downstairs, Miss Rook."

"Of course I shall. It's my own house," she cried, and flounced out.

"Clever female," Reggie murmured.

"She knows all about it." Lomas smiled satisfaction.

"Knows something, yes."

"Well, I think I dealt with her faithfully, Reginald."

"Quite creditable piece of torture," Reggie nodded.

"Scared for her life, isn't she? That ought to get results."

"Yes. She is scared. But the little brain is still cunning. She was manoeuvrin' all the time."

"Of course she was. To save her own skin."

"I wonder," Reggie murmured.

"My dear fellow, she'll do anything to save herself."

"Oh, yes. That's the nature of the animal. I agree something will emerge. I should say she had it in her head before you started. There were indications. However."

The door opened and Bell brought in Florian.

He had not prepared himself to be seen. His clothes were a working rig, loose, crumpled, and dirty. He had been slovenly in shaving; there were cuts on his skin, and a black stubble beneath the little whisker on the left of his face. His dark complexion was faded to a pallid yellow, and puffy. He came with shambling, jerky movements, and as he came broke out: "What is it? What do you want with me? Lomas waved him to a chair. He made a violent gesture. "Ah, bah, that, no. I do not come to visit you. I have no time. Say what you wish and finish. I listen." He folded his arms and struck an attitude of defiance.

"We are investigating murder, Mr. Florian. I want information from you," said Lomas.

"I cannot give it you. I know nothing. All is said."

"That won't do." Lomas smiled. "You know a great deal. Have you ever been here before?"

"Here in this house? Once. I dine here last night."

"And in this room?"

Florian looked round it. "Never in my life." He made an exclamation of disgust. "It is hideous. It is bourgeois."

"Why did you come to dinner last night?"

"You are impudent. Miss Rook is my betrothed. I came to be presented to her mother."

"And after you left, her mother was found with her throat cut."

Florian swore in Italian, flung out his folded arms, and struck himself on the breast. "That, it is horrible. It destroys me. What do I know? I know nothing. Fate plays with me. Ah, it is always so. Fate grudges genius to man."

"The weapon which killed Mrs. Rook was taken from this room." Lomas pointed to the dagger on the wall. "The twin of that."

"You say?" Florian muttered, and with a tripping, shambling gait went to look at the dagger. "A vulgarity," he sneered at it. "How it labours to be decorated, to be rich! It is base. Yes, all is like that." He turned his back on it and glowered at Lomas.

"Did you have a pleasant evening with Mrs. Rook?" Lomas asked affably.

"An evening in family." Florian shrugged.

"She was pleased to receive you as her daughter's fiance?"

"Why not? "Florian scowled. "I have a name, I think."

"You're not a great match for an heiress, are you?" Lomas put up his eyebrows. "Did Mrs. Rook mention that?"

"You are insolent," Florian cried. "There was no talk, no thought of money."

"Wasn't there? What did you talk about?"

"God! Should I remember? She talked family, the old lady, as they do."

"I dare say. Was there no objection to you coming into it?" Florian did not answer. "So you did quarrel?"

"That - that is a lie," Florian muttered.

"Is it? Why do you suppose Mrs. Rook's throat was cut just after your dinner? Did you know that her death gave her fortune to Miss Rook?"

"No, no, no. I do not know it now. What is it to me? I am not wanting money. I am famous. I make my success."

"Did you know of anyone else objecting to Miss Rook's marriage with you?"

Florian laughed. "That, yes. Without doubt. Every other man who knew her. Oh, I am hated, be sure."

"Very likely." Lomas smiled. There was a tap at the door, and a detective handed Bell a note, which he passed to Lomas and Reggie. It announced that Lindsay had been brought to the house.

Florian had been watching with nervous curiosity. "What is that, then?" he broke out.

"What you have to think about is your own position," Lomas told him. "Now then. You just said there were men who hated you. You drove away from this house with Miss Rook about ten o'clock to Bloomsbury. Soon afterwards Dr. Dodd was murdered in Bloomsbury. Was there any quarrel between you and Dr. Dodd?"

"I - I do not feel for anyone enough to quarrel. I am an artist. And Dodd - the good Dodd - -" Florian laughed. "He was no one, nothing, a respectable life that did not live at all."

"Kind to him, aren't you? "Lomas said sharply. "Dodd was murdered with the dagger which lolled Mrs. Rook. What do you say about that?"

Florian shook and his eyes dilated. "Is it so?" he gasped. "I say nothing, then. I know nothing. It is fate." 

"That's all your explanation. Very well. Have you any objection to the police searching your studio for the dagger which came from here?"

Florian cried out something inarticulate, and then, with gestures of rage, "You would catch me in a trap!" he stormed. "That, I will not have it, you understand. I will not. You shall not come through my door. It is a treachery."

"I advise you to think over that answer." Lomas made a gesture of dismissal.

Bell rose and opened the door, and Florian plunged at it. "We don't let him go, sir?" Bell whispered.

"Lord, no." Lomas smiled, and Bell made haste downstairs. 

"Faustine will get at him if she can," Reggie said. "You're allowin' for that?"

Bell came back short of breath. "The woman's got him, sir - waitin' for him - taken him into her mother's sitting - room."

"Girl of nice feelin', Faustine," said Reggie. "You've put a man outside the door, Bell?"

"I have," Bell said with gusto. "We ought to get something now. She'll put him through it, that vixen. And what she's going to say when she hears he told us we mustn't search his studio ought to be worth something."

"Yes. It could be," Reggie murmured. "By the way, that search ought to be over. Any results?"

"I had a 'phone message they couldn't find a thing," said Bell. "I told 'em to look again."

"Well, well." Reggie smiled. "Case against our Florian not so good as you thought, what? His fury at his place bein' searched not suspicious, but simply natural. He is simple. You don't allow for it."

"That fellow!" Lomas sneered.

"Oh, yes. A simple child. With a bit of genius. Poor beggar. What about your other hopeful search, in Lindsay's rooms?"

"Nothing yet, sir. They had a bit of trouble getting in."

"Let's have Lindsay up now," said Lomas, and Bell went to fetch him.

He came sauntering in, hands in pockets. "The joy of life is keeping other people waiting." He gave them a sneer rather of superiority than malice. "Well, you're one up on me. What is this important conference? An official interrogation or an appeal for my assistance as a good citizen?"

"Why make the distinction?" Lomas snapped.

"Just to clear your mind. I have noticed that the police are apt to confuse their purposes."

"We're investigating murder. Do you wish to help us or not?" said Lomas.

"Try to be definite." Lindsay was supercilious. "What murder?"

"The murder of Dr. Dodd," Reggie drawled. "What time did you get to Miss Rook's house last night?"

Lindsay meditated. "I can't be precise. I was an orphan of the storm. It was pouring before I arrived. Probably about eleven."

"You live in Chelsea, don't you? Same like Florian. How did you go to Bloomsbury?"

"Underground. The only rational way to go about London."

"Very convenient, yes," Reggie murmured. "Do you remember telling me Miss Rook had the Electra complex."

"No I do not," Lindsay corrected him contemptuously. "I remember explaining to you that poor Florian had been trying to paint the Electra complex."

"And what on earth is that?" Lomas asked. "Electra killed her mother for love of her father. Father havin' previously been killed by mother."

"You are now accurate," Lindsay told him. "I see. The suggestion is that Miss Rook was the kind of daughter who might kill her mother for jealousy or vengeance," Lomas frowned.

"That is what an Electra complex means. The suggestion that Miss Rook suffers from it is not mine," said Lindsay.

"Wasn't it?" Reggie murmured. "Who did suggest the picture of the Electra complex to Florian? Not his own line in painting."

"It is true, he is almost without ideas," said Lindsay. "But the man is sensitive to character."

"Fond of Miss Rook, aren't you?" Reggie purred. "A subtle and interesting mind," Lindsay agreed. "You knew she was engaged to Florian?"

"Really? It will be an experience for him." Lindsay was laughing when there came a scream and a shout from below.

Bell hurried out, with Reggie at his heels. They ran downstairs, and, as they went, heard more shouts and a scurry and shrill wailing.

That came from the drawing - room. They found Faustine prone, her face flowing blood from gashes on cheek and brow. A detective knelt over her, and beside her lay a shattered vase. "How did you let this happen? "Bell growled.

"Sorry, sir. All in a minute. There was a smash and I came in and the man was gone out o' window. He must have cracked her on the head with this. They're after him. They'll get him."

Reggie knelt down by the wailing Faustine. "Brine me some linen and iodine. Telephone the Agnes Hospital - ambulance - surgical case - facial wounds."

"The beast! The beast!" Faustine moaned. "Am I spoilt? Tell me! He meant that, the beast. Am I spoilt?"

"Don't talk," Reggie said sharply. "You'll make it worse."

She was bound up and carried away.

"Well, well." Reggie turned from the stretcher. "What do you know about this, Bell?"

"The man's gone and killed himself, sir. They were hard on his heels to the main road, and there he chucked himself under a bus. Deliberate. All squashed up. My oath! This is a case."

"Yes. Destructive. Yes. Nasty mess," Reggie murmured.

"If one should love you with real love - Such things have been - You'd give him poison, shall we say, Or what, Faustine?"

"Ah. She's a nasty piece," said Bell. "What do you think my man heard, listening to 'em at the door? Florian was right off the handle, telling Miss Rook we suspected him and he wished he was dead, and cursing her, and she was making up to him something wicked. He wouldn't have it; he went on about us wanting to search his place for the dagger, making a regular scene of it, scared mad. That got her roused too, and she was swearing at him for a fool; it wasn't in his rooms, he knew it wasn't. And then he turned on her and asked her how she knew so much, what did she know, and she laughed and called him ' Silly, silly, silly,' with kissing and whispering; he'd see it would be all right; she'd managed it, darling, darling. He gave a sort of yell then, and there was the row of the vase breaking, and they found her with her face smashed and the little man bolting out of window. They ought to have got him, of course, but I don't know as I blame 'em. You can't ever tell what people like this lot will do."

"No. Don't blame your fellows. May be best as it is."

"May be," Bell agreed sombrely. "I'd say she was the one behind everything."

"Oh, yes. That is so. Yes."

"We ought to get a case against her now."

"I wonder," Reggie murmured. "Well, well. Where is the man Lindsay all this while? Still chatting with our Mr. Lomas?"

"Oh, no. He's waiting. Mr. Lomas has been hearing the reports on this."

"All right. Let's collect him and resume." They turned back through the hall, where a detective - inspector was working at the telephone with his notebook, into the dining - room, and Lomas dismissed the men before him and lit a cigarette.

"Well, Reginald?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Not very neat work. But it will do, what? Is the woman going to survive?"

"Oh, yes. Yes. No danger. Only disfigured. I should say that's what he meant."

"Nice fellow. Well, this fixes it on the two of 'em. I suppose we shall have to make Florian the murderer and mix up the woman with him as far as we can. Public opinion wouldn't let her be hanged. It will do well enough." He produced a quizzical smile. "Not much left of your suicide theory, is there?"

"You think not?" Reggie gazed at him.

"My dear fellow!" Lomas laughed. "I sympathise in your bereavement. An expert, when his pet theory dies, is very pathetic. Well, come along; we must put this fellow Lindsay out of his pain."

They found Lindsay in an easy chair, with his feet on the table and a pipe in his mouth. "Sorry to keep you so long," Lomas apologised.

Lindsay brought his feet down lazily. "No need," he smiled. "It's been quite interesting to reconstruct the events from the sounds. Do you want me any more?"

"What was your reconstruction?" Reggie asked meekly.

"I inferred that Faustine and our Florian had fallen out."

"And why?" Reggie murmured.

"I'm not in their confidence. I should suppose it was over the question of responsibility."

"Why should either of them kill Dodd?" Reggie asked.

"My dear sir, I am not here to find you motives. But some must be obvious. Florian's jealousy of Dodd, for example. Poor Dodd also had favours from Faustine. Which gives you another. Faustine would not be patient of his mentioning them to Florian."

"Oh. You tell me Dodd was that kind of man." Reggie looked him over with dislike and contempt.

Lindsay laughed. "Not I. A blameless person. But Faustine would think any man that kind of man."

While he spoke, the detective - inspector came in and gave Bell his notebook. Bell read, frowning, and passed it to Lomas and Reggie. . . . They also read while Lindsay fidgeted. . . . Lomas gave careful attention to polishing his eyeglass, and when he looked up at Lindsay his face was blandly devoid of expression.

"You were telling me," he said, "when you left your rooms in Chelsea last night you went by underground to Bloomsbury. Any omission in that you'd like to fill up?"

Reggie rose. "I'll go and have a look," he murmured, and Lomas nodded.

Lindsay gave a quick glance from one to the other. "There was no omission," he said, and Reggie went out.

"Think again," said Lomas. "I have information that two taxi - drivers in the road at the end of this street were hailed by two men last night. The first man ordered his taxi to go to Miss Rook's house in Bloomsbury. The second man gave the same address. The first man stopped his taxi just before he got to the dead end where Miss Rook's house is. Then the second man stopped his just behind. The first man was in tweeds and the second in evening dress. His driver has identified him as Dr. Dodd. The driver of the first taxi has given a description of the fare which resembles you. The drivers agree they left the two of you talking together. What is your explanation?"

Lindsay glared at him. "I have nothing to explain. I was not here last night. I went, as I told you, straight from my rooms to Miss Rook's. I never saw Dodd."

"And if the taxi - driver should identify you?" Lomas asked.

"He would be lying," Lindsay exploded.

Reggie came back with a tweed jacket over his arm. To Lomas's quick, questioning look he answered one word: "Yes." He laid the jacket on the table, and beside it something thin wrapped in paper. The paper he loosened, and Lindsay, staring at the jacket in a pallor of rage and amazement, saw a Malay dagger. Reggie pointed at it, and pointed to its twin on the wall. Lomas and Lindsay too obeyed the gesture, looking from one dagger to the other. Lomas frowned at the jacket, and again his eyes questioned Reggie.

"What is all this play - acting?" Lindsay sneered.

Reggie wrote a few words and passed them across the table to Lomas. Lomas read; took his time over it; settled back in his chair again.

"You won't frighten me by these tricks," Lindsay roared. They could see sweat glistening on his forehead.

"I advise you not to say any more," Lomas said quietly. "Anything you do say may be used against you. Your explanations have been quite unsatisfactory. I am going to charge you with the murder of Dr. Dodd. Take him away, Bell."

Bell crossed the room to him, but he started up with a cry. "Where did you get that knife?"

"It was found in your rooms," said Lomas.

Lindsay laughed. "If it was, Faustine put it there - or Florian. You fool, don't you see that?"

"Did they put your jacket there?" Reggie asked.

"The jacket? What's the matter with the jacket?" Lindsay said hoarsely.

"That's enough. Take him away," Lomas ordered, and Bell hustled him out.

"Well, well," Reggie sighed. "So that is that. Quite clear. Quite conclusive. And kind of tragic. Wasteful world."

"You're absolutely certain?"

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap! No probable possible shadow of doubt. He killed poor Dodd. Saxifrage from this garden in Dodd's wound. Saxifrage also in pocket of Lindsay's jacket there. Which is the jacket he was wearing last night. Quite clear what happened - and how - and why. Lindsay was hungry for the wretched Faustine. Like the other two men. He knew Faustine had Florian here last night to show him off to her mother. He was comin' round afterwards to see how it had gone. It didn't go well. They had a row. Faustine insufferable, Florian impossible. Mother couldn't stand it; mother's weak head gave and she took one of her husband's daggers and cut her throat out there in the summer - house. Then Lindsay came along for his polite enquiries and saw her dead and the dagger - saw his chance - took the dagger to plant it on Florian and get him hanged good and proper. Had to wipe it first. Inevitable error. When he came out, Dodd was coming along on his way to Faustine. Lindsay saw him, and suspected Dodd had seen him. That looked like hanging him instead of Florian. Therefore he waited for Dodd outside Faustine's, and talked to him, and made sure Dodd had seen him comin' out of the Rooks' garden. So he killed Dodd and nipped off again to dump the dagger in Florian's studio. But with a bit of the saxifrage stickin' in his pocket."

"That's all very well. I agree the saxifrage in the jacket's conclusive. But why should he put the dagger into Florian's place? How could it get to his?"

"First question - jealousy and hate. That's obvious. He showed it to us. Second question - you remember Faustine went to Florian's place this morning and then to Lindsay's. She found the dagger in one and took it to the other. That's what she was tellin' the wretched Florian. That's what drove him mad."

"I dare say," Lomas said dubiously.

"My dear chap! It's certain. Couldn't have happened any other way. Only reason for Lindsay removin' the dagger was to get the suicide taken for murder and Florian for the murderer. Nasty fellow. Nasty case. Waste! Waste! Because that sharp, pretty girl has a kink of cravin' for sensation. Father and mother get harried to death; sound, conscientious young doctor gets murdered; and that little artist with a bit of genius in him goes to the devil. And all we can do is to hang the clever, useless Lindsay."

"I hope we shall," said Lomas. "But it's a tangle of a case to put up to a jury. If you could say Mrs. Rook was murdered, then we'd have him cold."

"But I can't," Reggie murmured. "She wasn't."

"Pity. All the same, I dare say the jury will think he did murder her," said Lomas cheerfully. . . .

And the judge summed up that they had better think so and it is believed they did.

This is one of Mr. Fortune's favourite examples of the inadequacy of the legal mind to judge evidence.

FIFTH OBJECTION THE LONG DINNER

THE LONG DINNER

"I DISLIKE YOU," said Mr. Fortune. "Some of the dirtiest linen I've seen." He gazed morosely at the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department.

"Quite," Lomas agreed. "Dirty fellow. What about those stains?"

"Oh, my dear chap!" Mr. Fortune mourned. "Paint. All sorts of paint. Also food and drink and assorted filth. Why worry me? What did you expect? Human gore?"

"I had no expectations," said Lomas sweetly.

