Some days later Inspector French was once again sent for by his chief. The great man seemed in an irritable frame of mind, and he began to speak before the other had well entered the room.

“See here, French,” he greeted him; “here’s a fresh development in that confounded Gething case. Read that.”

French stepped up to the desk and took the postal telegraph sheets his superior held out. They bore a message from the Chief of Police at the Hook, which had been sent out at 8.27 that morning.

French was considerably surprised by the news. Though he had never felt actually cordial towards the old gentleman, he had respected him for his kindly conduct towards his subordinates and for the sportsmanlike way in which he had taken his loss. But it was evident the man had been hit harder than he had shown. French recalled the details of their last interview, the merchant’s drawn, anxious face, his weary air, his almost despairing words, “I’m getting to the end of my tether. I see ruin staring me in the face.” At the time, French had not taken the complaint as seriously as it had now proved to warrant. Mr. Duke was evidently in difficulties which nothing less than the return of the stolen diamonds would solve, and French did not see how he could have done more to achieve that end than he already had.

“Unexpected, that, isn’t it?” the chief remarked, “though I don’t suppose it will really affect the case.”

“No, sir, I don’t think it will,” French returned, answering the last part of the sentence first. “But I don’t know that it’s so unexpected after all. Leastwise it is and it isn’t. I mean, I’m surprised that a man of Mr. Duke’s character should take that way of escaping from his difficulties, but I knew he was in difficulties.”

The chief raised his eyebrows.

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“The truth is, sir, that I didn’t take what the old gentleman said seriously enough. I met him last week in Piccadilly, and he appeared anxious to hear my news and asked me to have a cup of coffee with him. He was pretty down in the mouth then, saying he was getting short of cash, and near the end of his tether, and so on. He was looking pretty old, too, old and worn.”

The chief grunted.

“As I say, I don’t suppose it will make any difference,” he declared. “But there’s that girl to consider. I think you’d better go along and see her. After all, she should have some warning before she sees it in the paper.”

“That’s so, sir. Then I shall go now.”

It was a job he hated, but there was no help for it, and having ’phoned to Miss Duke that he was going out on urgent business, he set off.

That his message had alarmed her was obvious. She met him with pale cheeks and anxious eyes, and once again the thought occurred to him that she knew something that she was holding back, and had feared her secret was the subject of his call.

But his news, when haltingly and with some awkwardness he had succeeded in conveying it, took her utterly by surprise. It was evidently quite different to what she had expected to hear, and the poor girl was terribly overcome. She gave a low cry, and sat gazing at him with eyes dilated with horror. The shock seemed utterly to have benumbed her, and yet French could not help thinking that her emotion contained also an element of relief. He was profoundly sorry for her, but his suspicion remained.

Presently she began to speak. Her voice was dull and toneless as she explained that she had known her father was lately terribly worried and unhappy, and that though he had made light of it, he had told her enough to show that financial trouble was at the root of his distress. He had said to her on one occasion that if only the insurance people would pay, things would be easier, but he had spoken cheerily, and she had had no idea things were so serious.

“When shall we get details?” she asked presently. “Should I go over to the Hook?”

“I fear there would be little use in that,” French answered, “and it would certainly be painful for you. Of course, I don’t wish to dissuade you; if you think it would be an ease to your mind you should go. But in any case would it not be better to wait until you read your letter? Besides, the report from the Dutch police may show that a visit is unnecessary.”

She thought for some seconds, then agreed. French explained that the documents might be expected by the first post on the following morning, and promised to take them out to Hampstead immediately.

“In the meantime, Miss Duke,” he went on, with real kindness in his tone, “it’s not my business, of course, but would you not be better to have some one in the house with you—some lady friend, an aunt, a cousin? Or Mr. Harrington? I mean, is there anything that I can do to take a message or send a wire?”

Her eyes filled with tears as she thanked him and asked him to telephone to the office for Harrington. It appeared that she had no near relations. She was an only child, and her father was now dead, and French knew that for many years her poor mother had been worse than dead, dragging out a colourless existence in a mental hospital at Otterham.

