MR. REGINALD FORTUNE sent his punt along at the rate of knots. From the cushions the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department protested. “Why this wanton display of skill? Why so strenuous?”

“It’s good for the figure, Lomas.”

“Have you a figure?” said Lomas bitterly. It is to be confessed that a certain solidity distinguishes Reggie Fortune. Years of service as the scientific adviser of Scotland Yard have not marred the pink and white of his cherubic face, but they have brought weight to a body never svelte.

Mr. Fortune let the punt drift. “That’s vulgar abuse. What’s the matter, old thing?”

“I dislike your horrible competence. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Fortune modestly. “Jack of all trades and master of none. That is why I am a specialist.”

The Hon. Sidney Lomas sat up. “Secondly, I resent your hurry to get rid of me. Thirdly, as I am going up to London to work and you are going back in this punt to do nothing, I should like to annoy you. Fourthly and lastly I know that I shan’t, and that embitters me. Does anything ever annoy you, Fortune?”

“Only work. Only the perverse criminal.”

Lomas groaned. “All criminals are perverse.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Most crime is a natural product.”

“Of course fools are natural,” said Lomas irritably. “The most natural of all animals. And if there were no fools—I shouldn’t spend the summer at Scotland Yard.”

“Well, many criminals are weak in the head.”

“That’s why a policeman’s life is not a happy one.”

“But most of ’em are a natural product. Opportunity makes the thief or what not—and there but for the grace of God go I. Circumstances lead a fellow into temptation.”

“Yes. I’ve wanted to do murder myself. But even with you I have hitherto refrained. There’s always a kink in the criminal’s mind before he goes wrong. Good Gad!” He dropped his voice. “Did you see her?”

Mr. Fortune reproved him. “You’re so susceptible, Lomas. Control yourself. Think of my reputation. I am known in these parts.”

“Who is she? Lady Macbeth?”

“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow! I thought you were a student of the drama. She’s not tragic. She’s comedy and domestic pathos. Tea and tears. It was Rose Darcourt.”

“Good Gad!” said Lomas once more. “She looked like Lady Macbeth after the murder.”

Reggie glanced over his shoulder. From the shade of the veranda of the boat-house a white face stared at him. It seemed to become aware of him and fled. “Indigestion perhaps,” he said. “It does feel like remorse. Or have you been trifling with her affections, Lomas?”

“I wouldn’t dare. Do you know her? She looks a nice young woman for a quiet tea-party. Passion and poison for two.”

“It’s the physique, you know,” said Mr. Fortune sadly. “When they’re long and sinuous and dark they will be intense. That’s the etiquette of the profession. But it’s spoiling her comedy. She takes everything in spasms now and she used to be quite restful.”

“Some silly fool probably told her she was a great actress,” Lomas suggested.

Mr. Fortune did not answer. He was steering the punt to the bank. As it slid by the rushes he stooped and picked out of the water a large silk bag. This he put down at Lomas’s feet, and saying, “Who’s the owner of this pretty thing?” once more drove the punt on at the rate of knots.

Lomas produced from the bag a powder-puff, three gold hair-pins and two handkerchiefs. “The police have evidence of great importance,” he announced, “and immediate developments are expected. S. Sheridan is the culprit, Fortune.”

“Sylvia Sheridan?” Reggie laughed. “You know we’re out of a paragraph in a picture paper. ‘On the river this week-end all the stars of the stage were shining. Miss Rose Darcourt was looking like Juliet on the balcony of her charming boat-house and I saw Miss Sylvia Sheridan’s bag floating sweetly down stream. Bags are worn bigger than ever this year. Miss Sheridan has always been famous for her bags. But this was really dinky!’”

At the bridge he put Lomas into his car and strolled up to leave Miss Sheridan’s bag at the police-station.

The sergeant was respectfully affable (Mr. Fortune is much petted by subordinates) and it took some time to reach the bag. When Ascot and the early peas and the sergeant’s daughter’s young man had been critically estimated, Mr. Fortune said that he was only calling on the lost property department to leave a lady’s bag. “I just picked it out of the river,” Reggie explained. “No value to anybody but the owner. Seems to belong to Miss Sylvia Sheridan. She’s a house down here, hasn’t she? You might let her know.”

The sergeant stared at Mr. Fortune and breathed hard. “What makes you say that, sir?”

“Say what?”

“Beg pardon, sir. You’d better see the inspector.” And the sergeant tumbled out of the room.

The inspector was flurried. “Mr. Fortune? Very glad to see you, sir. Sort of providential your coming in like this. Won’t you sit down, sir? This is a queer start. Where might you have found her bag, Mr. Fortune?”

“About a mile above the bridge,” Reggie opened his eyes. “Against the reed bank below Miss Darcourt’s boat-house.”

Inspector Oxtoby whistled. “That’s above Miss Sheridan’s cottage.” He looked knowing. “Things don’t float upstream, Mr. Fortune.”

“It’s not usual. Why does that worry you?”

“Miss Sheridan’s missing, Mr. Fortune. I’ve just had her housekeeper in giving information. Miss Sheridan went out last night and hasn’t been seen since. Now you’ve picked up her bag in the river above her house. It’s a queer start, isn’t it?”

“But only a start,” said Reggie gently. “We’re not even sure the bag is hers. The handkerchiefs in it are marked S. Sheridan. But some women have a way of gleaning other women’s handkerchiefs. Her housekeeper ought to know her bag. Did her housekeeper know why she went out?”