A certain intensity came into Mr. Fortune's blue eyes. "Yes. I hate you," he murmured. "Anything else you wanted to know?"

"A lot of things," Lomas said. "You're not useful, Reginald. I want to know what sort of fellow he was, and what's become of him."

"He was an artist of dark complexion. He painted both in oils and water - colours. He lived a coarse and dissolute life, and had expensive tastes. What's become of him, I haven't the slightest idea. I should say he was on the way to the devil. What's it all about? Why this interest in the debauched artist?"

"Because the fellow's vanished," said Lomas. "He is a painter of sorts, as you say. Name - Deny Farquhar. He had a talent and a bit of a success years ago, and he's gone downhill ever since. Not altogether unknown to the police - money under false pretences and that sort of thing - but never any clear case. Ten days ago a woman turned up to give information that Mr. Derry Farquhar was missing. He had some money out of her - a matter of fifty pounds - three months ago. She don't complain of that. She was used to handing him donations - that kind of woman and that kind of man. What worries her is that, since this particular fifty pounds, he's faded out. And it is a queer case. He's lived these ten years in a rat - hole of a flat in Blooms - bury. He's not been seen there for months. That's unlike him. He's never been long away before. A regular London loafer. And his own money - he's got a little income from a trust - has piled up in the bank. August and September dividends untouched. That's absolutely unlike him. Besides that: one night about a fortnight ago - we can't fix the date - somebody was heard in the flat making a good deal of noise. When Bell went to have a look at things, he found the place in a devil of a mess, and a heap of foul linen. So we sent that to you."

"Hoping for proof of bloodshed," Reggie murmured. "Hopeful fellow. Shirts extremely foul, but affordin' no evidence of foul play. Blood is absent. Almost the only substance that is."

"So you don't believe there's anything in the case?"

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap," Reggie opened large, plaintive eyes. "Belief is a serious operation. I believe you haven't found anything. That's all. I should say you didn't look."

"Thank you," said Lomas acidly. "Bell raked it all over." He spoke into the telephone, and Superintendent Bell arrived with a fat folder. "Mr. Fortune thinks you've missed something, Bell," Lomas smiled.

"If there was anything any use, I have," Bell said heavily. "I'll be glad to hear what it is. Here's some photographs of the place, sir. And an inventory."

"You might pick up a bargain, Reginald," said Lomas, while Reggie, with a decent solemnity, perused the inventory and contemplated the photographs.

"Four oil paintings, fifteen water - colours. Untrained," he read, and lifted a gaze of innocent enquiry to Bell.

"I'd call 'em clever, myself," said Bell. "Not nice, you know, but very bright and showy. Nudes of ladies, and that sort of thing. I should have thought he could have made a tidy living out of them. But a picture dealer that's seen 'em priced 'em at half a dollar each. Slick rubbish, he called 'em. I'm no hand at art. Anyway - it don't tell us anything."

"I wouldn't say that. No," Reggie murmured. "Builds up the character of Mr. Farquhar for us. Person of no honour, even in his pot - boilin' art. However. Nothing else in the flat?"

"Some letters - mostly bills and duns. Nothing to show what he was up to. Nothing to work on."

Reggie turned over the correspondence quickly. "Yes. As you say." He stopped at a crumpled, stained card. "Where was this?"

"In a pocket of a dirty old sports coat," Bell said. "It's only a menu. I don't know why he kept it. Some faces drawn on the back. Perhaps he fancied 'em. No accounting for taste. Looks like drawing devils to me."

"Rather diabolical, yes," Reggie murmured. "Conventional devil. Mephistopheles in a flick." The faces were sketched, in pencil, with a few accomplished strokes, but had no distinction: the same face in variations of grin and scowl and leer: a face of black brows, moustache, and pointed beard. "Clever craftsman. Only clever." He turned the card to the menu written on the front. "My only aunt!" he moaned, and, in a hushed voice of awe, read out:

DINER

Artichauts a 1'Huile
Pommes de Terre a 1'Huile
Porc frais froid aux Cornichons
Langouste Mayonnaise
Canard aux Navets
Omelette Rognons
Filet garni
Fromage a la Creme
Fruits, Biscuits.

"Good Gad! Some dinner," Lomas chuckled.

"I don't say I get it all," Bell frowned. "But what's it come to? He did himself well some time."

"Well!" Reggie groaned. "Oh, my dear chap! Artichokes in oil, cold pork, lobster, duck and turnips - and a kidney omelette and roast beef and trimmings."

"I've got to own it wants a stomach," said Bell gloomily. "What then?"

"Died of indigestion," said Lomas. "Or committed suicide in the pangs. Very natural. Very just. There you are, Bell. Mr. Fortune has solved the case."

"I was taking it seriously myself," Bell glowered at them. 

"Oh, my Bell!" Reggie sighed. "So was I." He turned on Lomas. "Incurably flippant mind, your mind. This is the essential fact. Look for Mr. Farquhar in Brittany."

Bell breathed hard. "How do you get to that, sir?"

"No place but a Brittany inn ever served such a dinner."

Bell rubbed his chin. "I see. I don't know Brittany myself, I'm glad to say. I got to own I never met a dinner like it." He looked at Lomas. "That means putting it back on the French."

"Quite," Lomas smiled. "Brilliant thought, Reginald. Would you be surprised to hear that Paris is asking us to look for Mr. Derry Farquhar in England?"

"Well, well," Reggie surveyed him with patient contempt. "Another relevant fact which you didn't mention. Also indicatin' an association of your Mr. Farquhar with France."

"If you like," Lomas shrugged. "But the point is they are sure he's here. Dubois is coming over to - day. I'm taking him to dine at the club. You'd better join us."

"Oh, no. No," Reggie said quickly. "Dubois will dine with me. You bring him along. Your club dinner would destroy his faith in the English intelligence. If any. And I like Dubois. Pleasant to discuss the case with a serious mind. Good - bye. Half past eight."

With a superior English smile, Lomas sat back and watched Reggie and Dubois consume that fantasia on pancakes, Crepes Joan, which Reggie invented as an expression of the way of his wife with her husband. . . .

Dubois wiped his flowing moustaches. "My homage," he said reverently.

By way of a devilled biscuit, they came to another claret. Dubois looked and smelt and tasted, and his eyes returned thanks. "Try it with a medlar," Reggie purred.

"You are right. There is no fruit better with wine." They engaged upon a ritual of ecstasy while Lomas gave himself a glass of port and lit a cigarette. At that, Reggie gave a reproachful stare. "My only aunt. Forgive him, Dubois. He's mere modern English."

"I pity profoundly," Dubois sighed. "A bleak life. This is a great wine, my friend. Of Pauillac, I think eh? Of the last century?"

"Quite good, yes," Reggie purred. "Mouton Rothschild 1900." 

Dubois's large face beamed. "Aha. Not so bad for poor old Dubois."

They proceeded to a duet on claret. . . . Lomas became restive. "This unanimity is touching. Now you've embraced each other all over, we might come to business and see if you can keep it up."

Dubois turned to him with a gesture of deprecation. "Pardon, my friend. Have no fear. We agree always. But I will not delay you. The affair is, after all, very simple - -"

"Quite," Lomas smiled. "Tell Fortune. He has his own ideas about it."

"Aha," Dubois's eyebrows went up. "I shall be grateful. Well, I begin, then, with Max Weber. He is what you call a profiteer, but, after all, a good fellow. It is a year ago he married a pretty lady. She was by courtesy an actress, the beautiful Clotilde. One has nothing else against her. They live together very happily in an apartment of luxury. Two weeks ago, they find that some of her jewels, which she had in her bedroom, are gone. Not all that Weber had given her, the most valuable are at the bank, but diamonds worth five hundred thousand francs. Weber comes to the Surety and makes a complaint. What do we find? The servants, they have been with Weber many years, they are spoilt, they are careless; but dishonest - I think not. There is no sign of a burglary. But the day before the jewels were missed a man came to the Weber apartment who asked for Madame Weber and was told she was not at home. That was true in fact, but, also, Weber's man did not like his look. A gouape of the finest water  - that is the description. What you call a blackguard, is it not? The man was shabby but showy; he resembled exactly a loafer in the Quartier Latin, an artist decant - how do you say that."

"On his uppers. Yes. Still more interesting. But not an identification, Dubois."

"Be patient still. You see - here is a type which might well have known la belle Clotilde before she was Madame Weber. Very well. This gentleman, when he was refused at the Weber door, he did not go far away. We have a concierge who saw him loitering till the afternoon at least. In the afternoon the Weber servants take their ease. The man went to a cafe - he admits it - one woman calls on a friend here, another there. What more easy than for the blackguard artist to enter, to take the jewel case, to hop it, as you say."

"We do. Yes."

"Well, then, I begin from a description of Monsieur the Blackguard. It is not so bad. A man who is plump and dark, with little dark whiskers, who has front teeth which stand out, who walks like a bird running, with short steps that go pit pat. He speaks French well enough, but not like a Frenchman. He wears clothes of orange colour, cut very loose, and a soft black hat of wide brim. Then I find that a man like this got into the night train from the Gare St. Lazare for Dieppe - that is, you see, to come back to England by the cheap way. Very well. We have worked in the Quartier Latin, we find that a man like this was seen a day or two in some of the cafes. They remember him well, because they knew him ten years ago when he was a student. They are like that, these old folks of the Quartier - it pays. Then his name was Farquhar - Derek Farquhar, an Englishman." Dubois twirled his moustaches. "So you see, my friend, I dare to trouble Mr. Lomas to find me in England this Farquhar."

"Yes. Method quite sound," Reggie mumbled. "As a method."

"My poor Reginald," Lomas laughed. "What a mournful, reluctant confession! You've hurt him, Dubois. He was quite sure Mr. Farquhar was traversing the wilds of Brittany."

"Aha," Dubois put up his eyebrows, and made a gesture of respect to Reggie. "My dear friend, never I consult you but I find you see farther than I. Tell me then."

"Oh, no. No. Don't see it all," Reggie mumbled, and told him of the menu of the long dinner.

"Without doubt that dinner was served in Brittany," Dubois nodded. "I agree, it is probable he had been there not so long ago. But what of that? He was a painter, he had studied in France, and Brittany is always full of painters."

"Yes. You're neglectin' part of the evidence. Faces on the back of the menu." He took out his pocket - book. and sketched the black - browed, black - bearded countenance. "Like that."

"The devil," said Dubois.

"As you say. Devil of opera and fancy ball. The ordinary Mephistopheles. Associated by your Mr. Farquhar with Brittany."

"My dear Fortune!" Dubois's big face twisted into a quizzical smile. "You are very subtle. Me, I find this is to make too much of little things. After all, drawing devils, it is common sport - you find devils all over our comic papers - a devil and a pretty lady - and he drew pretty ladies often, you say, this Farquhar - and this is a very common devil."

"Yes, rational criticism," Reggie murmured, looking at him with dreamy eyes. "You're very rational, Dubois. However. Any association of the Webers with Brittany?"

"Oh my friend!" Dubois smiled indulgently. "None at all. And when they go out of Paris, it is to Monte Carlo, to Aix, not to rough it in Brittany, you may be sure. No. You shall forgive me, but I find nothing in your menu to change my mind. I must look for my Farquhar here." He shook his head sadly at Reggie. "I am desolated that you do not agree." He turned to Lomas. "But this is the only way, hein?"

"Absolutely. There's no other line at all," said Lomas, with satisfaction. "Don't let Fortune worry you. He lives to see what isn't there. Wonderful imagination."

"My only aunt!" Reggie moaned. "Not me, no. No imagination at all. Only simple faith in facts. You people ignore 'em when they're not rational. Unscientific and superstitious. However. Let's pretend and see what we get. Go your own way."

"One does as one can," Dubois shrugged.

"Quite. Fortune is never content with the possible. We must work it out here. I've put things in train for you. We have a copy of Farquhar's photograph. That's been circulated with description, and there's a general warning out for him and the jewels. We're combing out all his friends and his usual haunts."

"'So runs my dream, but what am I?'" Reggie murmured. "'An infant cryin' in the night. An infant cryin' for the light' - -  Well, well. Are we downhearted? Yes. A little Armagnac would be grateful and comfortin'." He turned the conversation imperatively to the qualities of that liqueur, and Dubois was quick with respectful responses. Lomas relapsed upon Olympian disdain and whisky and soda.

When he took Dubois away, "Fantastic fellow, Fortune, isn't he?" Lomas smiled. "Mind of the first order, but never content to use it."

"An artist, my friend," said Dubois. "A great artist. He feels life. We think about it."

"Damme, you don't believe he's right about this Brittany guess?"

"What do I know?" Dubois shrugged. "It means nothing. Therefore it is nothing for us. However, one must confess, he is disconcerting, your Mr. Fortune. He makes one always doubt."

This, when he heard of it, Reggie considered the greatest compliment which he ever had, except from his wife. He also thinks it deserved. . . .

Some days later he was engaged upon the production in his marionette theatre of the tragedy of Don Juan, lyrics by Lord Byron, prose and music by Mr. Fortune, when the telephone called him from a poignant passage on the rejection of his hero by hell.

"Yes, Fortune speaking. 'Between two worlds life hovers like a star.' Perhaps you didn't know that, Lomas. 'How little do we know that which we are.' Discovery of the late Lord Byron. I'm settin' it to music. Departmental ditty for the Criminal Investigation Department. I - -"

"Could you listen for a moment?" said Lomas sweetly. "You might be interested."

"Not likely, no. However. What's worryin' you?"

"Nothing, except sympathy for you, Reginald. I'm afraid you'll suffer. To break it gently, we've traced Farquhar. But not in Brittany, Reginald."

Reggie remained calm. "No. Of course not," he moaned. "You weren't trying. I don't want to hear what you've missed. Takes too long."

A sound of mockery came over the wire. "Are you ever wrong, Reginald? No. It's always the other fellow. But the awkward fact is, Farquhar hadn't gone to Brittany, he'd gone to Westshire. So that was the only place we could find him. We have our limitations."

"You have. Yes. C'est brutal, mais fa marche. You're clumsy, but you move - sometimes - like the early cars. What has he got to say for himself?"

"I don't know. We haven't put our hands on him yet. We - what?"

"Pardon me. It was only emotion. A sob of reverence. Oh, my Lomas. You found the only place you could find him, so you haven't found him. The perfect official. No results, but always the superior person."

"Results quite satisfactory," Lomas snapped. "We had a clear identification. He's been staying at Lyncombe. He's bolted again. No doubt found we were on his track. But we shall get him. They're combing out the district. Bell's gone down with Dubois."

"Splendid. Always shut the stable door when the horse has been removed. I'll go too. I like watching that operation. Raises my confidence in the police force." . . .

As the moon rose over the sea, Reggie's car drove into Lyncombe. It is a holiday town of some luxury. The affronts to nature of its blocks of hotel and twisting roads of villas for the opulent retired have not yet been able to spoil ail the beauty of cliff and cove. When Reggie saw it, the banal buildings and the headlands were mingled in moonlight to make a dreamland, and the sea was a black mystery with a glittering path on it.

He went to the newest hotel, he bathed well and dined badly, and, as he sat smoking his consolatory pipe on a balcony where the soft air smelt of chrysanthemums and the sea, Dubois came to him with Bell.

"Aha." Dubois spoke. "You have not gone to Brittany then, my friend?"

"No. No. Followin' the higher intelligence. I have a humble mind. And where have you got to?"

"We have got to the tracks of Farquhar, there is no doubt of that. What is remarkable, he had registered in his own name at the hotel, and the people there they recognise his photograph - they are sure of it. In fact, it is a face to be sure of, a rabbit face."

"The identification's all right," Bell grunted. "The devil of it is, he's gone again, Mr. Fortune. He went in a hurry too. Left all his traps behind, such as they were. The hotel people think he was just bilking them. He'd been a matter of ten days and not paid anything, and his baggage is worth about nothing - a battered old suitcase and some duds fit for the dust - bin."

"Oh, Peter!" Reggie moaned. "No, Bell, no. I haven't got to look at his shirts again?"

"I'm not asking you, sir. There's no sort of reason to think there was anything done to him. He just went out and didn't come back. Three days ago. I don't see any light at all. What he was doing here, beats me. You can say he was hiding with the swag he got in Paris. But then, why did he register in his own name? Say he was just a silly ass - you do get that kind of amateur thief. But what has he bolted for? He couldn't have had any suspicions we were on to him. We weren't, at the time he faded out."

"But my friend, you go too fast," said Dubois. "From you, no, he could not have had any alarm. But there is the other end - Paris. It is very possible that a friend in Paris warned him the police were searching for him."

"All right," Bell grunted. "I give you that. Why would he make the hotel people notice him by bolting without paying his bill? Silly again. Sheer silly. He'd got a pot of money, if he did have the jewels, like you say. Going off without paying 'em just sent them to inform the police quick."

"That is well argued. You have an insight, a power of mind, my friend." Dubois's voice was silky. "But what have we then? It is quite natural that Farquhar should disappear again, it is not natural that he should disappear like this. For me, I confess I do not find myself able to form an idea of Farquhar. That he is the type to rob such a woman as Clotilde, there is evidence enough - he had the knowledge, he had the opportunity. So far, there are a thousand cases like it. But that he should then retire to such a paradise of the bourgeois, that is not like his type at all."

"That's right," said Bell. "No sense in it anyway."

"No. As you say," Reggie murmured. "That struck me. Happy to agree with everybody. We don't know anything about anything."

"Bigre! You go a little strong," Dubois rumbled. "Come, there is at least a connection with Clotilde, and her jewels are gone. Be sure of that. Weber is an honest man - except in business. And what, now, is your hypothesis? You said look for him in Brittany. This at least is certain - he had not gone there. What the devil should he have to do with this so correct Lyncombe? As much as with our rough Brittany."