When he had put through his call, French took his leave. There was nothing more to be done until the details of the tragedy were received.

As he sat in the tube on his way back to the Yard, he was conscious of some misgivings as to the way in which he had handled the interview. He had done his best to make it easy for Miss Duke. This was, of course, the natural and the kindly thing to do, but was it his duty? Should he not rather have used the news as a lever to startle some admission out of the girl which would have given him the information which he suspected she possessed. If he had allowed a promising clue to slip he had neglected his duty and injured himself. And his chief was no fool. He would unfailingly see the possibility and ask what use had been made of it.

But though French felt thus a trifle uneasy, he could not bring himself to regret his course of action. He was not only a man of natural kindliness of heart, but he had the gift of imagination. He saw himself in the girl’s place, and was glad he had not added to her trouble.

Next morning the report came from Holland, together with Miss Duke’s letter. The former was a long document giving very complete details of the tragedy. The essential portions of it read:

When Inspector French had read the report he turned his attention to the letter. The envelope was square and of good quality paper, and the address was in Mr. Duke’s handwriting. French sat turning it over. He wondered. . . . He would rather not, but on second thoughts he believed he ought. . . . There might be something that would give him a hint. . . .

He took a Gillette razor blade from his drawer, and inserting it beneath the gummed flap, worked it this way and that. In a moment the envelope was open, and he drew out a letter and cautiously unfolded it. It also was written by Mr. Duke, and read:

Inspector French had a slight feeling of shame as he refolded this unhappy epistle and, working deftly and mechanically, regummed the flap of the envelope and stuck it down. He was disappointed to find that the letter contained no helpful information, and with a sigh he set out to bear his news to Hampstead.

Miss Duke and Harrington were anxiously awaiting him, and he handed the former both the report and the letter, saying he would wait if she cared to read them in another room. She remained calm and collected, but the pallor of her face and dark rings beneath her eyes indicated the tension under which she was labouring. She withdrew with a word of apology, Harrington accompanying her, and French sat thinking, wondering if a direct question, unexpectedly sprung upon them, might surprise one or other into some unguarded admission which would give him a hint of the secret which he believed they held.

But when they returned some half-hour later, Miss Duke momentarily disarmed him by holding out her letter.

“You had better read that,” she said. “You may want to see it and there is nothing private in it.”

French was momentarily tempted to confess his action with the safety razor, but he saw that he must not divulge police methods, and taking the letter, he reread it and handed it back with a word of thanks.

“Did your father say he was going to Holland?” he inquired.

“Yes, it was one of his usual trips to the Amsterdam office. He expected to be away for two or three days. But I now think he had made up his mind—about—this—before he left. He said good-bye——”

She paused, her lip trembling, then suddenly flinging herself down on the sofa, burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. “Oh!” she cried brokenly, “if only it hadn’t taken place at sea! I can’t bear to think of him—out there——” She sobbed as if her heart would break.

French saw that she had settled the matter of his procedure. In her present condition he could not probe her with subtle questions. There was nothing for it but to take his departure, and this he did as unobtrusively as he could, leaving her in Harrington’s charge.

He wondered who would take Mr. Duke’s place in the firm, with whom he would have to deal if his efforts to trace the missing diamonds became successful, and determined to call at the office and make some inquiries. He therefore took the tube to the City, and some half-hour later was mounting the steps of the Hatton Garden establishment.

Mr. Schoofs had already taken charge, and saw his visitor in his late principal’s office. The business, he believed, would belong to Miss Duke, though he had no actual reason to say so. However, Messrs. Tinsley & Sharpe of Lincoln’s Inn were the deceased gentleman’s solicitors, and no doubt fuller information could be obtained from them.

“I came over last night, and am just carrying on in the meantime,” he explained, “and you can deal either with me or with Mr. Tinsley.”

“Thanks,” French answered. “Then I shall deal with you.”