"Yes. Quite obscure. I haven't the slightest idea what he's been doing. However. Are we down - hearted? No. We're in touch with the fundamental problem now. Why does Mr. Farquhar deal with Brittany and Clotilde and Lyncombe? First method of solution clearly indicated. Find out what he did do in Lyncombe. That ought to be an easy one, Bell. He must have been noticed. He'd be conspicuous in this correct place. Good night."

The next day he sat upon the same balcony, spreading the first scone of his tea with clotted cream and blackberry jelly, when the two returned.

"What! Have you not moved since last night? "Dubois made a grimace at him.

"My dear chap! Just walked all along one of the bays. And back. Great big bay. Exercise demanded by impatient and fretful brain. Rest is better. Have a splitter. They're too heavy. But the cream is sound."

Dubois shuddered. "Brr! You are a wonderful animal. Me, I am only human. But Bell has news for you. Tell him, old fellow."

"It's like this," Bell explained. "About a week ago - that's three or four days before he disappeared, we can't fix the date nearer - Farquhar went to call at one of the big houses here. There's no doubt about that. It's rather like the Paris case. He was seen loafing round before and after - as you said, he's the sort of chap to get noticed. The house he went to belongs to an old gentleman - Mr. Lane Hudson. Lived here for years. Very rich, they say. Made his money in South Wales, and came here when he retired. Well, he's eighty or more; he's half paralysed - only gets about his house and grounds in a wheeled chair. I've seen him; I've had a talk with him. His mind's all right. He looks like a mummy, only a bit plumped out. Sort of yellow, leathery face that don't change or move. Sits in his chair looking at nothing, and talks soft and thick. He tells me he never heard of Farquhar: didn't so much as know Farquhar had been to his house: that's quite in order it's his rule that the servants tell anybody not known he's not well enough to see people, and I don't blame him. I wouldn't want strangers to come and look at me if I was like he is. I gave him an idea of the sort of fellow Farquhar was, and watched him pretty close, but he didn't turn a hair. He just said again he had no knowledge of any such person, and I believe him. He wasn't interested. He told me the fellow had no doubt come begging for money; he was much exposed to that sort of thing - we ought to stop it - and good day Mr. Superintendent. Anyhow, it's certain Farquhar didn't see him. The old butler and the nurse bear that out, and they never heard of Farquhar before. The butler saw him and turned him away - had a spot of bother over it, but didn't worry. Like the old man, he says they do have impudent beggars now and then. So here's another nice old dead end."

"Yes. As you say. Rather weird isn't it? The flamboyant debauched Farquhar knockin' at the door - to get to a paralysed old rich man who never heard of him. I wonder. Curious selection of people to call on by our Mr. Farquhar. A pretty lady of Paris who's married money and settled down on it; a rich old Welshman who's helpless on the edge of the grave. And neither of 'em sees Mr. Farquhar - accordin' to the evidence - neither will admit to knowin' anything about him. Very odd. Yes." Reggie turned large, melancholy eyes on Dubois. "Takes your fancy, what? The blackguard artist knockin', knockin', and, upstairs, a mummy of a man helpless in his chair."

"Name of a name!" Dubois rumbled. "It is fantasy pure. One sees such things in dreams. This has no more meaning."

"No. Not to us. But it happened. Therefore it had a cause. Mr. Lane Hudson lives all alone, what - except for servants?"

"That's right, sir," Bell nodded. "He's been a widower this long time. Only one child - daughter - and there's a grandson, quite a kid. Daughter's been married twice - first to a chap called Tracy, now to a Mr. Bernal - son by the first marriage, no other children."

"You have taken pains, Bell," Reggie smiled.

"Well, I got everything I could think of," said Bell, with gloomy satisfaction. "Not knowing what I wanted. And there's nothing I do want in what I've got. The Bernals come here fairly regular - Mr. and Mrs. Bernal, not the child - they've been staying with the old man just now. Usual autumn visit. They were there when Farquhar called, and after - didn't go away till last Wednesday; that's before Farquhar disappeared, you see, the day before. Farquhar didn't ask for the Bernals, and they didn't see him at all, the servants say. So there you are. The Bernals don't link up any way. That peters out, like everything else."

"Yes. Taken a lot of pains," Reggie murmured.

"What would you have?" Dubois shrugged. "To amass useless knowledge - it is our only method; one is condemned to it. Ours is a slow trade, my friend. We gather facts and facts and facts, and so, if we are lucky, eliminate ninety - nine of the hundred and use, at last, one."

"Yes. As you say," Reggie mumbled. "Where do the Bernals live, Bell?"

"In France, sir," said Bell, and Reggie opened his eyes.

"Aha!" Dubois made a grimace, and pointed a broad finger at him. "There, my friend. The one grand fact, is it not? In France! And Brittany is in France! But alas, my dear Fortune, they do not live in Brittany! Far from it. They live in the south, near Cannes; they have lived there - what do I know? - since they were married, hem?" he turned to Bell.

"That's right," Bell grunted. "Lady set up house there with her first husband. He had to live in the south of France - gassed in the war."

"You see?" Dubois smiled. "It is still the useless knowledge. And your vision of Brittany, my friend, it has no substance still."

"I wonder," Reggie mumbled, and sank deep in his chair. . . .

He is, even without hope, conscientious. That night he examined another set of Farquhar's dirty linen, but neither in that nor the rest of the worthless luggage found any information. Prodded by him, Bell enquired of the Hudson household where the Bernals were to be found, but could obtain only the address of their Cannes villa, for they were reported to be going back by car. Dubois was persuaded to telegraph Cannes and received the reply that the Bernal villa was shut up; monsieur and madame were away motoring, and their boy at school - what school nobody knew.

"Then what?" Dubois summed up. "Nothing to do."

"Not to - night, no," Reggie yawned. "I'm going to bed."

"To dream of Brittany, hein?"

"I never dream," said Reggie, with indignation. . . .

But he was waked in the night. He rubbed his eyes and looked up to see Dubois's large face above him. "Oh, my hat," he moaned. "What is it? Why won't it wait?"

"Courage, my friend. They have found him. At least, they think so. Some fishermen, going out yesterday evening, they found a body on the rocks at what they call Granny's Cove. Come. The brave Bell wants you to see."

"Bless him," Reggie groaned, and rolled out of bed. "What is life that one should seek it? I ask you." And, slipping clothes on him, swiftly he crooned, "'Three fishers went sailin' out into the west, out into the west, as the sun went down' - and incredibly caught the incredible Farquhar."

"You are right," Dubois nodded. "Nothing clear, nothing sure. The more it changes, the more it is the same, this accursed case. It has no shape; there is no reason in it."

"Structure not yet determined. No," Reggie mumbled, parting his hair, for he will always be neat. "We're not bein' very clever. Ought to be able to describe the whole thing from available evidence of its existence. Same like inferrin' the age of reptiles from a fossil or two - ' dragons of the prime, tearin' each other in the slime, were mellow music unto him.' Yes. The struggle for life of the reptiles might be mellow music compared to the diversions of Mr. Farquhar and friends. Progressive world, Dubois."

"Name of a dog!" Dubois exclaimed. "When you are philosophic, my stomach turns over. What is in your mind?"

"Feelin' of impotence. Very uncomfortable," Reggie moaned, and muffled himself to the chin and made haste out.

In the mortuary Bell introduced them to a body covered by a sheet. "Here you are, sir." He stepped aside. "The clothes seem to be Farquhar's clothes all right. Sort of orange tweed and green flannel trousers. But I don't know about the man."

Reggie drew back the sheet from what was left of a face.

"Saprelotte!" Dubois rumbled. "The fish have bitten."

"Well, I leave it to you," said Bell thickly...

Under a sunlit breeze the sea was dancing bright, the mists flying inland from the valleys to the dim bank of the moor, when Reggie came out again.

He drove back to his hotel, and shaved and bathed and rang up the police station. Bell and Dubois arrived to find him in his room, eating with appetite grilled ham and buttered eggs.

"My envy; all my envy," Dubois pulled a face. "This is greatness. The English genius at the highest."

"Oh, no. No," Reggie protested. "Natural man. Well. The corpse is that of Mr. Farquhar as per invoice. Prominent teeth not impaired by activities of the lobsters. Some other contours still visible. The marmalade - thanks. Yes. Hair, colourin', size and so forth agree. Mr. Farquhar's been in the sea three or four days. Correspondin' with date of disappearance. Cause of death, drowning. Severe contusions on head and body, inflicted before death. Possibly by blows, possibly by fall. Might have fallen from cliff; might have been dashed on rocks by sea. No certainty to be obtained. That's the medical evidence."

"You are talking!" Dubois exclaimed. "Flute! There we are again. Whatever arrives, it will mean nothing for us. Here is murder, suicide, accident - what you please."

"I wonder." Reggie began to peel an apple. "Anything in his pockets, Bell?"

"A lot of money, sir. Nothing else. The notes are all sodden, but it's a good wad, and some are fifties. Might be five or six hundred pounds. So he wasn't robbed."

"And then?" said Dubois. "It is not enough for all the jewels of Clotilde, but it is something in hand. Will you tell me what the devil he was doing at the door of this paralysed millionaire? It means nothing, none of it."

"No. Still amassin' useless knowledge, as you were sayin'." Reggie gazed at Dubois with dreamy eyes. "I should say that's what we came here for. Don't seem the right place, does it? However. As we are here, let's try and get a little more before departure. Usin' the local talent. Bell - your fishermen - have they got any ideas where a fellow would tumble into the sea to be washed up into Granny's Cove?"

"Ah." Bell was pleased. "I have been asking about that, sir. Supposing he got in from the land, they think it would be somewhere round by Shag Nose. That's a bit o' cliff west o' the town. I'm having men search round and enquire. But the scent's pretty cold by now."

"Yes. As you say," Reggie sighed. His eyes grew large, and melancholy. "Is it far?" he said, in a voice of fear.

"Matter of a mile or two."

"Oh, my Bell." Reggie groaned. He pushed back his chair. He rose stiffly. "Come on."

Shag Nose is a headland from which dark cliffs fall sheer. Below them stretches seaward a ridge of rocks, which stand bare some way out at low tide, and in the flood make a turmoil of eddies and broken water.

The top of the headland is a flat of springy turf, in which are many tufts of thrift and cushions of stunted gorse.

"Err. It is bleak," Dubois complained. "Will you tell me why Farquhar should come here? He was not - how do you say? - a man for the great open spaces."

"Know the answer, don't you?" Reggie mumbled.

"Perfectly. He came to meet somebody in secret who desired to make an end of him. Very well. But who then? Not the paralysed one. Not the son - in - law either. It is in evidence that the son - in - law was gone before Farquhar disappeared."

"That's right. I verified that," Bell grunted. "Bernal and his wife left the night before."

"There we are again," Dubois shrugged. "Nothing means anything. For certain, it is not a perfect alibi. They went by car; they could come back and not be seen. But it is an alibi that will stand unless you have luck, which you have not yet, my dear Bell, God knows."

"Not an easy case. No," Reggie murmured. "However. Possibilities not yet examined. Lyncombe's on the coast. Had you noticed that? I wonder if any little boat from France came in while Farquhar was still alive."

Dubois laughed. Dubois clapped him on the shoulder. "Magnificent! How you are resolute, my friend. Always the great idea! A boat from Brittany, hein? That would solve everything. The good Farquhar was so kind as to come here and meet it and be killed by the brave Bretons. And the paralysed millionaire, he was merely a diversion to pass the time."

"Yes. We are not amused," Reggie moaned. "You're in such a hurry. Bell - what's the local talent say about the tide? When was high water on the night Farquhar disappeared?"

"Not rill the early morning, sir. Tide was going out from about three in the afternoon onwards."

"I see. At dusk and after, that reef o' rocks would be comin' out of the water. Assumin' he went over the cliff in the dark or twilight, he'd fall on the rocks."

"That's right. Of course he might bounce into the sea. But I've got a man or two down there searching the shore and the cliff - side."

"Good man." Reggie smiled, and wandered away to the cliff edge.

"Yes. It is most correct," Dubois shrugged. "I should do it, I avow. But also I should expect nothing, nothing. After all, we are late. We arrive late at everything."

Reggie turned and stared at him. "I know. That's what I'm afraid of," he mumbled.

He wandered to and fro about the ground near the cliff edge, and found nothing which satisfied him, and at last lay down on his stomach where a jutting of the headland gave him a view of the cliffs on either side.

Two men scrambled about over the rocks below, scanning the cliff face, prying into every crevice they could reach . . . one of them vanished under an overhanging ledge, appeared again, working round it, was lost in a cleft . . . when he came out he had something in his hand.

"Name of a pipe!" Dubois rumbled. "Is it possible we have luck at last?"

"No." Reggie stood up. "Won't be luck, whatever it is. Reward of virtue. Bell's infinite capacity for takin' pains." 

A breathless policeman reached the top of the cliff, and held out a sodden book. "That's the only perishing thing there is down there, sir," he panted. "Not a trace of nothing else."

Bell gave it to Reggie. It was a sketch - book of the size to slide into a man's pocket. The first leaf bore, in a flamboyant scrawl, the name Derek Farquhar.

"Ah. That fixes it, then," said Bell. "He did go over this cliff, and his sketch - book came out of his pocket as he bounced on the ledges."

"Very well," Dubois shrugged. "We know now as much as we guessed. Which means nothing."

Reggie sat down and began to separate the book's wet pages.

Farquhar had drawn, in pencil, notes rather than sketches at first, scraps of face and figure and scene which took his unholy fancy, a drunken girl, a nasty stage dance, variations of impropriety. Then came some parades of men and women bathing, not less unpleasant, but more studied. "Aha! Here is something seen at least," said Dubois.

"Yes, I think so," Reggie murmured, and turned the page.

The next sketch showed children dancing - small boys and girls. Some touch of cruelty was in the drawing - they were made to look ungainly - but it had power; it gave them an intensity of frail life which was at once pathetic and grotesque. They danced round a giant statue - a block in which the shape of a woman was burlesqued, hideously fat and thin, with a flat, foolish face. There were no clothes on it, but rough lines which might be girdle and necklace.

"What the devil!" Dubois exclaimed. "This is an oddity. He discovers he had a talent, the animal."

Reggie did not answer. For a moment more he gazed at the children and the statue, and he shivered, then he turned the other pages of the book. There were some notes of faces, then several satires on the respectability of Lyncombe - the sea front, with nymphs in Bath chairs propelled by satyrs and satyrs propelled by nymphs. He turned back to the dancing children and the giant female statue, and stared at it, and his round face was pale. "Yes. Farquhar had talent," he said. "Played the devil with it all his life. And yet it works on the other side. What's the quickest way to Brittany? London and then Paris by air. Come on."

Dubois swore by a paper bag and caught him up. "What, then? How do you find your Brittany again in this?"

"The statue," Reggie snapped. "Sort of statue you see in Brittany. Nowhere else. He didn't invent that out of his dirty mind. He'd seen it. It meant something to him. I should say he'd seen the children too."

"You go beyond me," said Dubois. "Well, it is not the first time. A statue of Brittany, eh? You mean the old things they have among the standing stones and the menhirs and dolmens. A primitive goddess. The devil! I do not see our Farquhar interested in antiquities. But it is the more striking that he studied her. I give you that. And the children? I will swear he was not a lover of children."

"No: He wasn't. That came out in the drawing. Not a nice man. It pleased him to think of children dancin' round the barbarous female."

 "I believe you," said Dubois. "The devil was in that drawing."

"Yes. Devilish feelin'. Yes. And yet it's going to help. Because the degenerate fellow had talent. Not wholly a bad world."

"Optimist. Be it so. But what can you make the drawing mean, then?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," Reggie mumbled. "Place of child life in the career of the late Farquhar very obscure. Only trace yet discovered, the Bernals have a child. No inference justified. I'm going to Brittany. I'm goin' to look for traces round that statue. And meanwhile - Bell has to find out if a French boat has been in to Lyncombe - you'd better set your people findin' the Bernals - with child. Have the Webers got a child?"

"Ah, no." Dubois laughed. "The beautiful Clotilde, she is not that type."

"Pity. However. You might let me have a look at the Webers as I go through Paris."

"With all my heart," said Dubois. "You understand, my friend, you command me. I see nothing, nothing at all, but I put myself in your hand." He made a grimace. "In fact there is nothing else to do. It is an affair for inspiration. I never had any."

"Nor me, no," Reggie was indignant. "My only aunt! Inspired! I am not! I believe in evidence. That's all. You experts are so superior." . . .

Next morning they sat in the salon of the Webers. It was overwhelming with the worst magnificence of the Second Empire - mirrors and gilding, marble and malachite and lapis lazuli. But the Webers, entering affectionately arm in arm, were only magnificent in their opulent proportions. Clotilde, a dark full - blown creature, had nothing more than powder on her face, no jewels but a string of pearls, and the exuberance of her shape was modified by a simple black dress. Weber's clumsy bulk was all in black too.

They welcomed Dubois with open arms; they talked together. What had he to tell them? They had heard that the cursed Farquhar had been discovered dead in England - it was staggering; had anything been found of the jewels?

Nothing, in effect, Dubois told them. Only, Farquhar had more money than such an animal ought to have. It was a pity.

Clotilde threw up her hands. Weber scolded. Dubois regretted - but what to do? They must admit one had been quick, very quick, to trace Farquhar. They would certainly compliment his confrere from England - that produced perfunctory bows. What the English police asked - and they were right - it was could one learn anything of who had worked with Farquhar, why had he come to the apartment Weber?

The Webers were contemptuous. What use to ask such a question? One had not an acquaintance with thieves. As to why he came, why he picked out them to rob - a thief must go where there was something to steal - and they - well, one was known a little. Weber smirked at his wife, and she smiled at him.

"For sure. Everyone knows monsieur - and madame." Dubois bowed. "But I seek something more."

They stormed. It was not to be supposed they should know anything of such a down - at - heel.

"Oh, no. No," said Reggie quickly. "But in the world of business" - he looked at Weber - "in the world of the theatre" - he looked at Clotilde - "the fellow might have crossed your path, what?"