“We’re really closed for business to-day, you understand,” went on Mr. Schoofs. “I’m merely taking the opportunity to go through Mr. Duke’s papers and see how things stand. If only Harrington had had his partnership, it would be his job, but as it is, everything devolves on me.”

French, having replied suitably, made a move to go, but he lingered and went on:

“Unexpected, the old man going off like that, wasn’t it? I shouldn’t have thought he was that kind at all.”

Mr. Schoofs made a gesture of commiseration.

“Nor was he,” he agreed, “but it’s not so surprising after all. You possibly didn’t see him during the last week or two, but I can tell you, he was in a bad way; very depressed, and getting worse every day. I don’t think he was well—I mean in health, and I think it reacted on his mind. He was worrying over the loss of his money.”

“Was he really bankrupt?”

Mr. Schoofs had not the figures, but he very gravely feared it. It was a bad lookout for his daughter. Indeed, it was a bad lookout for them all. It was hard lines on elderly men when they had to give up their jobs and start life again. It was that damned war, responsible for this as well as most of the troubles of the times. It had probably made a difference to the Inspector also?

“Lost my eldest,” said French gruffly, and turned the conversation back to the late principal. He was, it seemed, going to Amsterdam on routine business. He had no stones with him, and there was therefore nothing to suggest that his disappearance could have been due to other than suicide.

French had not really doubted the conclusions of the Dutch police, but the death by violence of a man bearing a packet of great value is always suspicious, and he was glad to be sure such had not obtained in this instance.

His next visit was to Messrs. Tinsley & Sharpe, the Lincoln’s Inn solicitors. Mr. Tinsley was the sole surviving partner, and to him French was presently admitted.

It appeared that Mr. Duke had left everything to Sylvia, “Though, poor girl,” Mr. Tinsley added, “by all accounts that won’t be much.” Mr. Tinsley was executor, therefore any further dealings French might have about the robbery would be with him. Mr. Duke and he had been old friends; in fact, he had been Mr. Duke’s best man, he didn’t like to think how many years previously. He had been shocked by the change in the old gentleman when three days prior to his death he had called to see him. He seemed ill and depressed, and had said, “I’m not feeling well, Tinsley. It’s my heart, I’m afraid, and this confounded worry about money matters,” and had gone on to obtain the solicitor’s promise to look after Sylvia “if anything happened.”

“In the light of what has since taken place,” Mr. Tinsley concluded, “I am afraid he had made up his mind then that suicide was the easiest way out, though I was terribly surprised and shocked when I heard of it.”

“I am sure of that, sir,” French answered as he rose to go. “Then if any further developments occur about the robbery, I shall communicate with you.”

He returned to the Yard, made his report, and when he had attended to a number of routine matters, found it was time to knock off work for the day.

It was one of Inspector French’s most constant grumbles that a man in his position was never off duty. He might come home after a hard day’s work looking forward to a long, lazy, delightful evening with a pipe and a book, and before he had finished supper some development at headquarters might upset all his plans and drag him off forthwith to do battle with the enemies of his country’s laws. Not for him was the eight-hour day, overtime at high rates, “on call” or country allowances, expenses. . . . His portion was to get his work done, or take the consequences in lack of promotion or even loss of such position as he held.

“And no thanks for what you carry off either,” he would complain, “though if you make a slip you hear about it before you’re an hour older.” But his eye would twinkle as he said it, and most of his friends knew that Mr. Inspector French was making an exceedingly good thing out of his job, and was, moreover, destined by his superiors for even greater and more remunerative responsibilities in the early future.

But on this evening his grouse was illustrated, if not justified. Scarcely had he sat down to his meal when a ring came to the door, and he was told that Constable Caldwell wished to speak to him.

“Let him wait,” Mrs. French answered before her better half could speak. “Show him into the sitting-room, Eliza, and give him the evening paper.”

French half rose, then sank back into his seat.

“Ask him if it’s urgent,” he called after the retreating girl, partly from genuine curiosity, and partly to preserve the fiction that he was master of his own movements in his own house.

“It’s not so urgent as your supper. Just let him wait,” Mrs. French repeated inexorably. “What difference will a minute or two make anyway?”

Her view, it soon appeared, was upheld by the constable himself.

“He says it’s not urgent,” Eliza corroborated, reappearing at the door. “He can wait till you’re ready.”

“Very well. Let him wait,” French repeated, relieved that the incident had ended so satisfactorily, and for another fifteen minutes he continued steadily fortifying the inner man. Then taking out his pipe, he joined his visitor.

“ ’Evening, Caldwell. What’s wrong now?”

Caldwell, a tall, heavy-looking man of middle age, rose clumsily to his feet and saluted.

“It’s that there circular of yours, sir,” he explained. “I’ve found the woman.”

“The deuce you have!” French cried, pausing in the act of filling his pipe and immediately keenly interested. “Who is she?”

Caldwell drew his notebook from his pocket, and slowly turned the well-thumbed pages. His deliberation irritated his quicker-witted superior.

“Get along, Caldwell,” French grumbled. “Can’t you remember that much without your blessed book?”

“Yes, sir,” the man answered. “Here it is.” He read from the book. “Her name is Mrs. Henry Vane, and she lives in a small detached house in St. John’s Wood Road; Crewe Lodge is the name.”

“Good!” French said heartily. “I suppose you’re sure about it?”

“I think so, sir. I showed the photograph to three different parties, and they all said it was her.”

This sounded promising, particularly as French remembered that Dowds, the ex-doorkeeper at the Comedy, had stated that Miss Winter’s admirer was named Vane. He invited the constable to sit down and let him hear the details, offering him at the same time a fill of tobacco.

Constable Caldwell subsided gingerly into a chair as he took the proffered pouch.

“Thank you, sir, I don’t mind if I do.” He slowly filled and lighted his pipe, ramming down the tobacco with an enormous thumb. “It was this way, sir. I had that there circular of yours with the woman’s photo in my pocket when I went off duty early this afternoon. On my way home I happened to meet a friend, a young lady, and I turned and walked with her. For want of something to say, so to speak, I showed her the photo, not expecting anything to come of it, you understand. Well, the moment she looked at it, ‘I know that there woman,’ she said. ‘You what?’ I said. ‘You know her? Who is she, then?’ I said. ‘She’s a woman that comes into the shop sometimes,’ she said, ‘but I don’t just remember her name, though I have heard it,’ she said. ‘I should say the young lady, her I was speaking to, worked in a drapery shop until a couple of weeks ago, though she’s out of a job at the moment. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’d like to know her name. Can’t you remember it?’ ‘No,’ she said, she couldn’t remember it. She’d only heard it once, and hadn’t paid much attention to it.”

“Yes?” French murmured encouragingly as the constable showed signs of coming to an end.

“I said that if she couldn’t remember, that maybe some of the other young ladies might know it. She wasn’t having any at first, for I had promised to take her to tea and on to the pictures, and she was set on going. But when she saw I was in earnest, she gave in, and we went round to the shop she used to work in. After asking three or four of the girls, we found one that remembered the woman all right. ‘That’s Mrs. Vane,’ she said. ‘She lives up there in St. John’s Wood; Crewe Lodge is the name. I’ve made up her parcels often enough to know.’ ”

“Good,” French approved once more in his hearty voice.

“I thought I had maybe better make sure about it,” went on the constable in his slow, heavy way, “so I asked Miss Swann—that was the young lady that I was with—to walk round that way with me. I found the house near the Baker Street end, a small place and very shut in. I didn’t want to go up and make inquiries, so I asked Miss Swann if she’d go next door and ask if Mrs. Vane was in. She went and asked, and they told her to go next door; that was to Crewe Lodge. So when I saw it was all right, I put off going to the pictures for this evening and came straight here to tell you.”

French beamed on him.

“You’ve done well, Constable,” he declared. “In fact, I couldn’t have done it better myself. I shall see that you don’t lose by it. Take another fill of tobacco while I get ready, and then call a taxi and we’ll go right out now.”