That was soothing. They agreed the thing was possible. How could one tell? They chattered of the detrimentals they remembered - to no purpose.

Under plaintive looks from Reggie, Dubois broke that off with a brusque departure. When they were outside - "Well, you have met them!" Dubois shrugged. "And if they are anything which is not ordinary I did not see it."

Reggie gazed at him with round reproachful eyes. "They were in mourning," he moaned. "You never told me that. Were they in mourning when you saw 'em before?"

"But yes," Dubois frowned. "Yes, certainly. What is the matter? Did you think they had put on mourning for the animal Farquhar?"

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap," Reggie sighed. "Find out why they are in mourning. Quietly, quite quietly. Good - bye. Meet you at the station." . . .

The night express to Nantes and Quimper drew out of Paris. They ate a grim and taciturn dinner. They went back to the sleeping car and shut themselves in Reggie's compartment. "Well, I have done my work," said Dubois. "The Webers are in mourning for their nephew. A child of ten, whom Weber would have made his heir - his sister's son."

"A child," Reggie murmured. "How did he die?"

"It was not in Brittany, my friend," Dubois grinned. "Besides it is not mysterious. He died at Fontainebleau, in August, of diphtheria. They had the best doctors of Paris. There you are again. It means nothing."

"I wonder," Reggie mumbled. "Any news of the Bernals?"

"It appears they have passed through Touraine. If it is they, there was no child with them. Have no fear, they are watched for. One does not disappear in France."

"You think not? Well, well. Remains the Bernal child. Not yet known to be dead. Of diphtheria or otherwise! I did a job o' work too. Talked to old Huet at the Institut. You know - the prehistoric man. He says Farquhar's goddess is the Woman of Sarn. Recognised her at once. She stands on about the last western hill in France. Weird sort o' place, Huet says. And he can't imagine why Farquhar thought of children dancin round her. The people are taught she's of the devil."

"But you go on to see her?" Dubois made a grimace. "The fixed idea."

"No. Rational inference. Farquhar thought of her with children. And there's a child dead - and another child we can't find - belongin' to the people linked with Farquhar, I go on."

"To the land's end - to the end of the world - and beyond. For your faith in yourself. My dear Fortune, you are sublime. Well, I follow you. Poor old Dubois. Sancho Panza to your Don Quixote, hein?" . . .

They came out of the train to a morning of soft sunshine and mellow ocean air. The twin spires of Quimper rose bright among their minarets, its sister rivers gleamed, and the wooded hill beyond glowed bronze. Dubois bustled away from breakfast to see officials. "Don Quixote is a law to himself, but Sancho had better be correct, my friend."

"Yes, rather," Reggie mumbled, from a mouth full of honey." Conciliate the authorities. Liable to want 'em."

"Always the optimist, my Quixote."

"No. No. Only careful. Don't tell 'em anything."

"Name of a name!" Dubois exploded. "That is necessary, that warning. I have so much to tell!"

In an hour, they were driving away from Quimper, up over high moorland of heather and gorse and down again to a golden bay and a fishing village of many boats then on westward, with glimpses of sea on either hand. There was never a tree, only, about the stone walls which divided the waves of bare land into a draught - board of little fields, thick growth of bramble and gorse. Beyond the next village, with its deep inlet of a harbour, the fields merged into moor again, and here and there rose giant stones, in line, in circle, and solitary.

"Brrr," Dubois rumbled. "Tombs or temples, what you please, it was a gaunt religion which put them up here on this windy end of the earth."

The car stopped, the driver turned in his seat and pointed, and said he could drive no nearer, but that was the Woman of Sarn. "She is lonely," Dubois shrugged. "There is no village near, my lad?"

"There is Sarn." The driver pointed towards the southern sea. "But it is nothing."

Reggie plodded away through the heather. "Well, this is hopeful, is it not?" Dubois caught him up. "When we find her, what have we found? An idol in the desert. But you will go on to the end, my Quixote. Forward, then."

They came to the statue, and stood, for its crude head rose high above theirs, looking up at it. "And we have found it, one must avow," Dubois shrugged. "This is the lady Farquhar drew, devil a doubt. But, saperlipopette, she is worse here than on paper. She is real; she is a brute - all that there is of the beast in woman, emerging from the shapeless earth."

"Inhuman and horrid human, yes," Reggie murmured. "Cruelty of life. Yes. He knew about that, the fellow who made her, poor beggar. So did Farquhar."

"I believe it! But do you ask me to believe little children come and dance round this horror. Ah, no!"

"Oh, no. No. That never happened. Not in our time. Point of interest is, Farquhar thought it fittin' they should. Very interestin' point." Reggie gave another look at the statue, and walked on towards the highest point of the moor.

From that he could see the tiny village of Sarn, huddled in a cove, the line of dark cliff, a long rampart against the Atlantic. Below the cliff top he made out a white house, of some size, which seemed to stand alone.

His face had a dreamy placidity as he came back to Dubois. "Well, well. Not altogether desert," he murmured. "Something quite residential over there. Let's wander."

They struck southward towards the sea. As they approached the white house, they saw that it was of modern pattern - concrete, in simple proportions, with more window than wall. Its site was well chosen, in a little hollow beneath the highest of the cliff, sheltered, yet high enough for a far prospect, taking all the southern sun.

"Of the new ugliness, eh?" said Dubois, whose taste is for elaboration in all things. "All the last fads. It should be a sanatorium, not a house."

"One of the possibilities, yes." Reggie went on fast.

They came close above the house. It stood in a large walled enclosure, within which was a trim garden, but most of the space was taken by a paved yard with a roofed platform like a bandstand in the middle. Reggie stood still and surveyed it. Not a creature was to be seen. The acreage of window blazed blank and curtainless.

THE LONG DINNER 825

"The band is not playing." Dubois made a grimace. •"It is not the season."

Reegie did not answer. His eyes puckered to stare at a window within which the sun glinted on something of brass. He made a little inarticulate sound, and walked on, keeping above the house. But they saw no one no sign of life, till they were close to the cliff edge.

Then a cove opened below them in a gleaming stretch of white shell sand, and on the sand children were playing: some of them at a happy - go - lucky game of rounders, some building castles, some tumbling over each other like puppies. On a rock sat, in placid guard over them, a man who had the black pointed beard, the heavy black brows, which Farquhar had sketched on his menu. But these Mephistophelean decorations did not display the leer and sneer of Farquhar's drawing. The owner watched the children with a grave and kindly attention which seemed to be interested in everyone. He called to them cheerily, and had gay answers. He laughed jovial satisfaction at their laughter.

Reggie took Dubois's arm and walked him away. "Ah, my poor friend!" Dubois rumbled chuckles. "There we are at last. We arrive. We have the brute goddess, we have the children, we have even the devil of our Farquhar. And behold! he is a genial paternal soul, and all the children love him. Oh, my poor friend!"

"Yes. Funny isn't it? "Reggie snapped. "Dam' funny. Did you say the end? Then God forgive us. Which He wouldn't. He would not!"

Dubois gave him a queer look - something of derision, something of awe, and a good deal of doubt. "When you talk like that" - a shrug, a wave of the hands - "it is outside reason, is it not? An inspiration of faith."

"Faith that the world is reasonable. That's all" Reggie snarled. "Come on."

"And where?"

"Down to this village."

The huddled cottages of Sarn were already in sight. Then odours, a complex of stale fish and the filth of beast and man, could be smelt. Women clattered in sabots and laboured. Men lounged against the wall above the mess of the beach. A few small and ancient boats lay at anchor in the cove, and one of a larger size, and better condition, which had a motor engine.

They found a dirty estaminet and obtained from the landlord a bottle of nameless red wine. He said it was old, it was marvellous, but, being urged to share it, preferred a glass of the apple spirit, Calvados. "Marvellous, it is the word," Dubois grinned. "You are altogether right. Calvados for us also, my friend. It is more humane."

The landlord was slow of speech, and a pessimist.

Even with several little glasses of Calvados inside him he would talk only of the hardness of life and the poverty of Sarn and the curse upon the modern sardine. Reggie agreed that life was dear and life was difficult, but, after all, they had still their good boats at Sarn - motor - boats indeed. The landlord denied it with gloomy vehemence: motors - not one - only in the Badebec, and that was no fishing - boat, that one. It was M. David's.

"Is it so? "Reggie yawned, and lit his pipe. He gazed dreamily down the village street to the hideous little church. From that - under a patched umbrella, to keep off the wind, which was high, or the sun, which was grown faint - came a fat and shabby cure. "Well, better luck my friend," Reggie murmured, left Dubois to pay the bill, and wandered away.

He met the cure by the church gate. Was it permitted to visit that interesting church? Certainly, it was permitted, but monsieur would find nothing of interest - it was new; it was, alas! a poor place.

The cure was right - it was new; it was garish, it was mean. He showed it to Reggie with an affecting simplicity of diffident pride, and Reggie was attentive. Reggie praised the care with which it was kept. "You are kind, sir," the ewe beamed. "You are just. In fact they are admirably pious, my poor people, but poor - poor."

"You will permit the stranger - - "Reggie slipped a note into his hand.

"Ah, monsieur! You are generous. It will be recorded, please God."

"It is nothing," said Reggie quickly. "Do not think of it." They passed out of the church. "I suppose this is almost the last place in France?"

"Sometimes I think we are forgotten," the cure agreed. "Yes, almost the last. Certainly we are all poor folk. There is only M. David, who is sometimes good to us."

"A visitor?" Reggie said.

"Ah, no. He lives here. The Maison des Iles, you know. No? It is a school for young children - a school of luxury. He is a good man, M. David. Sometimes he will take, for almost a nothing, children who are weakly, and in a little while he has them as strong as the best. I have seen miracles. To be sure it is the best air in the world, here at Sarn. But he is a very good man. He calls his school 'of the islands' because of the islands out there" - the cure pointed to what looked like a reef of rocks. "My poor people call them the islands of the blessed. It is not good religion, but they used to think the souls of the innocent went there. Yes the Maison des Iles, his school is. But you should see it sir. The children are charming."

"If I had time - -" said Reggie, and said good - bye. 

Dubois was at the gate. Dubois took his arm and marched him off. "My friend, almost thou persuadest me - -" He spoke into Reggie's ear. "Guess what I have found, will you? That motor - yacht, the yacht of M. David, she was away a week ten days ago. And M. David on board. You see? It is possible she went over to England. A guess, yes, a chance, but one must avow it fits devilish well, if one can make it fit. A connection with all your fantasy - M. David over in England when Farquhar was drowned. Is it possible we arrive at last?"

"Yes, it could be. Guess what I've heard. M. David keeps school. That wasn't a bandstand. Open - air class - room. M. David is a very good man, and he uses his beautiful school to cure the children of the poor. He does miracles. The old cure has seen 'em."

"The devil!"  said Dubois. "That does not fit at all. But a priest would see miracles. It is his trade."

"Oh, no. No. Not unless they happen," Reggie murmured.

"My friend, you believe more than any man I ever knew," Dubois rumbled. "Come, I must know more of this David. The sooner we were back at Quimper the better."

"Yes. That is indicated. Quimper and telephone."

He checked a moment, and gazed anguish at Dubois. "Oh, my hat, how I hate telephones."

Dubois has not that old - fashioned weakness. Dubois, it is beyond doubt, enjoyed the last hours of that afternoon, shut into privacy at the post office with its best telephone, stirring up London and Paris and half France till sweat dripped from his big face and the veins of his brow dilated into knotted cords.

When he came into Reggie's room at the hotel it was already past dinner - time. Reggie lay on his bed, languid from a bath. "My dear old thing," he moaned sympathy. "What a battle! You must have lost pounds."

"So much the better," Dubois chuckled. "And also I have results. Listen. First. I praise the good Bell. He has it that a French boat - cutter rig with motor - was seen by fishermen in the bay off Lyncombe last week. They watched her, because they had suspicions she was poaching their lobsters and crabs, which they unaccountably believe is the habit of our honest French fishermen. She was lying in the bay the night of Tuesday - you see, the night that Farquhar disappeared. In the morning she was gone. They are not sure of the name, but they thought it was Badboy. That is near enough to Badebec, hein? In fact, myself, I do not understand the name Badebec."

"Lady in Rabelais," Reggie murmured. "Rather interestin'. Shows the breadth of M. David's taste."

"Aha. Very well. Here is a good deal for M. David to explain. Second, M. David himself. He is known; there is nothing against him. In fact he is like you, a man of science, a biologist, a doctor. He was brilliant as a student, which was about the same time that Farquhar studied art - and other things - in the Quartier Latin. David had no money. He served in hospitals for children; he set up his school here - a school for delicate children - four years ago. Its record is very good. He has medical inspection by a doctor from Quimper each month. But, third, Weber's nephew was at this school till July. He went home to Paris, they went out to Fontainebleau, and - piff!" Dubois snapped his fingers. "He is dead like that. There is no doubt it was diphtheria. Do you say fulminating diphtheria? Yes, that is it."

"I'd like a medical report," Reggie murmured.

"I have asked for it. However - the doctors are above suspicion, my friend. And now, fourth - the Bernals are found. They are at Dijon. They have been asked what has become of their dear little boy, and, they reply, he is at school in Brittany. At the school of M. David, Maison des Iles, Quimper."

"Yes. He would be. I see."

"Name of a name! I think you have always seen everything."

"Oh, no. No. Don't see it now," Reggie mumbled. "However. We're workin' it out. You've done wonderfully."

"Not so bad." Dubois smiled. "My genius is for action."

"Yes. Splendid. Yes. Mine isn't. I just went and had a look at the museum."

"My dear friend," Dubois condescended. "Why not? After all, the affair is now for me."

"Thanks, yes. Interestin' museum. Found a good man on the local legends there. Told me the Woman of Sarn used to have children sacrificed to her. That'll be what Farquhar had in his nice head. Though M. David is so good to children."

"Aha. It explains, and it does not explain," Dubois said. "In spite of you, M. David remains an enigma. Let poor old Dubois try. I have all these people under observation - the Webers, the Bernals - they cannot escape me now. And there are good men gone out to watch over M. David in his Maison des lies. Tomorrow we will go and talk to him, hein?"

"Pleasure," Reggie murmured. "You'd better go and have a bath now. You want it. And I want my dinner."

When they drove out to Sarn in the morning a second car followed them. In a blaze of hot sunshine they started, but they had not gone far before a mist of rain spread in from the sea, and by the time they reached the Maison des Iles they seemed to be in the clouds.

"An omen, hein? "Dubois made a grimace. "At least it may be inconvenient - if he is alarmed; if he wishes to play tricks. We have no luck in this affair. But courage, my friend. Poor old Dubois, he is not without resource."

Their car entered the walled enclosure of the Maison des Iles, the second stopped outside. When Dubois sent in his card to M. David, they were shown to a pleasant waiting - room, and had not long to wait.

David was dressed with a careless neatness. He was well groomed and perfectly at ease. His full red lips smiled; his dark eyes quizzed them. "What a misery of a morning you have found, gentlemen. I apologise for my ocean. M. Dubois?" he made a bow.

"Of the Surete." Dubois bowed. "And M. Fortune, my distinguished confrere from England."

David was enchanted. And what could he do for them?

"We make some little enquiries. First, you have here a boy - Tracy, the son of Mme Bernal. He is in good health?"

"Of the best." David lifted his black brows. "You will permit me to know why you ask."

"Because another boy who was here is dead. The little nephew of M. Weber. You remember him?"

"Very well. He was a charming child. I regret infinitely. But you are without doubt aware that he fell ill on the holidays. It was a tragedy for his family. But the cause is not here. We have had no illness, no infection at all. I recommend you to Dr. Lannion, at Quimper. He is our medical inspector."

"Yes. So I've heard," Reggie murmured. "Have you had other cases of children who went home for the holidays and died?"

"It is an atrocious question!" David cried. 

"But you are not quite sure of the answer?" said Dubois.

"If that is an insinuation, I protest," David frowned.

"I have nothing to conceal, sir. It is impossible, that must be clear, I should know what has become of every child who has left my school. But, I tell you frankly, I do not recall any death but that of the little nephew of Weber, poor child."

"Very well. Then you can have no objection that my assistant should examine your records," said Dubois. He opened the window, and whistled and lifted a hand.

"Not the least in the world. I am at your orders."

David bowed. "Permit me, I will go and get out the books," and he went briskly.

"Now if we had luck he would try to run away," Dubois rumbled. "But do not expect it."

"I didn't," Reggie moaned.

And David did not run away. He came back and took them to his office, and there Dubois's man was set down to work at registers. "You wish to assist?" David asked.

"No, thanks. No," Reggie murmured. "I'd like to look at your school."

"An inspection!" Dubois smiled. "I shall be delighted. I dare to hope for the approval of a man of science so eminent."

They inspected dormitories and dining - room and kitchen, class - rooms and workshop and laboratory. M. David was expansive and enthusiastic, yet modest. Either he was an accomplished actor, or he had a deep interest in school hygiene, and his arrangements were beyond suspicion. In the laboratory Reggie lingered. "It is elementary," David apologised. "But what would you have? Some general science, that is all they can do, my little ones: botany for the most part; as you see, a trifle of chemistry to amuse them."

"Yes. Quite sound. Yes. I'd like to see the other laboratory."

"What? "David stared. "There is only this."

"Oh, no. Another one with a big microscope," Reggie murmured. "North side of the house."

"Oh, la, la," David laughed. "You have paid some attention to my poor house. I am flattered. You mean my own den, where I play with marine biology still. Certainly you shall see it. But a little moment. I must get the key. You will understand. One must keep one's good microscope locked up. These imps, they play everywhere." He hurried out.

"Bigre! How the devil did you know there was another laboratory? " said Dubois.

"Saw the microscope yesterday," Reggie mumbled.

"Name of a dog! Is there anything you do not see?" Dubois complained. "Well, if we have any luck he has run away this time."