He rang up Scotland Yard, asking for certain arrangements to be made, with the result that by the time he and Constable Caldwell reached the great building, two plain clothes men were waiting for them, one of whom handed French a small handbag and a warrant for the arrest of Mrs. Vane, alias Mrs. Ward, alias Mrs. Root of Pittsburg, U. S. A. Then the four officers squeezing into the taxi, they set off for St. John’s Wood Road.

Big Ben was striking half-past nine as they turned into Whitehall. The night was fine, but there was no moon, and outside the radius of the street lamps it was pitchy dark. The four men sat in silence after French had in a few words explained their errand to the newcomers. He and Caldwell were both in a state of suppressed excitement, French owing to the hope of an early solution of his difficulties, the constable to the possibilities of promotion which a successful issue to the expedition might involve. The other two looked upon the matter as a mere extra job of work, and showed a lamentable lack of interest in the proceedings.

They pulled up at St. John’s Wood Road, and dismissing the taxi, followed Constable Caldwell to the gate of a carriage drive which there pierced the high stone wall separating the houses from the street. On the upper bar of the gate were the words, “Crewe Lodge.” To the right hand was a wicket gate, but both it and the larger one were closed. Inside the wall was a thick belt of trees through which the drive curved back, and, lit up through the interstices of the branches by the street lamps, the walls and gable of a small house showed dimly beyond. No light was visible from the windows, and, after a moment’s hesitation, French opened the wicket gate and all four entered.

“Wait here among the trees, Pye and Frankland,” he whispered. “Caldwell, you come on with me.”

The drive was short, not more than forty yards long, and the complete outline of the house was speedily revealed. It seemed even smaller than the first glance had shown, but was charmingly designed, with a broken-up roof, large bow windows, and a tiny loggia into which opened a glass panelled door. To be so near the centre of a great city, it was extraordinarily secluded, the trees and wall, together with some clumps of evergreen shrubs, cutting off all view of the road and the neighbouring houses.

The front of the house was in complete darkness, and instinctively treading stealthily, the two men moved round to the side. Here also there was no light, and they pushed slowly on until they had completed the circuit and once more reached the front door.

“Looks as if the place is empty,” French whispered as he pressed the electric bell.

There was no response to his repeated rings. The house remained dark and silent. French turned again to the constable.

“Call up those other two men,” he ordered, and soon Pye was posted at the corner between the front and side, and Frankland at that diagonally opposite, with orders to keep out of sight and to allow any one who came to enter, but no one to leave the building.

Electric torch in hand, French then began a guarded survey of the doors and windows. Finally fixing on the door opening on the loggia, he made Caldwell hold the light while, first with a bunch of skeleton keys, and then with a bit of wire, he operated on the lock. For several minutes he worked, but at last with a snap the bolt shot back, and turning the handle, the two men cautiously entered the room and closed the door behind them.

They found themselves in a small, expensively-furnished sitting-room, evidently a lady’s. It was fitted up in a somewhat flamboyant and pretentious manner, as if costliness rather than good taste had been the chief consideration in its furnishing. It was unoccupied, but looked as if it had been recently used, there being ashes in the grate and books lying about, one of which lay open face downwards on a chair. On an occasional table stood an afternoon tea equipage with one used cup.

French did not remain to make any closer examination, but passed on to a tiny hall, off which opened three other rooms, and from which the staircase led to the first floor. Beneath the stairs was a row of clothes-hooks on which were hanging a man’s garments, a couple of hats and coats, and a waterproof.

Rapidly he glanced into the other rooms. The first was a smoking-room, a man’s room, furnished with dark-coloured, leather upholstery, and walls panelled in dark oak. Next door was a dining-room, also small, but containing a quantity of valuable silver. The fourth door led to the kitchen, scullery, pantry, and yard. Here also there were evidences of recent occupation in the general untidiness, as well as in the food which these places contained.

Satisfied that no one was concealed on the ground floor, French led the way upstairs. In the largest bedroom, evidently that of the mistress of the house, there was a scene almost of confusion. Drawers and wardrobe lay open, their contents tumbled and tossed, while the floor was littered with dresses, shoes, and other dainty articles of feminine apparel. French swore beneath his breath when he saw the mess. Things were beginning to look uncommonly like as if the bird had flown. However, it was possible that some one might arrive at any minute, and he hurriedly continued his search.

Next door was a man’s dressing-room and bedroom. Here there was not the same litter, nor was the unoccupied bedroom adjoining other than tidy, but in the maids’ room, which he next entered, it was evident there had been a recent clearing out. Here the wardrobe drawers were pulled out and the door of a hanging press in the wall was standing open. Papers and a few obviously worn-out garments littered the floor. But the room differed from Madame’s in that everything of value had been taken.

French swore again. There seemed no doubt that he was late. Mrs. X, alias Mrs. Vane, had taken fright and fled. If so, what hint, he wondered, had she received of her danger?

He stood for a moment in the disordered room, thinking. Under these new circumstances, what was his proper course?

First, it was obvious that he must make absolutely sure that this Mrs. Vane was really the woman he sought. Next, he must learn if she had really gone, and, if so, why, and, if possible, where. If her departure was a flight, he must find out how or by whom she had been warned. Lastly, he must follow her to her hiding-place and arrest her.

But he must not end with Mrs. Vane. Her husband must also be found. If she was Mrs. X, the receiver of the stolen diamonds, possibly the murderer of old Gething, Mr. Vane must be in it, too. It was inconceivable that he could have avoided becoming involved.

His first job must therefore be to make all the inquiries he could as to the mysterious occupants of Crewe Lodge. There were several obvious lines of research. First there was the house itself. People left the impress of their personalities on the houses they inhabited, and a careful search of this one must yield considerable information as to the pair. Next there were the servants. If they could be found, their testimony might prove invaluable. From the neighbours and local tradesmen and dealers he did not expect so much, but among them all some useful hints would surely be gleaned. Lastly, there were the house agents. They might or might not be able to help.

It was by this time nearly eleven, but he decided that his obvious duty was then and there to begin the search of the house, even if it meant an all-night job. He therefore called in Pye and Frankland, who were experienced in such work, leaving Constable Caldwell to patrol the grounds.

Then commenced an investigation of the most meticulous and thorough description. Taking the house room by room, the three men went over with the utmost care every piece of furniture, every book, every paper, every article of clothing. Hour after hour the search proceeded in spite of a growing weariness and hunger, and it was not until half-past six on the following morning that it was complete. Then in the growing daylight the three Yard men slipped out one by one on to the road, and joining forces round the corner, walked to the nearest tube station, and went to their several houses for breakfast. French rang up the Yard from the first exchange they came to, and arranged for a man to be sent to relieve Caldwell, who had been left in charge.

As French smoked his after-breakfast pipe before returning to the Yard, he jotted down in his notebook a list of the points which had struck him during the search. There was nothing that led him to either Mr. or Mrs. Vane, but there was a certain amount that was suggestive.

In the first place, it seemed evident that the departure of the lady had been sudden and unexpected. There was the evidence of the disordered bedrooms, of the used-looking sitting-room with the book evidently laid down where it could be picked up again without losing the place, of the ashes in the sitting-room fireplace and range, the used tea tray, and of the kitchen. There it appeared that cooking had been just about to begin, for a number of saucepans were on the range, and various kinds of food lay on the table as if ready for the saucepans. There was a good deal of food of various kinds about the kitchen and larder, and some wine and whisky in the dining-room sideboard. On the other hand, there was no evidence of any hurried departure on the part of the master of the house.

The date of the departure French thought he could roughly fix from the condition of the food. The milk, of which there was a bowl and two jugs, was sour, but not thick. Some fresh meat hanging in the larder was good. The bread was rather dry and hard. Some lettuces lying on a shelf in the scullery had gone limp. But some bunches of chrysanthemums standing in water in the sitting-room, were quite fresh.