They waited some long while, and Dubois's face was flattened against the window to peer through the rain at the man on watch. But David had not run away, he came back at last, and apologised for some delay with a fool of a master, heaven give him patience! He took them briskly to the other laboratory, his den.

It was not pretentious. There were some shelves of bottles, and a bench with a sink, and a glass cupboard which stood open and empty. On the broad table in the window was a microscope of high power, and some odds and ends.

Reggie glanced at the bottles of chemicals and came to the microscope. "I play at what I worked at. That is middle age," David smiled. "Here is something a little interesting." He slipped a slide into the microscope and invited Reggie to look.

"Oh, yes. One of the diatoms. Pretty one," Reggie murmured, and was shown some more. "Thanks very much." A glance set Dubois in a hurry to go. David was affably disappointed. He had hoped they would lunch with him. The gentleman with the registers could hardly have finished his investigations. He desired an investigation the most complete.

"I will leave him here," Dubois snapped, and they got away. "Nothing, my friend? "Dubois muttered.

"No. That was the point," Reggie said. "'When they got there the cupboard was bare.'"

As their car passed the gate, a man signalled to them out of the rain. They stopped just beyond sight of the house, and he joined them. "Bouvier has held someone," he panted. "A man with a sack." They got out of the car and Dubois waved him on.

Through the blinding rain - clouds they came to the back of the house, and, on the way up to the cliffs, found Bouvier with his hand on the collar of a sullen, stupefied Breton. A sack lay on the ground at their feet.

"He says it is only rubbish," Bouvier said, "and he was taking it to throw into the sea, where they throw their waste. But I kept him."

"Good. Let us see." Dubois pulled the sack open. "The devil, it is nothing but broken glass!"

Reggie grasped the hand that was going to turn it over. "No, you mustn't do that," he said sharply. "Risky."

"Why? What then? It is broken glass and bits of jelly."

"Yes. As you say. Broken glass and bits of jelly. However." Over Reggie's wet face came a slow benign smile. "Just what we wanted. Contents of cupboard which was bare. I'll have to do some work on this. I'm going to the hospital. You'd better collect David - in the other car. Good - bye." . . .

Twenty - four hours later, he came into a grim room of the gendarmerie at Quimper. There Dubois and David sat with a table between them, and neither man was a pleasant sight. David's florid colour was gone, he had become untidy, he sagged in his chair, unable to hide fatigue and pain. Dubois also was dishevelled, and his eyes had sunk and grown small, but the big face wore a look of hungry cruelty. He turned to Reggie. "Aha. Here you are at last. And what do you tell M. David?"

"Well, we'll have a little demonstration." Reggie set down a box on the table and took from it a microscope. "Not such a fine instrument as yours, M. David, but it will do." He adjusted a slide. "You showed me some beautiful marine diatoms in your laboratory. Let me show you this. Also from your laboratory. From the sackful of stuff you tried to throw into the sea."

David dragged himself up and looked, and stared at him, and dropped back in his chair.

"Oh, that's not all, no." Reggie changed the slide.

"Try this one."

Again, and more wearily, David looked. He sat down again. His full lips curled back to show his teeth in a grin. "And then?" he said.

"What have you?" Dubois came to the microscope. "Little chains of dots, eh?" Reggie put back the first slide. "And rods with dots at the end."

"Not bad for a layman, is it, M. David?" Reggie murmured. "Streptococcus pyogenes, and the diphtheria bacillus. I've got some more - -"

"Indeed?" David sneered.

"Oh, yes. But these will do. Pyogenes was found in poor little Weber: accountin' for the virulence of the diphtheria. Very efficient and scientific murder."

"And the others?", Dubois thundered. "The other children who went home for their holidays and died. Two, three, four, is it, David?"

David laughed. "What does it matter? Yes, there are others who have gone to the isles of the blessed. But, also, there are many who have been made well and strong. I mock at you."

"You have cause, Herod," Dubois cried. "You have grown rich on the murder of children. But it is we who laugh last. We deliver you to justice now."

"Justice! Ah, yes, you believe that." David laughed again. "You are primitive, you are barbarous. Me, I am rational, I am a man of science. I sacrifice one life that a dozen may live well and happy. These who stand in the way of the rich, their deaths are paid for, and with the money I heal many. What, if life is valuable, is not this wisdom and justice? Let one die to save many, it is in all the religions, that. But no one believes his religions now. I - I believe in man. Well, I am before my time. But some day the world will be all Davids. With me it is finished."

"Not yet, name of God!" Dubois growled. "Oh yes, my friend. I am sick to death already. I have made sure of that." He waved his hand at Reggie. "You will not save me - no, not even you, my clever confrere. Good night! Go chase the Weber and the Bernal and the rest. David, he is gone into the infinite." He fell back, a hand to his head.

Reggie went to him, and looked close and felt at him. "Better take him away," he pronounced. "Hospital, under observation."

Dubois gave the orders. "Play - acting, my friend," he shrugged.

"Oh, no. No. That kind of man. Logical and drastic. He's ill all right. There was the diplococcus of meningitis in his collection. Might be that." And it was. . . .

Ten days afterwards Dubois came to London with Reggie and gave Lomas a lecture on the case. "I am desolated that I cannot offer you anyone to hang, my friend. But what can one do? The wretched Farquhar - I have no doubt he was murdered between David and Bernal. But there is no evidence. And, after all, David, he is dead, and we have Bernal for conspiracy to murder his stepson. That will do. It was, in fact, a case profoundly simple, like all the great crimes. To make a trade of arranging the deaths of unwanted children, that is very old. The distinction of David was to organise it scientifically, that is all. The child who was an heir to fortune, with a greedy one waiting to succeed, that was the child for him. Weber's nephew stood in the way of the beautiful Clotilde to Weber's fortune. Mrs. Bernal's little boy was in the way of her second husband to the fortune other father, the old millionaire. And the others! Well here is a beautiful modern school for delicate children, nine out of ten of them thrive marvellously. But, for the tenth, there is David's bacteriological laboratory, and a killing disease to take home with him when he goes for his holidays. Always at home, they die; always a disease of infection they could pick up anywhere. Bigre! It was a work of genius. And it would have gone on for ever but that this worthless Farquhar blunders into Brittany upon it, and begins to blackmail the beautiful Clotilde, the Bernal. Clotilde pays with her jewels, and has to pretend a robbery. Bernal will not pay - cannot, perhaps. Farquhar approaches the old grandfather, and Bernal calls in David, and the blackmailer is killed. The oldest story in the world. Rascals fall out, justice comes in. There is your angel of justice." He bowed to Reggie. "Dear master. You have shown me the way. Well, I am content to serve. Does he serve badly, poor old Dubois?"

"Oh, no. No. Brilliant," Reggie murmured. "Queer case, though. I believe David myself. He wanted to be a god. Make lives to his desire. And he did. Cured more than he killed. Far more. Then this fellow, who never wanted to be anything but a beast, blows in and beats him. Queer world. And David might have been a kindly, human fellow, if he hadn't had power. Dangerous stuff, science. Lots of us not fit for it."

SIXTH OBJECTION

THE YELLOW SLUGS

 THE BIG CAR closed up behind a florid funeral procession which held the middle of the road. On either side was a noisy congestion of lorries. Mr. Fortune sighed and closed his eyes.

When he looked out again he was passing the first carriage of another funeral, and saw beneath the driver's seat the white coffin of a baby. For the road served the popular cemetery of Blaney.

Two slow miles of dingy tall houses and cheap shops slid by, with vistas of meaner streets opening on either side. The car gathered speed across Blaney Common, an expanse of yellow turf and bare sand, turbid pond and scrubwood, and stopped at the brown pile of an old poor law hospital.

Entering its carbolic odour, Mr. Fortune was met by Superintendent Bell. "Here I am," he moaned. "Why am I?"

"Well, she's still alive, sir," said Bell. "They both are."

Mr. Fortune was taken to a ward in which, secluded by a screen, a little girl lay asleep. Her face had a babyish fatness, but in its pallor looked bloated and unhealthy. Though the close July air was oppressive and she was covered with heavy bed - clothes, her skin showed no sign of heat and she slept still as death.

Reggie sat down beside her. His hands moved gently within the bed.... He listened ... he looked. A nurse followed him to the door. "How old, do you think?" he murmured.

"That was puzzling me, sir. She's big enough for seven or eight, but all flabby. And when she came to she was talking almost baby talk. I suppose she may be only about five."

Reggie nodded. "Quite good, yes. All right. Carry on."

From the ward he passed to a small room where a nurse and a doctor stood together watching the one bed. A boy lay in it, restless and making noises - inarticulate words mixed with moaning and whimpering.

The doctor lifted his eyebrows at Reggie. "Get that?" he whispered. "Still talking about hell. He came absolutely unstuck. I had to risk a shot of morphia. I - -" He broke off in apprehension as Reggie's round face hardened to a cold severity. But Reggie nodded and moved to the bed. . . .

The boy tossed into stertorous sleep, one thin arm flung up above a tousled head. His sunken cheeks were flushed, and drips of sweat stood on the upper lip and the brow. Not a bad brow - not an uncomely face but for its look of hungry misery - not the face of a child - a face which had been the prey of emotions and thwarted desires. . . .

Reggie's careful hands worked over him . . . bits of the frail body were laid bare. . . . Reggie stood up, and still his face was set in ruthless, passionless determination.

Outside the door the doctor spoke nervously. "I hope you don't - -"

"Morphia's all right," Reggie interrupted. "What do you make of him?"

"Well Mr. Fortune, I wish you'd seen him at first." The doctor was uncomfortable beneath the cold insistence of a questioning stare. "He was right out of hand - a sort of hysterical fury. I should say he's quite abnormal. Neurotic lad, badly nourished - you can't tell what they won't do, that type."

"I can't. No. What age do you give him?"

"Now you've got me. To hear him raving, you'd think he was grown up, such a flow of language. Bible phrases and preaching. I'd say he was a twelve - year - old, but he might only be eight or ten. His development is all out of balance. He's unhealthy right through."

"Yes, that is so," Reggie murmured. "However. You ought to save him."

"Poor little devil," said the doctor.

In a bare, grim waiting - room Reggie sat down with Superintendent Bell, and Bell looked anxiety. "Well, sir?"

"Possible. Probable," Reggie told him. "On the evidence."

"Ah. Cruel, isn't it? I hate these child cases."

"Any more evidence? "Reggie drawled.

Bell stared at his hard calm gloomily. "I have. Plenty."

The story began with a small boy on the bank of one of the ponds on Blaney Common. That was some time ago. That was the first time anybody in authority had been aware of the existence of Eddie Hill. One of the keepers of the common made the discovery. The pond was that one which children used for the sailing of toy boats. Eddie Hill had no boat, but he loitered round all the morning, watching the boats of other children. There was little wind, and one boat lay becalmed in the middle of the pond when the children had to go home to dinner.

An hour later the keeper saw Eddie Hill wade into the pond and run away. When the children came back from dinner there was no boat to be seen. Its small owner made weeping complaint to the keeper, who promised to keep his eyes open, and some days later found Eddie Hill and his little sister Bessie lurking among the gorse of the common with the stolen boat. It was taken from them and their sin reported to their mother, who promised vengeance.

Their mother kept a little general shop. She had been there a dozen years - ever since she married her first husband. She was well liked and looked up to; a religious woman, regular chapel - goer and all that. Her second husband, Brightman, was the same sort - hardworking, respectable man; been at the chapel longer than she had.

The day - school teachers had nothing against Eddie or the little girl. Eddie was rather more than usually, bright, but dreamy and careless; the girl a bit stodgy. Both of 'em rather less naughty than most.

"Know a lot, don't you "Reggie murmured. "Got all this today?"

"No, this was all on record," Bell said. "Worked out for another business."

"Oh. Small boy and small girl already old offenders. Go on."

The other business was at the chapel Sunday school. Eddie Hill, as the most regular of its pupils, was allowed the privilege of tidying up at the end of the afternoon. On a Sunday in the spring the superintendent came in unexpectedly upon the process and found Eddie holding the money - box in which had been collected the contributions of the school to the chapel missionary society.

Eddie had no need nor right to handle the moneybox. Moreover, on the bench beside him were pennies and a sixpence. Such wealth could not be his own. Only the teachers ever put in silver. Moreover, he confessed that he had extracted the money by rattling the box upside down, and his small sister wept for the sin.

The superintendent took him to the police station and charged him with theft.

"Virtuous man," Reggie murmured.

"It does seem a bit harsh," Bell said. "But they'd had suspicions about the money - box before. They'd been watching for something like this. Well, the boy's mother came and tried to beg him off, but of course the case had to go on. The boy came up in the Juvenile Court - you know the way, Mr. Fortune; no sort of criminal atmosphere, magistrate talking like a father. He let the kid off with a lecture."

"Oh, yes. What did he say? Bringin' down mother's grey hairs in sorrow to the grave - wicked boy - goin' to the bad in this world and the next - anything about hell?"

"I couldn't tell you." Bell was shocked. "I heard he gave the boy a rare old talking to. I don't wonder. Pretty bad, wasn't it, the Sunday - school money - box? What makes you bring hell into it?"

"I didn't. The boy did. He was raving about hell to - day. Part of the evidence. I was only tracin' the origin."

"Ah. I don't like these children's cases," Bell said gloomily. "They don't seem really human sometimes. You get a twisted kind of child and he'll talk the most frightful stuff - and do it too. We can only go by acts can we?"

"Yes. That's the way I'm goin'. Get on." The sharp impatience of the tone made Bell look at him with some reproach. "All right, sir. The next thing is this morning's business. I gave you the outline of that on the phone. I've got the full details now. This is what it comes to. Eddie and his little sister were seen on the common; the keepers have got to keeping an eye on him. He wandered about with her - he has a casual, drifting sort of way, like some of these queer kids do have - and they came to the big pond. That's not a children's place at all; it's too deep; only dog bathing and fishing. There was nobody near; it was pretty early. Eddie and Bessie went along the bank, and a labourer who was scything thistles says the little girl was crying, and Eddie seemed to be scolding her, and then he fair chucked her in and went in with her. That's what it looked like to the keeper who was watchin' 'em. Him and the other chap, they nipped down and chucked the lifebuoy; got it right near, but Eddie didn't take hold of it; he was clutching the girl and sinking and coming up again. So the keeper went in to 'em and had trouble getting 'em out. The little girl was unconscious, and Eddie sort of fought him." Bell stopped and gave a look of enquiry, but Reggie said nothing, and his face showed neither opinion nor feeling. "Well, you know how it is with these rescues from the water," Bell went on. "People often seem to be fighting to drown themselves and it don't mean anything except fright. And about the boy throwing the girl in - that might have been just a bit of a row or play - it's happened often - not meant vicious at all; and then he'd panic, likely enough." Again Bell looked an anxious question at the cold, passionless face. "I mean to say, I wouldn't have bothered you with it, Mr. Fortune, but for the way the boy carried on when they got him out. There he was with his little sister unconscious, and the keeper doing artificial respiration, and he called out, 'Don't do it. Bessie's dead. She must be dead.' And the keeper asked him, 'Do you want her dead, you little devil?' And he said, 'Yes, I do. I had to.' Then the labourer chap came back with help and they got hold of Eddie; he was raving, flinging himself about and screaming if she lived she'd only get like him and go to hell, so she must be dead. While they brought him along here he was sort of preaching to 'em bits of the Bible, and mad stuff about the wicked being sent to hell and tortures for 'em."

"Curious and interestin'," Reggie drawled. "Any particular torture?"

"I don't know. The whole thing pretty well gave these chaps the horrors. They didn't get all the boy's talk. I don't wonder. There was something about worms not dying, they told me. That almost turned 'em up. Well - there you are, Mr. Fortune. What do you make of it?"

"I should say it happened," Reggie said. "All of it. As stated."

"You feel sure he could have thrown that fat little girl in? He seemed to me such a weed."

"Yes. Quite a sound point. I took that point. Development of both children unhealthy. Girl wrongly nourished. Boy inadequately nourished. Boy's physique frail. However. He could have done it. Lots of nervous energy. Triumph of mind over matter."

Bell drew in his breath. "You take it cool."

"Only way to take it," Reggie murmured, and Bell shifted uncomfortably. He has remarked since that he had seen Mr. Fortune look like that once or twice before - sort of inhuman, heartless, and inquisitive - but there it seemed all wrong, it didn't seem his way at all.

Reggie settled himself in his chair and spoke - so Bell has reported, and this is the only criticism which annoys Mr. Fortune - like a lecturer. "Several possibilities to be considered. The boy may be merely a precocious rascal. Having committed some iniquity which the little girl knew about, he tried to drown her to stop her giving him away. Common type of crime, committed by children as well as their elders."

"I know it is," Bell admitted. "But what could he have done that was worth murdering his sister?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. However. He did steal. Proved twice by independent evidence. Don't blame if you don't want. 'There, but for the grace of God, go I.' I agree. Quite rational to admit that consideration. We shall certainly want it. But he knew he was a thief; lie knew it got him into trouble - that's fundamental."

"All right," said Bell gloomily. "We have to take it like that."

"Yes. No help. Attempt to murder sister may be connected with consciousness of sin. I should say it was. However. Other possibilities. He's a poor little mess of nerves; he's unsound, physically, mentally, spiritually. He may not have meant to murder her at all; may have got in a passion and not known what he was doing."

"Ah. That's more likely." Bell was relieved.

"You think so? Then why did he tell everybody he did mean to murder her?"

"Well, he was off his head, as you were saying. That's the best explanation of the whole thing. It's really the only explanation. Look at your first idea: he wanted to kill her so she couldn't tell about some crime he'd done. You get just the same question, why did he say he meant murder? He must know killing is worse than stealing. However you take the thing, you work back to his being off his head."

Reggie's eyelids drooped. "I was brought here to say he's mad. Yes. I gather that. You're a merciful man, Bell. Sorry not to satisfy your gentle nature. I could swear he's mentally abnormal. If that would do any good. I couldn't say he's mad. I don't know. I can find you mental experts who would give evidence either way."

"I know which a jury would believe," Bell grunted.

"Yes. So do I. Merciful people, juries. Like you. Not my job. I'm lookin' for the truth. One more possibility. The boy's motive was just what he said it was - to kill his little sister so she shouldn't get wicked and go to hell. That fits the other facts. He'd got into the way of stealing; it had been rubbed into him that he was doomed to hell. So, if he found her goin' the same way, he might think it best she should die while she was still clean."

"Well, if that isn't mad!" Bell exclaimed.

"Abnormal, yes. Mad - I wonder," Reggie murmured.

"But it's sheer crazy, sir. If he believed he was so wicked, the thing for him to do was to pull up and go straight, and see that she did too."

"Yes. That's common sense, isn't it?" A small contemptuous smile lingered a moment on Reggie's stern face. "What's the use of common sense here? If he was like this - sure he was going to hell; sure she was bein' driven there too - kind of virtuous for him to kill her to save her. Kind of rational. Desperately rational. Ever know any children, Bell? Some of 'em do believe what they're taught. Some of 'em take it seriously. Abnormal, as you say. Eddie Hill is abnormal." He turned and looked full at Bell, his blue eyes dark in the failing light. "Aged twelve or so - too bad to live - or too good. Pleasant case."

Bell moved uneasily. "These things do make you feel queer," he grunted. "What it all comes to though - we mean much the same - the boy ought to be in a home. That can be worked."

"A home!" Reggie's voice went up, and he laughed. "Yes. Official home for mentally defective. Yes. We can do that. I dare say we shall." He stood up and walked to the window and looked out at the dusk. "These children had a home of their own. And a mother. What's she doing about 'em?"

"She's been here, half off her head, poor thing," said Bell. "She wouldn't believe the boy meant any harm. She told me he couldn't, he was so fond of his sister. She said it must have been accident."

"Quite natural and motherly. Yes. But not adequate. Because it wasn't accident, whatever it was. We'd better go and see mother."

"If you like," Bell grunted reluctantly.

"I don't like," Reggie mumbled. "I don't like anything. I'm not here to do what I like." And they went.

People were drifting home from the common. The mean streets of Blaney had already grown quiet in the sultry gloom. Shutters were up at the little shop which was the home of Eddie Hill, and still bore in faded paint his father's name. No light showed in the windows above. Bell rapped on the door, and they waited in vain. He moved to a house door close beside the shop. "Try this. This may be theirs too," he said, and knocked and rang.

After a minute it was opened by a woman who said nothing, but stared at them. From somewhere inside came the sound of a man's voice, talking fervently. The light of the street lamp showed her of full figure, in neat black, and a face which was still pretty but distressed.

"You remember me, Mrs. Brightman," said Bell. "I'm Superintendent Bell."

"I know." She was breathless. "What's the matter? Are they - is Eddie - what's happened?"

"They're doing all right. I just want a little talk with you."

"Oh, they're all right. Praise God!" She turned; she called out: "Matthew, Matthew dear, they're all right."

The man's voice went on talking with the same fervour, but not in answer.

"I'll come in, please," said Bell.

"Yes, do. Thank you kindly. Mr. Brightman would like to see you. We were just asking mercy."

She led the way along a passage, shining clean, to a room behind the shop. There a man was on his knees praying, and most of the prayer was texts: "And we shall sing of mercy in the morning. Amen. Amen." He made an end.

He stood up before them, tall and gaunt, a bearded man with melancholy eyes. He turned to his wife. "What is it, my dear? What do the gentlemen want?"

"It's about the children, Matthew." His wife came and took his arm. "It's the police superintendent, I told you. He was so kind."

The man sucked in his breath. "Ay, ay. Please sit down. They must sit down, Florrie." There was a fluster of setting chairs. "This is kind, sir. What can you tell us to - night?"

"Doin' well. Both of 'em," Reggie said,

"There's our answer, Florrie," the man said, and smiled, and his sombre eyes glowed. "There's our prayers answered."

"Yes. I think they're going to live," said Reggie. "But that's not the only thing that matters. We have to ask how it was they were nearly drowned."

"It was an accident. It must have been," the woman cried. "I'm sure Eddie wouldn't - he never would, would he, Matthew?"

"I won't believe it," Brightman answered quickly.

"Quite natural you should feel like that," Reggie nodded. "However. We have to deal with the facts."

"You must do what you think right, sir, as it is shown you." Brightman bent his head.

"Yes, I will. Yes. Been rather a naughty boy, hasn't he?"

Brightman looked at his wife's miserable face and turned to them again. "The police know," he said. "He has been a thief - twice he has been a thief - but little things. There is mercy, surely there is mercy for repentance. If his life is spared, he should not be lost; we must believe that."

"I do," Reggie murmured. "Any special reason why he should have been a thief?"

Brightman shook his head. "He's always had a good home, I'm sure," the woman moaned. She looked round her room, which was ugly and shabby, but all in the cleanest order.

"What can I say? "Brightman shook his head. "We've always done our best for him. There's no telling how temptation comes, sir, and it's strong and the little ones are weak."

"That is so. Yes. How much pocket - money did they have?"

"Eddie has had his twopence a week since he was ten," Brightman answered proudly. "And Bessie has her penny."

"I see. And was there anything happened this morning which upset Bessie or Eddie?"

"Nothing at all, sir. Nothing that I know." Brightman turned to his wife. "They went off quite happy, didn't they?"

"Yes, of course they did," she said eagerly. "They always loved to have a day on the common. They took their lunch, and they went running as happy as happy - and then this," she sobbed.

"My dearie." Brightman patted her.

"Well, well." Reggie stood up. "Oh. By the way. Has Eddie - or Bessie - ever stolen anything at home here - money or what not?"

Brightman started and stared at him. "That's not fair, sir. That's not a right thing to ask. There isn't stealing between little ones and their mother and father."

"No. As you say. No," Reggie murmured. "Good night. You'll hear how they go on. Good night."

"Thank you, sir. We shall be anxious to hear. Good night, sir," said Brightman, and Mrs. Brightman showed them out with tearful gratitude. As the door was opened, Brightman called: "Florrie! Don't bolt it. Mrs. Wiven hasn't come back."

"I know. I know," she answered, and bade them good night and shut the door.

A few paces away, Reggie stopped and looked back at the shuttered shop and the dark windows. "Well well. What does the professional mind make of all that?"

"Just what you'd expect, wasn't it? "Bell grunted.

"Yes. Absolutely. Poor struggling shopkeepers, earnestly religious, keeping the old house like a new pin. All in accordance with the evidence." He sniffed the night air. "Dank old house."

"General shop smell. All sorts of things mixed up."

"As you say. There were. And there would be. Nothing you couldn't have guessed before we went. Except that Mrs. Wiven is expected - whoever Mrs. Wiven is."

"I don't know. Sounds like a lodger."

"Yes, that is so. Which would make another resident in the home of Eddie and Bessie. However. She's not come back yet. So we can go home. The end of a beastly day. And to - morrow's another one. I'll be out to see the children in the morning. Oh, my Lord! Those children." His hand gripped Bell's arm. . . .

By eight o'clock in the morning he was at the bedside of Bessie Hill - an achievement of stupendous but useless energy, for she did not wake till half past.

Then he took charge. A responsible position, which he interpreted as administering to her cups of warm milk and bread and butter. She consumed them eagerly; she took his service as matter of course.

"Good girl." Reggie wiped her mouth. "Feelin' better?"

She sighed and snuggled down, and gazed at him with large eyes. "Umm. Who are you?"

"They call me Mr. Fortune. Is it nice here?"

"Umm. Comfy." The big eyes were puzzled and wondering. "Where is it?"

"Blaney Hospital. People brought you here after you were in the pond. Do you remember?" 

She shook her head. "Is Eddie here?"

"Oh, yes. Eddie's asleep. He's all right. Were you cross with Eddie?"

Tears came into the brown eyes. "Eddie was cross wiv me," the child whimpered. "I wasn't. I wasn't. Eddie said must go into ve water. I didn't want. But Eddie was so cross. Love Eddie."

"Yes. Little girl." Reggie stroked her hair. "Eddie shouldn't have been cross. Just a little girl. But Eddie isn't often cross, is he?"

"No. Love Eddie. Eddie's dear."

"Why was he cross yesterday?"

The brown eyes opened wider. "I was naughty. It was Mrs. Wiven. Old Mrs. Wiven. I did go up to her room. I didn't fink she was there. Sometimes is sweeties. But she was vere. She scolded me. She said I was little fief. We was all fiefs. And Eddie took me away and oh, he was so cross; he said I would be wicked and must not be. But I aren't. I aren't. Eddie was all funny and angry, and said not to be like him and go to hell, and then he did take me into pond wiv him. I didn't want. I didn't want!"

"No. Of course not. No. Poor little girl. Eddie didn't understand. But it's all right now."

"Is Eddie still cross wiv me?" she whimpered.

"Oh, no. No. Eddie won't be cross any more. Nobody's cross, little girl." Reggie bent over her.

"Everybody's going to be kind now. You only have to be quiet and happy. That's all."

"Oooh." She gazed up at him. "Tell Eddie I'm sorry."

"Yes. I'll tell him." Reggie kissed her hand and turned away.

The nurse met him at the door. "Did she wake in the night?" he whispered.

"Yes, sir, asking for Eddie. She's a darling, isn't she? She makes me cry, talking like that of him."

"That won't do any harm," Reggie said, and his face hardened. "But you mustn't talk about him."

He went to the room where Eddie lay. The doctor was there, and turned from the bedside to confer with him. "Not too bad. We've put in a long sleep. Quite quiet since we waked. Very thirsty. Taken milk with a dash of coffee nicely. But we're rather flat."

Reggie sat down by the bed. The boy lay very still. His thin face was white. Only his eyes moved to look at Reggie, so little open, their pupils so small that they seemed all greenish - grey. He gave no sign of recognition, or feeling, or intelligence. Reggie put a hand under the clothes and found him cold and damp, and felt for his pulse.

"Well, young man, does anything hurt you now?"

"I'm tired. I'm awful tired," the boy said.

"Yes. I know. But that's going away."

"No, it isn't; it's worse. I didn't ought to have waked up." The faint voice was drearily peevish. "I didn't want to. It's no good. I thought I was dead. And it was good being dead."

"Was it? "Reggie said sharply.

The boy gave a quivering cry. "Yes, it was!" His face was distorted with fear and wonder. "I thought it would be so dreadful and it was all quiet and nice, and then I wasn't dead, I was alive and everything's awful again. I've got to go on still."

"What's awful in going on?" said Reggie. "Bessie wants you. Bessie sent you her love. She's gettin' well quick."

"Bessie? Bessie's here in bed like I am?" The unnatural greenish eyes stared.

"Of course she is. Only much - happier than you are." The boy began to sob.

"Why do you cry about that?" Reggie said. "She's got to be happy. Boys and girls have to be happy. That's what they're for. You didn't want Bessie to die."

"I did. You know I did," the boy sobbed.

"I know you jumped in the pond with her. That was silly. But you'd got rather excited, hadn't you? What was it all about?"

"They'll tell you," the boy muttered.

"Who will?"

"The keepers, the p'lice, the m - magistrate, everybody. I'm wicked. I'm a thief. I can't help it. And I didn't want Bessie to be wicked too."

"Of course you didn't. And she isn't. What ever made you think she was?"

"But she was." The boy's voice was shrill. "She went to Mrs. Wiven's room. She was looking for pennies. I know she was. She'd seen me. And Mrs. Wiven said we were all thieves. So I had to."

"Oh, no, you hadn't. And you didn't. You see? Things don't happen like that."

"Yes, they do. There's hell. Where their worms don't die."

The doctor made a muttered exclamation. Reggie's hand held firm at the boy's as he moved and writhed. "There's God too," he murmured. "God's kind. Bessie's not going to be wicked. You don't have to be wicked. That's what's come of it all. Somebody's holding you up now." His hand pressed. "Feel?" The boy's lips parted; he looked up in awe. "Yes. Like that. You'll see me again and again. Now good - bye. Think about me. I'm thinking about you." . . . He stayed a while longer before he said another "Good - bye."

Outside, in the corridor, the doctor spoke: "I say, Mr. Fortune, you got him then. That was the stuff. I thought you were driving hard before. Sorry I spoke."

"I was." Reggie frowned. His round face was again of a ruthless severity. "Difficult matter to play with souls", he mumbled. "We've got to." He looked under drooping eyelids. "Know the name of the keeper who saw the attempted drowning? Fawkes? Thanks."

He left the hospital and walked across the common.

The turf was parched and yellow, worn away on either side of paths loosened by the summer drought. Reggie descried the brown coat of a keeper, made for him, and was directed to where Fawkes would be.

Fawkes was a slow - speaking, slow - thinking old soldier, but he knew his own mind. There was no doubt in it that Eddie had tried to kill Bessie, no indignation, no surprise. Chewing his words, he gave judgment. He had known Eddie's sort, lots of 'em. 'Igh strung, wanting the earth, kicking up behind and before 'cause they couldn't get it. He didn't mind 'em. Rather 'ave 'em than young 'uns like sheep. But you 'ad to dress 'em down proper. They was devils else. Young Eddie would 'ave to be for it.

That business of the boat? Yes, Eddie pinched that all right. Smart kid; you'd got to 'and him that. And yet not so smart. Silly, lying up with it on the common; just the way to get nabbed. Ought to 'ave took it 'ome and sailed it over at Wymond Park. Never been spotted then. But "im and 'is sister, they made a reg'lar den up in the gorse. Always knew where to look for 'em. Silly. Why, they was up there yesterday, loafing round, before 'e did 'is drowning act.

"Take you there? I can, if you like."

Reggie did like. They went up the brown slopes of the common to a tangle of gorse and bramble over small sand - hills.

"There you are." The keeper pointed his stick to a patch of loose sand in a hollow. "That's young Eddie's funk - 'ole. That's where we spotted 'em with the blinking boat."

Reggie came to the place. The sand had been scooped up by small hands into a low wall round a space which was decked out with pebbles, yellow petals of gorse, and white petals of bramble.

"Ain't that just like 'em!" The keeper was angrily triumphant. "They know they didn't ought to pick the flowers. As well as you and me they do, and they go and do it."

Reggie did not answer. He surveyed the pretence of a garden and looked beyond. "Oh, my Lord!"  he muttered. On the ground lay a woman's bag.

"'Allo, 'allo." The keeper snorted. "They've been pinching something else."

Reggie took out his handkerchief, put his hand in it, and thus picked up the bag. He looked about him; he wandered to and fro, going delicately, examining the confusion of small footmarks, further and further away. "Been all round, ain't they? " the keeper greeted him on his return.

"That is so. Yes." Reggie mumbled and looked at him with searching eyes. "Had any notice of a bag lost or stolen?"

"Not as I've 'eard. Better ask the 'ead keeper. 'E'll be up at the top wood about now."

The wood was a thicket of birch and crab - apple and thorn. As they came near, they saw on its verge the head keeper and two other men who were not in the brown coats of authority. One of these was Superintendent Bell. He came down the slope in a hurry.

"I tried to catch you at the hospital, Mr. Fortune," he said. "But I suppose you've heard about Mrs. Wiven?"

"Oh. The Mrs. Wiven who hadn't come back," Reggie said slowly. "No. I haven't heard anything."

"I thought you must have, by your being out here on the common. Well, she didn't come back at all. This morning Brightman turned up at the station very fussy and rattled to ask if they had any news of his lodger, Mrs. Wiven. She never came in last night, and he thought she must have had an accident or something. She'd been lodging with them for years. Old lady, fixed in her habits. Never went anywhere, that he knew of, except to chapel and for a cup o' tea with some of her chapel friends, and none of them had seen her. These fine summer days she'd take her food out and sit on the common here all day long. She went off yesterday morning with sandwiches and a vacuum flask of tea and her knitting. Often she wouldn't come home till it was getting dark. They didn't think much of her being late; sometimes she went in and had a bit o' supper with a friend. She had her key, and they left the door unbolted, like we heard, and went to bed, being worn out with the worry of the kids. But when Mrs. Brightman took up her cup of tea this morning and found she wasn't in her room, Brightman came running round to the station. Queer business, eh?"

"Yes. Nasty business. Further you go the nastier."

Bell looked at him curiously and walked him away from the keeper. "You feel it that way? So do I. Could you tell me what you were looking for out here - as you didn't know she was missing?"

"Oh, yes. I came to verify the reports of Eddie's performances."

"Ah! Have you found any error?"

"No. I should say everything happened as stated."

"The boy's going to get well, isn't he?"

"It could be. If he gets the chance."

"Poor little beggar," Bell grunted. "What do you really think about him, Mr. Fortune?"

"Clever child, ambitious child, imaginative child. What children ought to be - twisted askew."

"Kind of perverted, you mean."

"That is so. Yes. However. Question now is, not what I think of the chances of Eddie's soul, but what's been happening. Evidence inadequate, curious, and nasty. I went up to the private lair of Eddie and Bessie. Same where he was caught with the stolen boat. I found this." He showed Bell the woman's bag.

"My oath!" Bell muttered, and took it from him gingerly. "You wrapped it up! Thinkin' there might be fingerprints."

"Yes. Probably are. They might even be useful."

"And you went looking for this - not knowing the woman was missing?"

"Wasn't lookin' for it," Reggie snapped. "I was lookin' for anything there might be. Found a little pretence of a garden they'd played at - and this."

"Ah, but you heard last night about Mrs. Wiven, and this morning you go up where Eddie hides what he's stolen. Don't that mean you made sure there was something fishy? You see when we're blind, Mr. Fortune."

"Oh, no. I don't see. I knew more than you did. Little Bessie told me this morning she was in Mrs. Wiven's room yesterday, privily and by stealth, and Mrs. Wiven caught her and called her a thief, and said they were all thieves. I should think little Bessie may have meant to be a thief. Which would agree with Eddie's effort to drown her so she should die good and honest. But I don't see my way."