On the whole, he thought the evidence pointed to a flight some four days earlier, and this view was supported by another piece of evidence on which he had come.

In the letter box at the back of the hall door he had found a letter addressed “Mrs. Vane, Crewe Lodge, St. John’s Wood Road.” The postmark showed that it had been posted in London on the 3rd. It had, therefore, been delivered on the evening of the 3rd or morning of the 4th. But this was the 8th. Therefore the lady had gone at least four days earlier.

The letter itself had considerably intrigued him. It was simply a list of certain sales and purchases of stock, covering a large number of transactions, and running into some thousands of pounds in value. The items were not dated, and there was no accompanying letter nor any intimation of the sender. It was clear that some one was engaged in complicated financial operations, but there was nothing to indicate his or her identity.

That the Vanes were at least comfortably off seemed certain from the general appointments of the house. The furniture and fittings were heavy and expensive. The sitting-room was small, as has been stated, but French reckoned that the carpet would not have been bought for less than £120. Madame’s dresses were of rich silks, and while no actual jewellery had been left behind, there were costly ornaments and personal knick-knacks. Moreover, the half-empty box of cigars in the smoking-room contained Corona Coronas. There was, however, no garage and no car, but it was obvious that a car might have been kept at some neighbouring establishment. Altogether it looked as if the couple had been living at the rate of two or three thousand a year. But this was a matter that could easily be tested, as the name of Mrs. Vane’s bank was among her papers.

One other point struck the Inspector as curious. Neither the master nor the mistress of the house seemed to have literary tastes. There was a number of well-bound “standard works” in a bookcase in the smoking-room, but it was evident from their condition that they were there purely as part of the decorative scheme. Of actually read books in the smoking-room there were none. In the sitting-room were a number of the lighter type of novels, together with a number in French and Spanish with extremely lurid and compromising jackets. But among these, as out of place as an Elijah at a feast of Baal, lay a new copy of The Concise Oxford Dictionary.

There were several old bills in Madame’s inlaid davenport, but save for the names of firms with whom the lady had recently been dealing, French had learned nothing from them. In the sitting-room also was an excellent cabinet photograph of a lady who seemed to him the original of Mrs. Root’s steamer snapshot, and this he had slipped into his jacket pocket.

Having completed his notes, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe and set out upon the business of the day. Returning to St. John’s Wood Road, he interviewed Esler, the constable who had been sent to relieve Caldwell, and learned that no one had as yet approached the house. Then he began to call at the adjoining houses and nearer shops. At each he stated that he was looking for Mrs. Vane, but that her house was shut up, and asked if any one could tell him how he might find her.

Aware that in a great city neighbours might live beside each other for years without ever meeting, he did not hope for much result, and at the first two houses at which he called he did not get any. But at the third he had an unexpected stroke of luck. The maid who opened the door seemed to know something about the Vane household. But she was suspicious, and on French’s putting his usual questions, showed evident unwillingness to give away information. Keeping any suggestion of eagerness out of his manner, French went on conversationally:

“I wanted to see Mrs. Vane about a question of the ownership of a field in the country near Canterbury, where she used to live. I represent Messrs. Hill & Lewesham, the solicitors of Lincoln’s Inn, and we want some information about the boundaries of her father’s place. It’s not exactly important, but it would be worth five shillings to me to get in touch with her, and if you could see your way to help me, you’d have very fairly earned it.”

The girl seemed impressed. She glanced back into the hall, came out into the porch, and drawing the door to after her, spoke rather hurriedly.

“I don’t know much about it,” she explained, “but I’ll tell you what I can,” and she went on to say that on the previous Friday, that was five days earlier, Mrs. Vane had got a cable that her husband in New York had met with a serious accident and was dying, and for her to go at once. She had packed hurriedly and driven off to catch the boat train for Liverpool, closing the house. As to Mr. Vane himself, the girl knew nothing. She seemed to consider him a negligible part of the establishment. He was but seldom at home, and even then was rarely to be seen.