"All crazy, isn't it? "Bell grunted.

"Yes. The effort of Eddie is an incalculable factor. However. You'd better look at the bag."

Bell opened it with cautious fingers. A smell of peppermint came out. Within was a paper bag of peppermint lozenges, two unclean handkerchiefs marked E. W., an empty envelope addressed to Mrs. Wiven, a bottle of soda - mint tablets, and some keys.

"Evidence that it is the bag of the missing Mrs. Wiven strong," Reggie murmured. He peered into it. "But no money. Not a penny." He looked up at Bell with that cold, ruthless curiosity which Bell always talks about in discussing the case. "Stealin' is the recurrin' motive. You notice that?"

"I do." Bell stared at him. "You take it cool, Mr. Fortune. I've got to own it makes me feel queer."

"No use feelin' feelings," Reggie drawled. "We have to go on. We want the truth, whatever it is."

"Well, all right, I know," Bell said gloomily. "They're searching the common for her. That's why I came out here. They knew her. She did sit about here in summer." He went back to the head keeper and conferred again. . . .

Reggie purveyed himself a deck - chair, and therein sat extended and lit a pipe and closed his eyes. . . .

"Mr. Fortune!" Bell stood over him. His lips emitted a stream of smoke. No other part of him moved. "They've found her. I suppose you expected that."

"Yes. Obvious possibility. Probable possibility." It has been remarked that Mr. Fortune has a singular capacity for becoming erect from a supine position. A professor of animal morphology once delivered a lecture upon him - after a hospital dinner - as the highest type of the invertebrates. He stood up from the deck - chair in one undulating motion. "Well, well. Where is the new fact?" he moaned.

Bell took him into the wood. No grass grew in it. Where the sandy soil was not bare, dead leaves made a carpet. Under the crab - apple trees, between the thorn - brakes, were nooks obviously much used by pairs of lovers. By one of these, not far from the whale - back edge of rising ground which was the wood's end, some men stood together.

On the grey sand there lay a woman's body. She was small; she was dressed in a coat and skirt of dark grey cloth and a black and white blouse. The hat on her grey hair was pulled to one side, giving her a look of absurd frivolity in ghastly contrast to the distortion of her pallid face. Her lips were closely compressed and almost white. The dead eyes stared up at the trees with dilated pupils.

Reggie walked round the body, going delicately, rather like a dog in doubt how to deal with another dog.

Beside the body was a raffia bag which held some knitting, a vacuum flask, and an opened packet of sandwiches.

Reggie's discursive eyes looked at them and looked again at the dead face, but not for long. He was more interested in the woman's skirt. He bent over that, examined it from side to side, and turned away and went on prowling further and further away, and as he went he scraped at the dry sand here and there.

When he came back to the body, his lips were curved in a grim, mirthless smile. He looked at Bell. "Photographer," he mumbled.

"Sent a man to phone, sir," Bell grunted.

Reggie continued to look at him. "Have you? Why have you?"

"Just routine." Bell was startled.

"Oh. Only that. Well, well." Reggie knelt down by the body. His hands went to the woman's mouth. . . . He took something from his pocket and forced the mouth open and looked in. ... He closed the mouth again, and sat down on his heels and contemplated the dead woman with dreamy curiosity. ... He opened her blouse. Upon the underclothes was a dark stain. He bent over that and smelt it; he drew the clothes from her chest.

"No wound, is there?" Bell muttered.

"Oh, no. No," Reggie put back the clothes and stood up and went to the flask and the sandwiches. He pulled the bread of an unfinished sandwich apart, looked at it, and put it down. He took the flask and shook it. It was not full. He poured some of the contents into its cup.

"Tea, eh?" said Bell. "Strong tea."

"Yes. It would be," Reggie murmured. He tasted it and spat, and poured what was in the cup back into the flask and corked it again and gave it to Bell.

"There you are. Cause of death, poisoning by oxalic acid or binoxalate of potassium - probably the latter - commonly called salts of lemon. And we shall find some in that awful tea. We shall also find it in the body. Tongue and mouth, white, contracted, eroded. Time of death, probably round about twenty - four hours ago. No certainty."

"My oath! It's too near certainty for my liking," Bell muttered.

"Is it? "Reggie's eyelids drooped. "Wasn't thinkin' about what you'd like. Other interestin' facts converge."

"They do!" Bell glowered at him. "One of the commonest kinds of poisoning, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes. Salts of lemon very popular."

"Anybody can get it."

"As you say. Removes stains, cleans brass and what not. Also quickly fatal, with luck. Unfortunate chemical properties."

"This boy Eddie could have got some easy."

"That is so. Yes. Lethal dose for a penny or two anywhere."

"Well, then - look at it!"

"I have," Reggie murmured. "Weird case. Ghastly case."

"Gives me the horrors," said Bell. "The old lady comes out here to spend the day as usual, and somebody's put a spot of poison in her drop o" tea and she dies; and her bag's stolen, and found without a farthing where the boy Eddie hides his loot. And, about the time the old lady's dying, Eddie tries to drown his sister. What are you going to make of that? What can you make of it? It was a poison any kid could get hold of. One of 'em must have poisoned her to steal her little bit o' money. But the girl's not much more than a baby. It must have been Eddie that did it - and that goes with the rest of his doings. He's got the habit of stealing. But his little sister saw something of it, knew too much, so he put up this drowning to stop her tongue - and then, when she was saved, made up this tale about killing her to keep her honest. Devilish, isn't it? And when you find a child playing the devil - my oath! But it is devilish clever - his tale would put the stealing and all the rest on the baby. And we can't prove anything else. She's too little to be able to get it clear, and he's made himself out driven wild by her goings on. If a child's really wicked, he beats you."

"Yes, that is so," Reggie drawled. "Rather excited, aren't you? Emotions are not useful in investigation. Prejudice the mind into exaggeratin' facts and ignorin' other facts. Both fallacies exhibited in your argument. You mustn't ignore what Bessie did say - that she went into Mrs. Wiven's room yesterday morning and Mrs. Wiven caught her. I shouldn't wonder if you found Bessie's fingerprints on that bag."

"My Lord!" Bell stared at him. "It's the nastiest case I ever had. When it comes to babies in murder - -"

"Not nice, no. Discoverin' the possibilities of corruption of the soul. However. We haven't finished yet. Other interestin' facts have been ignored by Superintendent Bell. Hallo!" Several men were approaching briskly. "Is this your photographer and other experts?"

"That's right. Photographer and fingerprint men."

"Very swift and efficient." Reggie went to meet them. "Where did you spring from?"

"By car, sir." The photographer was surprised. "On the road up there. We had the location by phone."

"Splendid. Now then. Give your attention to the lady's skirt. Look." He indicated a shining streak across the dark stuff. "Bring that out."

"Can do, sir," the photographer said, and fell to work.

Reggie turned to Bell. "Then they'll go over the whole of her for fingerprints, what? And the sandwich paper. And the flask. Not forgettin' the bag. That's all. I've finished here. She can be taken to the mortuary for me.

"Very good," Bell said, and turned away to give the orders, but, having given them, stood still to stare at the thin glistening streak on the skirt.

Reggie came quietly to his elbow. "You do notice that? Well, well." Bell looked at him with a puzzled frown and was met for the first time in this case by a small, satisfied smile which further bewildered him. He bent again to pore over the streak. "It's all right." Reggie's voice was soothing. "That's on record now. Come on." Linking arms, he drew Bell away from the photographers and the fingerprint men. "Well? What does the higher intelligence make of the line on the skirt?"

"I don't know. I can't make out why you think so much of it."

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!" Reggie moaned. "Crucial fact. Decisive fact." He led Bell on out of the wood and across the common, and at a respectful distance Bell's two personal satellites followed.

"Decisive, eh? "Bell frowned. "It was just a smear of something to me. You mean salts of lemon would leave a shiny stain?"

"Oh. no. No. Wouldn't shine at all."

"Had she been sick on her skirt?"

"Not there. No. Smear wasn't human material."

"Well, I thought it wasn't. What are you thinking of?"

"I did think of what Eddie said - where their worm dieth not."

"My God!" Bell muttered. "Worms?" He gave a shudder. "I don't get you at all, sir. It sounds mad."

"No. Connection is sort of desperate rational. I told you Eddie was like that. However. Speakin' scientifically, not a worm, but a slug. That streak was a slug's trail."

"Oh. I see." Bell was much relieved. "Now you say so, it did look like that. The sort o' slime a slug leaves behind. It does dry shiny, of course."

"You have noticed that?" Reggie admired him. "Splendid!"

Bell was not pleased. "I have seen slugs before," he grunted. "But what is there to make a fuss about? I grant you, it's nasty to think of a slug crawling over the woman as she lay there dead. That don't mean anything, though. Just what you'd expect, with the body being all night in the wood. Slugs come out when it gets dark."

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!" Reggie moaned. "You mustn't talk like that. Shakes confidence in the police force. Distressin' mixture of inadequate observation and fallacious reasonin'."

"Thank you. I don't know what's wrong with it." Bell was irritated.

"Oh, my Bell! You shock me. Think again. Your general principle's all right. Slugs do come out at night. Slugs like the dark. That's a general truth which has its particular application. But you fail to observe the conditions. The body was in a wood with no herbage on the ground: and the ground was a light dry sand. These are not conditions which attract the slug. I should have been much surprised if I'd found any slugs there, or their tracks. But I looked for 'em - which you didn't. Bell. I'm always careful. And there wasn't a trace. No. I can't let you off. A slug had crawled over her skirt, leavin' his slime from side to side. And yet his slime didn't go beyond her skirt on to the ground anywhere. How do you suppose he managed that? Miracle - by a slug. I don't believe in miracles if I can help it. I object to your simple faith in the miraculous gasteropod. It's lazy."

"You go beyond me," said Bell uneasily. "You grasp the whole thing while I'm only getting bits. What do you make of it all?"

"Oh, my Bell!" Reggie reproached him. "Quite clear. When the slug walked over her, she wasn't lying where she was found."

"Is that all?" Bell grunted. "I dare say. She might have had her dose, and felt queer and lay down, and then moved on to die where we found her. Nothing queer in that, is there?"

"Yes. Several things very queer. It could be. Oxalic poisoning might lay her out and still let her drag herself somewhere else to die. Not likely she'd take care to bring her flask and her sandwiches with her. Still less likely she'd lie long enough for a slug to walk over her and then recover enough to move somewhere else - and choose to move into the wood, where she wouldn't be seen. Why should she? She'd try for help if she could try for anything. And, finally, most unlikely she'd find any place here with slugs about. Look at it; it's all arid and sandy and burnt up by the summer. No. Quite unconvincin' explanation. The useful slug got on to her somewhere else. The slug is decisive."

"Then you mean to say she was poisoned some other place, and brought here dead?" Bell frowned. "It's all very well. You make it sound reasonable. But would you like to try this slug argument on a jury? They'd never stand for it, if you ask me. It's all too clever."

"You think so?" Reggie murmured. "Well, well. Then it does give variety to the case. We haven't been very clever so far. However. Study to improve. There is further evidence. She'd been sick. Common symptom of oxalic poisoning. But she'd been sick on her underclothes and not on her outside clothes. That's very difficult. Think about it. Even juries can be made to think sometimes. Even coroners, which is very hard. Even judges. I've done it in my time, simple as I am. I might do it again. Yes, I might. With the aid of the active and intelligent police force. Come on."

"What do you want to do?"

"Oh, my Bell! I want to call on Mr. and Mrs. Brightman. We need their collaboration. We can't get on without it."

"All right. I don't mind trying 'em," Bell agreed gloomily. "We've got to find out all about the old woman somehow. We don't really know anything yet."

"I wouldn't say that. No," Reggie mumbled. "However. One moment."

They had come to the edge of the common by the hospital, where his car waited. He went' across to it and spoke to his chauffeur. "Just calmin' Sam," he apologised on his return. "He gets peevish when forgotten. Come on."

They arrived again at the little general shop. Its unshuttered window now enticed the public with a meagre array of canned goods and cartons which had been there some time. The door was shut but not fastened. Opening it rang a bell. They went in, and found the shop empty, and for a minute or two stood in a mixture of smells through which soap was dominant.

Mrs. Brightman came from the room behind, wiping red arms and hands on her apron. Her plump face, which was tired and sweating, quivered alarm at the sight of them. "Oh, it's you!"  she cried. "What is it? Is there anything?"

"Your children are doing well," said Reggie. "Thought I'd better let you know that."

She stared at him, and tears came into her eyes. "Praise God!" she gasped. "Thank you, sir, you're very kind."

"No. You don't have to thank me. I'm just doin' my job."

But again she thanked him, and went on nervously, "Have you heard anything of Mrs. Wiven?"

"I want to have a little talk about her. Is Mr. Brightman in?"

"No, he isn't, not just now. Have you got any news of her, sir?"

"Yes. There is some news. Sorry Mr. Brightman's out. Where's he gone?"

"Down to the yard, sir."

"Out at the back here?"

"No. No. Down at his own yard."

"Oh. He has a business of his own?"

"Yes, sir, a little business. Furniture dealing it is. Second - hand furniture."

"I see. Well, well. We could get one of the neighbours to run down and fetch him, what?" Reggie turned to Bell.

"That's the way," Bell nodded. "What's the address, ma'am?"

She swallowed. "It's just round the corner. Smith's Buildings. Anybody would tell you. But he might be out on a job, you know; I couldn't say."

Bell strode out, and the messenger he sent was one of his satellites.

"Well, while we're waitin', we might come into your nice little room," Reggie suggested. "There's one or two things you can tell me."

"Yes, sir, I'm sure, anything as I can, I'll be glad. Will you come through, please?" She lifted the flap of the counter for him, she opened the curtained glass door of the room behind. It was still in exact order, but she had to apologise for it. "I'm sorry we're all in a mess. I'm behindhand with my cleaning, having this dreadful trouble with the children and being so worried I can't get on. I don't half know what I'm doing, and then poor Mrs. Wiven being lost - -" She stopped, breathless. "What is it about Mrs. Wiven, sir? What have you heard?"

"Not good news," Reggie said. "Nobody will see Mrs. Wiven alive again."

The full face grew pale beneath its sweat, the eyes stood out. "She's dead! Oh, the poor soul! But how do you know? How was it?"

"She's been found dead on the common." Mrs. Brightman stared at him: her mouth came open and shook; she flung her apron over her head and bent and was convulsed with hysterical sobbing. "Fond of her, were you?" Reggie sympathised. A muffled voice informed him that she was a dear old lady - and so good to everybody.

"Was she? Yes. But I wanted to ask you about the children. What time did they go out yesterday?" Still sobbing under her apron, Mrs. Brightman seemed not to hear. "Yesterday morning," Reggie insisted. "You must remember. What time was it when Eddie and Bessie went out?"

After a moment the apron was pulled down from a swollen, tearful face. "What time?" she repeated looking at her lap and wiping her eyes. "I don't know exactly, sir. Just after breakfast. Might be somewheres about nine o'clock."

"Yes, it might be," Reggie murmured. "They were pulled out of the pond about ten."

"I suppose so," she whimpered. "What's it got to do with Mrs. Wiven?"

"You don't see any connection?"

She stared at him. "How could there be?"

The shop - door bell rang, and she started up to answer it. She found Bell in the shop. "Oh, have you found Mr. Brightman?" she cried. 

"No, not yet. Where's Mr. Fortune?"

Reggie called to him, "Come on. Bell," and she brought him into the back room and stood looking from one to the other. "So Mr. Brightman wasn't in his yard?"

"No, sir. Nobody there. At least, they couldn't make anybody hear."

"Well, well," Reggie murmured.

"But I told you he might have gone off on a job. He often has to go to price some stuff or make an offer or something."

"You did say so. Yes," Reggie murmured. "However. I was asking about the children. Before they went out yesterday Bessie got into trouble with Mrs. Wiven, didn't she?" The woman looked down and plucked at her apron.

"You didn't tell us that last night," Reggie said.

"I didn't want to. I didn't see as it mattered. And I didn't want to say anything against Bessie. She's my baby." Her eyes were streaming. "Don't you see?"

"Bessie told me," said Reggie.

"Bessie confessed! Oh, it's all too dreadful. The baby! I don't know why this was to come on us. I brought 'em up to be good, I have. And she was such a darling baby. But it's God's will."

"Yes. What did happen?" said Reggie.

"Mrs. Wiven was always hard on the children. She never had a child herself, poor thing. Bessie got into her room, and Mrs. Wiven caught her and said she was prying and stealing like Eddie. I don't know what Bessie was doing there. Children will do such, whatever you do. And there was Bessie crying and Eddie all wild. He does get so out of himself. I packed 'em off, and I told Mrs. Wiven it wasn't nothing to be so cross about, and she got quite nice again. She was always a dear with me and Brightman. A good woman at heart, sir, she was."

"And when did Mrs. Wiven go out?" said Reggie. "It must have been soon after. She liked her days on the common in summer, she did."

"Oh, yes. That's clear." Reggie stood up and looked out at the yard, where some washing was hung out to dry. "What was Mrs. Wiven wearing yesterday?"

"Let me see - -" Mrs. Brightman was surprised by the turn in the conversation. "I don't rightly remember - she had on her dark coat and skirt. She always liked to be nicely dressed when she went out." Under the frown of this mental effort swollen eyes blinked at him. "But you said she'd been found. You know what she had on."

"Yes. When she was on the common. Before she got there - what was she wearing?" Mrs. Brightman's mouth opened and shut. "I mean, when she caught Bessie in her room. What was she wearing then?"

"The same - she wouldn't have her coat on - I don't know as I remember - but the same - she knew she was going out - she'd dress for it - she wouldn't ever dress twice in a morning."

"Wouldn't she? She didn't have that overall on?" Reggie pointed to a dark garment hanging on the line in the yard which stretched from house to shed.

"No, she didn't, I'm sure. That was in the dirty clothes."

"But you had to wash it to - day. Well, well. Now we want to have a look at Mrs. Wiven's room."

"If you like. Of course, nothing's been done. It's all untidy." She led the way upstairs, lamenting that the house was all anyhow, she'd been so put about. But Mrs. Wiven's room was primly neat and as clean as the shining passage and stairs. The paint had been worn thin by much washing, the paper was so faded that its rosebud pattern merged into a uniform pinkish grey. An old fur rug by the bedside, a square of threadbare carpet under the rickety round table in the middle of the room, were the only coverings of the scoured floor. The table had one cane chair beside it, and there was a small basket chair by the empty grate - nothing else in the room but the iron bedstead and a combination of chest of drawers, dressing - table, and washstand, with its mirror all brown spots.

Mrs. Brightman passed round the room, pulling this and pushing that. "I haven't even dusted," she lamented.

"Is this her own furniture?" Reggie asked.

"No, sir, she hadn't anything. We had to furnish it for her."

"Quite poor, was she?"

"I don't really know how she managed. And, of course, we didn't ever press her; you couldn't. She had her savings, I suppose. She'd been in good service, by what she used to say."

"No relations?"

"No, sir. She was left quite alone. That was really why she came to us, she was that lonely. She'd say to me she did so want a home, till we took her. When she was feeling down, she used to cry and tell me she didn't know what would become of her. Of course, we wouldn't ever have let her want, poor dear. But it's my belief her bit of money was running out."

Reggie gazed about the room. On the walls were many cards with texts. "Mr. Brightman put up the good words for her," Mrs. Brightman explained, and gazed at one of the texts and cried.

"'In My Father's house are many mansions.'" Reggie read it out slowly, and again looked round the bare little room.

Mrs. Brightman sobbed. "Ah, she's gone there now. She's happy."

Bell was moving from one to other of the cupboards beside the grate. Nothing was in them but clothes. He went on to the dressing - table." She don't seem to have any papers. Only this." He lifted a cash - box, and money rattled in it.

"I couldn't say, I'm sure," Mrs. Brightman whimpered.

Reggie stood by the table. "Did she have her meals up here?" he asked.

Mrs. Brightman thought about that. "Mostly she didn't. She liked to sit down with us. She used to say it was more homely."

Reggie fingered the table - cloth, pulled it off, and looked at the cracked veneer beneath. He stooped, felt the strip of old carpet under the table, drew it back. On the boards beneath was a patch of damp.

Mrs. Brightman came nearer. "Well there!"  she said. "That comes of my not doing out the room. She must have had a accident with her slops and never told me. She always would do things for herself." Reggie did not answer. He wandered round the room, stopped by the window a moment, and turned to the door.

"I'm taking this cash - box, ma'am," said Bell.

"If you think right - " Mrs. Brightman drew back. "It's not for me to say - I don't mind, myself." She looked from one to the other. "Will that be all, then?"

"Nothing more here." Reggie opened the door. As they went downstairs, the shop bell rang again, and she hurried on to answer it. The two men returned to the room behind the shop.

"Poor old woman," Bell grunted. "You can see what sort of a life she was having - that mingy room and her money running out - I wouldn't wonder if she committed suicide."

"Wouldn't be wonderful. No," Reggie murmured. "Shut up."

From the shop came a man's voice, lazy and genial. "Good afternoon, mum. I want a bit o' salts o' lemon. About two penn'orth would do me. 'Ow do you sell it?"

There was a mutter from Mrs. Brightman. "We don't keep it."

"What? They told me I'd be sure to get it 'ere. Run out of it, 'ave you? Ain't that too bad!"

"We never did keep it," Mrs. Brightman said. "Whoever told you we did?"

"All right, all right. Keep your hair on, missus. Where can I get it?"

"How should I know? I don't rightly know what it is."

"Don't you? Sorry I spoke. Used for cleaning, you know."

Bell glowered at Reggie, for the humorous cockney voice was the voice of his chauffeur. But the cold severity of Reggie's round face gave no sign.

"We don't use it, nor we don't keep it, nor any chemist's stuff," Mrs. Brightman was answering.

"Oh, good day!" The bell rang again as the shop door closed.

Mrs. Brightman came back. "Running in and out of the shop all day with silly people," she panted. She looked from one to the other, questioning, afraid.

"I was wonderin'," Reggie murmured. "Did Mrs. Wiven have her meals with you yesterday - or in her room?"

"Down here." The swollen eyes looked at him and looked away. "She did usual, I told you. She liked to."

"And which was the last meal she ever had?"

Mrs. Brightman suppressed a cry. "You do say things! Breakfast was the last she had here. She took out a bit o' lunch and tea."

"Yes. When was that put ready?"

"I had it done first thing, knowing she meant to get out - and she always liked to start early. It was there on the sideboard waiting at breakfast."

"Then it was ready before the children went out? Before she had her quarrel with Bessie?"

Mrs. Brightman swallowed. "So it was."

"Oh. Thank you. Rather strong, the tea in her flask," Reggie mumbled.

"She always had it fairly strong. Couldn't be too strong for her. I'm just the same myself."

"Convenient," Reggie said. "Now you'll take me down into the cellar, Mrs. Brightman."

"What? "She drew back so hastily that she was brought up by the wall. "The cellar?" Her eyes seemed to stand out more than ever, so they stared at him, the whites of them more widely bloodshot. With an unsteady hand she thrust back the hair from her sweating brow. "The cellar? Why ever do you want to go there? There's nothing in the cellar."

"You think not? "Reggie smiled. "Come down and see."

She gave a moaning cry; she stumbled away to the door at the back, and opened it, and stood holding by the door - post, looking out to the paved yard.

From the shed in it appeared Brightman's bearded face. "Were you looking for me, dearie?" he asked, and brought his lank shape into sight, brushing it as it came.

She made a gesture to him; she went to meet him and muttered: "Matthew! They're asking me to take 'em down to the cellar."

"Well, to be sure!" Brightman gave Reggie and Bell a glance of melancholy, pitying surprise. "I don't see any reason in that." He held her up, he stroked her and gently remonstrated. "But there's no reason they shouldn't go to the cellar if they want to, Florrie. We ain't to stand in the way of anything as the police think right. We ain't got anything to hide, have we? Come along, dearie."

An inarticulate quavering sound came from her. "That's all right, my dearie, that's all right," Brightman soothed her.

"Is it? "Bell growled. "So you've been here all the time, Mr. Brightman. While she sent us to look for you down at your own place. Why didn't you show up before?"

"I've only just come in, sir," Brightman said quietly. "I came in by the back. I was just putting things to rights in the wash - house. The wife's been so pushed. I didn't know you gentlemen were here. You're searching all the premises, are you? I'm agreeable. I'm sure it's in order, if you say so. But I don't know what you're looking for."

"Mrs. Brightman will show us," said Reggie, and grasped her arm.

"Don't, don't," she wailed.

"You mustn't be foolish, dearie," said Brightman. "You know there's nothing in the cellar. Show the gentlemen if they want. It's all right. I'll go with you."

"Got a torch, Bell?" said Reggie.

"I have." Bell went back into the room. "And here's a lamp, too." He lit it.

Reggie drew the shaking woman through the room into the passage. "That's the door to your cellar. Open it. Come on." Bell held the lamp overhead behind them. Reggie led her stumbling down the stairs, and Brightman followed close.

A musty, dank smell came about them. The lamplight showed a large cellar of brick walls and an earth floor. There was in it a small heap of coal, some sacks and packing - cases and barrels, but most of the dim space was empty. The light glistened on damp.

"Clay soil," Reggie murmured, and smiled at Brightman. "Yes. That was indicated."

"I don't understand you, sir," said Brightman.

"No. You don't. Torch, Bell," He took it and flashed its beam about the cellar. "Oh, yes." He turned to Bell. With a finger he indicated the shining tracks of slugs. "You see?"

"I do," Bell muttered. Mrs. Brightman gave a choked, hysterical laugh.

Reggie moved to and fro. He stooped. He took out his pocket - book and from it a piece of paper, and with that scraped something from a barrel side, something from the clay floor, and sighed satisfaction. Standing up, he moved the ray of the torch from place to place, held it steady at last to make a circle of light on the ground beneath the steps. "There," he said, and Mrs. Brightman screamed. "Yes. I know. That's where you put her. Look, Bell." His finger pointed to a slug's trail which came into the circle of light, stopped, and went on again at another part of the circle. "It didn't jump. They don't."

He swung round upon Mrs. Brightman. He held out to her the piece of paper cupped in his hand. On it lay two yellow slugs. She flung herself back, crying loathing and fear.

"Really, gentlemen, really now," Brightman stammered. "This isn't right. This isn't proper. You've no call to frighten a poor woman so. Come away now, Florrie, dearie." He pulled at her.

"Where are you going?" Reggie murmured. She did not go. Her eyes were set on the two yellow slugs. "'Where their worm dieth not,'" Reggie said slowly. She broke out in screams of hysterical laughter; she tore herself from Brightman, and reeled and fell down writhing and yelling.

"So that is that, Mr. Brightman." Reggie turned to him.

"You're a wicked soul!" Brightman whined. "My poor dearie!" He fell on his knees by her; he began to pray forgiveness for her sins.

"My oath!" Bell muttered, and ran up the steps shouting to his men....

Some time afterwards the detective left to keep the little shop ushered Reggie out. On the other side of the street, aloof from the gaping, gossiping crowd, superior and placid, his chauffeur smoked a cigarette. It was thrown away; the chauffeur followed him, fell into step beside him. "Did I manage all right, sir? "The chauffeur invited praise.

"You did. Very neat. Very effective. As you know. Side, Sam, side. We are good at destruction. Efficient incinerators. Humble function. Other justification for existence, doubtful. However. Study to improve. What we want now is a toyshop."

"Sir? "Sam was puzzled.

"I said a toyshop," Reggie complained. "A good toyshop. Quick." . . .

The last of the sunlight was shining into the little room at the hospital where Eddie Hill lay. Upon his bed stood part of a bridge built of strips of metal bolted together, a bridge of grand design. He and Reggie were working on the central span.

There was a tap at the door, a murmur from Reggie, and the nurse brought in Bell. He stood looking at Reggie with reproachful surprise. "So that's what you're doing," he protested.

"Yes. Something useful at last." Reggie sighed. "Well, well. We'll have to call this a day, young man. You've done enough. Mustn't get yourself tired."

"I'm not tired," the boy protested eagerly. "I'm not, really."

"No. Of course not. Ever so much better. But there's another day to - morrow. And you have a big job. Must keep fit to go on with it."

"All right." The boy lay back, looked at his bridge, looked wistfully at Reggie. "I can keep this here, can I, sir?"

"Rather. On the table by the bed. So it'll be there when you wake. Nice, making things, isn't it? Yes. You're going to make a lot now. Good - bye. Jolly, to - morrow, what? Good - bye." He went out with Bell.

"Now what's the matter with you?" he complained.

"Well, I had to have a word with you, sir. This isn't going to be so easy. I thought I'd get you at the mortuary doing the post - mortem."

"Minor matter. Simple matter. Only the dead buryin' their dead. The boy was urgent. Matter of savin' life there."

"I'm not saying you're not right," said Bell wearily. "But it is a tangle of a case. The divisional surgeon reports Mrs. Brightman's mad. Clean off her head."

"Yes. I agree. What about it?"

"Seemed to me you pretty well drove her to it. Those slugs - oh, my Lord."

"Got you, did it? It rather got me. I'd heard Eddie talk of 'the worm that dieth not.' I should say he'd seen that cellar. Dreamed of it. However. I didn't drive the woman mad. She'd been mad some time. Not medically mad. Not legally mad. But morally. That was the work of our Mr. Brightman. I only clarified the situation. He almost sent the boy the same way. That's been stopped. That isn't going to happen now. That's the main issue. And we win on it. Not too bad. But rather a grim day. Virtue has gone out of me. My dear chap!" He took Bell's arm affectionately. "You're tucked up too."

"I don't mind owning I've had enough," said Bell. "This sort of thing tells me I'm not as young as I was. And it's all a tangle yet."

"My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap!" Reggie murmured. "Empty, aren't we? Come on. Come home with me."

While Sam drove them back, he declined to talk. He stretched in the corner of the car and closed his eyes, and bade Bell do the same. While they ate a devilled sole and an entrecote Elise, he discussed the qualities of Elise, his cook, and of the Romance which they drank, and argued bitterly (though he shared it) that the cheese offered in deference to Bell's taste, a bland Stilton, was an insult to the raspberries, the dish of which he emptied.

But when they were established in big chairs in his library, with brandy for Bell and seltzer for himself, and both pipes were lit, "Did you say a tangle?" he murmured. "Oh, no. Not now. The rest is only routine for your young men and the lawyers. It'll work out quite easy. You can see it all. When Mrs. Brightman was left a widow with her little shop, the pious Brightman pounced on her and mastered her. The little shop was only a little living. Brightman wanted more. Children were kept very short - they might fade out, they might go to the bad - either way the devout Brightman would be relieved of their keep; and meanwhile it was pleasant making 'em believe they were wicked. Old Mrs. Wiven was brought in as a lodger - not out of charity, as the wretched Mrs. Brightman was trained to say; she must have had a bit of money. Your young men will be able to trace that. And they'll find Brightman got it out of her and used it to set up his second - hand furniture business. Heard of that sort of thing before, what?"

"I should say I have," Bell grunted. "My Lord, how often! The widow that falls for a pious brute - the old woman lodger with a bit of money."

"Oh, yes. Dreary old game. And then the abnormal variations began. Pious bullyin' and starvin' didn't turn the boy into a criminal idiot. He has a mind. He has an imagination, poor child. Mrs. Wiven didn't give herself up to Brightman like his miserable wife. She had a temper. So the old game went wrong. Mrs. Wiven took to fussin' about her money. As indicated by Bessie. Mrs. Wiven was going to be very awkward. Your young men will have to look about and get evidence she'd been grumbling. Quite easy. Lots of gossip will be goin'. Some of it true. Most of it useful at the trial. Givin' the atmosphere."

Bell frowned. "Fighting with the gloves off, aren't you?"

"Oh, no. No. Quite fair. We have to fight the case without the children. I'm not going to have Eddie put in the witness - box, to be tortured about his mad mother helpin' murder. That might break him up for ever. And he's been tortured enough. The brute Brightman isn't going to hurt him any more. The children won't be givin' evidence. I'll get half the College of Physicians to certify they're not fit, if they're asked for. But that's not goin' to leave Mr. Brightman any way out. Now then. Things bein' thus, Brightman had his motive to murder Mrs. Wiven. If he didn't stop her mouth she'd have him in gaol. Being a clever fellow, he saw that Eddie's record of stealin' would be very useful. By the way - notice that queer little incident, Bessie bein' caught pilferin' by Mrs. Wiven yesterday morning? Brightman may have fixed that up for another black mark against the children. I wonder. But it didn't go right. He must have had a jolt when Mrs. Wiven called out they were all thieves. Kind of compellin' immediate action. His plan would have been all ready, of course - salts of lemon in her favourite strong tea; a man don't think of an efficient way of poisonin' all of a sudden. And then the incalculable Eddie intervened. Reaction of Mrs. Wiven's explosion on him, a sort of divine command to save his sister from hell by seeing she died innocent. When Brightman had the news of that effort at drowning, he took it as a godsend. Hear him thanking heaven? Boy who was wicked enough to kill a little sister was wicked enough for anything. Mr. Brightman read his title clear to mansions in the skies. And Mrs. Wiven was promptly given her cup o' tea. She was sick in her room, sick on her overall and on her underclothes. Evidence for all that conclusive. Remember the damp floor. I should say Mrs. Brightman had another swab at that to - day. She has a craze about cleaning. We saw that. Feels she never can get clean, poor wretch. Well. Mrs. Wiven died. Oxalic poisoning generally kills quick. I hope it did. They hid the body in the cellar. Plan was clever. Take the body out in the quiet of the night and dump it on the common with a flask of poisoned tea - put her bag in Eddie's den. All clear for the intelligent police. Devil of a boy poisoned the old lady to steal her money, and was drownin' his little sister so she shouldn't tell on him. That's what you thought, wasn't it? Yes. Well - made plan. It stood up against us last night."

"You did think there was something queer," Bell said.

"I did," Reggie sighed. "Physical smell. Damp musty smell. Probably the cellar. And the Brightmans didn't smell nice spiritually. However. Lack of confidence in myself. And I have no imagination. I ought to have waited and watched. My error. My grave error. Well. It was a clever plan. But Brightman was rather bustled. That may account for his errors. Fatal errors. Omission to remove the soiled underclothes when the messed - up overall was taken off. Failure to allow for the habits of Umax flaw."

"What's that?" said Bell.

"Official name of yellow slug - cellar slug. The final, damning evidence. I never found any reason for the existence of slugs before. However. To round it off - when you look into Mr. Brightman's furniture business, you'll find that he has a van, or the use of one. You must prove it was used last night. That's all. Quite simple now. But a wearin' case." He gazed at Bell with large, solemn eyes. "His wife! He'd schooled her thorough. Ever hear anything more miserably appealing than her on her dear babies and poor old Mrs. Wiven? Not often. No. Took a lot of breakin' down."

"Ah. You were fierce," Bell muttered.

"Oh, no. No." Reggie sighed. "I was bein' merciful. She couldn't be saved. My job was to save the children. And she - if that brute hadn't twisted her, she'd have done anything to save 'em too. She'd been a decent soul once. No. She won't be giving evidence against me."

"Why, how should she?" Bell gaped.

"I was thinkin' of the day of judgment," Reggie murmured. "Well, well. Post - mortem in the morning. Simple straight job. Then I'll be at the hospital if you want me. Have to finish Eddie's bridge. And then we're going to build a ship. He's keen on ships."