French asked her how it came that she knew so much about the family, and she explained that she and Mrs. Vane’s housemaid had become acquainted over her young gentleman’s model aeroplane, which had flown over the dividing wall into the grounds of Crewe Lodge, and which had been ignominiously handed back by the girl in question. As a result of the incident an acquaintance had grown up between the two, in the course of which much information as to their respective employers had been exchanged. On that Friday evening Mrs. Vane’s maid had called the narrator to the wall by means of a certain signal which they had devised, and had hurriedly told her of her mistress’s sudden call to America, and also that the house was being closed and the services of herself and the cook dispensed with. “She’s in a most terrible fluster to catch the boat train,” the girl had said, “and we have to be out before her so that she may lock up the house.” The girl had breathlessly bid her friend good-bye and had vanished.

Though French was delighted to have learned these facts, they were not in themselves all that he could have wished. The story of the husband in New York might be true, in which case a good deal of the theory he had been building up would fall to the ground. It would, however, be an easy matter to find out whether the lady really did sail on the date in question. He turned back to the servant.

“I should like very much to find that friend of yours,” he said. “Could you give me her name and address?”

Her name, it appeared, was Susan Scott, but her address was not known. For a moment French was at a loss, then by judicious questions he elicited the facts that Miss Scott spoke like a Londoner, and that she probably patronised one of the several registry offices to be found in the region surrounding the Edgware Road.

“Now there is just one other thing,” he added. “Can you tell me the name of the landlord or agents of Crewe Lodge?”

The girl was sorry she couldn’t.

“Then of this house?” French persisted. “As they are close together, the two places may belong to the same man.”

The girl did not know that either, but she said that her master would know, and that he had not yet gone out. French asked for an interview, and on stating his identity, received the information that the agents for both houses were Messrs. Findlater & Hynd, of Cupples Street, behind the Haymarket.

Thinking he had got all the information he could, French paid over his five shillings to the maid and took his departure.

The next item on his programme was a visit to Mr. Williams, and twenty minutes later he pushed open the door of the office in Cockspur Street. Mr. Williams greeted him with what with him took the place of enthusiasm.

“Good-day, Inspector,” he exclaimed, “I’m glad to see you. You bring me some good news, I hope?”

French sat down and drew from his pocket the cabinet photograph of Mrs. Vane which he had found in that lady’s sitting-room.

“I don’t know, Mr. Williams,” he answered quietly, “whether that will be news to you or not.”

Mr. Williams’s eyes flashed with excitement as he saw the portrait.

“Bless my soul!” he cried. “Have you found her at last? Mrs. Root!”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you. Are you sure it is Mrs. Root?”

“Sure? Absolutely positive. At least, that’s the woman who got my three thousand pounds, whatever her name may be. Have you found her?”

“Well no,” French admitted. “I’ve not found her yet. But I’m in hopes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Unfortunately, there’s not much to tell. I’ve got information to the effect that this woman, the original of the photograph, left for New York last Friday. I don’t know if it’s true. If it is, the American police will get her on the ship.”

Mr. Williams pressed for details, but French was reticent. However, before leaving he promised to let the other know the result of his further inquiries.

From Cockspur Street it was but a short distance to the office of the house agents, Messrs. Findlater & Hynd. Here French saw Mr. Hynd, and learned that the firm were agents for Crewe Lodge. But beyond this fact he learned little of interest and nothing helpful. The house had been taken five years previously by Mrs. Vane, though Mr. Vane had signed the lease. They were very desirable tenants, paying their rent promptly and not demanding continual repairs.

“One more call before lunch,” French thought, and a few minutes later he turned into the office of the White Star line. Here, though it did not exactly surprise him, he received some information which gave him considerably to think, and incidentally reassured him that at last he was on the right track. No steamer, either of the White Star or of any other line, had left Liverpool for America before the previous Saturday afternoon, and there was no boat train from Euston on the Friday night.

Mrs. Vane was therefore without any doubt the woman of whom he was in search, and her departure was definitely a flight.