“No, sir. That’s one of the things that rattled her. Miss Sheridan went out after dinner alone, walking. They thought she was in the garden and went to bed. In the morning she wasn’t in the house. She wasn’t in the garden either.”

“And that’s that,” said Reggie. “Better let them know at Scotland Yard. They like work.” And he rose to go. It was plain that he had disappointed Inspector Oxtoby, who asked rather plaintively if there was anything Mr. Fortune could suggest. “I should ask her friends, you know,” said Mr. Fortune, wandering dreamily to the door. “I should have a look at her house. There may be something in it,” and he left the inspector gaping.

Reggie Fortune is one of the few people in England who like going to the theatre. The others, as you must have noticed, like this kind of play or that. Mr. Fortune has an impartial and curious mind and tries everything. He had therefore formed opinions of Sylvia Sheridan and Rose Darcourt which are not commonly held. For he was unable to take either of them seriously. This hampered him, and he calls the case one of his failures.

On the next morning he came back from bathing at the lasher to hear that the telephone had called him. He took his car to Scotland Yard and was received by Superintendent Bell. That massive man was even heavier than usual. “You’ll not be pleased with me, Mr. Fortune——” he began.

“If you look at me like that I shall cry. Two hours ago I was in nice deep bubbly water. And you bring me up to this oven of a town and make me think you’re a headmaster with the gout and I’ve been a rude little boy.”

“Mr. Lomas said not to trouble you,” the Superintendent mourned. “But I put it to him you’d not wish to be out of it, Mr. Fortune.”

“Damn it, Bell, don’t appeal to my better nature. That’s infuriating.”

“It’s this Sheridan case, sir. Miss Sheridan’s vanished.”

“Well, I haven’t run away with her. She smiles too much. I couldn’t bear it.”

“She’s gone, sir,” Bell said heavily. “She was to have signed her contract as leading lady in Mr. Mark Woodcote’s new play. That was yesterday. She didn’t come. They had no word from her. And yesterday her servants gave information she had disappeared——”

“I know. I was there. So she hasn’t turned up yet?”

“No, sir. And Mr. Lomas and you, you found her bag in the river. That was her bag.”

“Well, well.” said Reggie. “And what’s the Criminal Investigation Department going to do about it?”

“Where’s she gone, Mr. Fortune? She didn’t take her car. She’s not been seen at Stanton station. She’s not at her flat in town. She’s not with any of her friends.”

“The world is wide,” Reggie murmured.

“And the river’s pretty deep, Mr. Fortune.”

At this point Lomas came in. He beamed upon them both, he patted Bell’s large shoulder, he came to Reggie Fortune. “My dear fellow! Here already! ‘Duty, stern daughter of the voice of God,’ what? How noble—and how good for you!”

Reggie looked from his jauntiness to the gloom of Bell. “Tragedy and comedy, aren’t you?” he said. “And very well done, too. But it’s a little confusing to the scientific mind.”

“Well, what do you make of it?” Lomas dropped into a chair and lit a cigarette. “Bell’s out for blood. An Actress’s Tragedy. Mystery of the Thames. Murder or Suicide? That sort of thing. But it seems to me it has all the engaging air of an advertisement.”

“Only it isn’t advertised, sir,” said Bell. “Twenty-four hours and more since she was reported missing, and not a word in the papers yet. That don’t look like a stunt. It looks more like somebody was keeping things quiet.”

“Yes. Yes, you take that trick, Bell,” Reggie nodded. “Who is this remarkable manager that don’t tell all the newspapers when his leading lady’s missing?”

“Mr. Montgomery Eagle, sir.”

“But he runs straight,” said Reggie.

“Oh Lord, yes,” Lomas laughed. “Quite a good fellow. Bell is so melodramatic in the hot weather. I don’t think Eagle is pulling my leg. I suspect it’s the lady who is out for a little free advertisement. To be reported missing—that is a sure card. On the placards, in the headlines, unlimited space in all the papers. Wait and see, Bell. The delay means nothing. She couldn’t tell her Press agent to send in news of her disappearance. It wouldn’t be artistic.”

Superintendent Bell looked at him compassionately. “And I’m sure I hope you’re right, sir,” he said. “But it don’t look that way to me. If she wanted to disappear for a joke why did she go and do it like this? These young ladies on the stage, they value their comforts. She goes off walking at night with nothing but what she stood up in. If you ask me to believe she meant to do the vanishing act when she went out of her house, I can’t see how it’s likely.”

“Strictly speakin’,” said Reggie, “nothing’s likely. Why did she go out, Bell? To keep an appointment with her murderer?”

“I don’t see my way, sir. I own it. But there’s her garden goes down to the river—suppose she just tumbled into the water—she might be there now.”

“The bag,” said Reggie dreamily. “The bag, Bell. It didn’t float upstream, and yet we found it above her garden. She couldn’t have been walking along the bank. The towpath is the other side. The bag came into the river from a boat—or from the grounds of another house.”

Lomas laughed. “My dear Fortune, I like your earnest simplicity. It’s a new side to your character and full of charm. I quite agree the bag is interesting. I think it’s conclusive. A neat and pretty touch. The little lady threw it into the river to give her disappearance glamour.”

“Rather well thrown,” said Reggie. “Say a quarter of a mile. Hefty damsel.”

“Oh, my dear fellow, she may have taken a boat, she may have crossed and walked up the towpath.”

“Just to get her bag into the river above her house? Why would she want to put it in above her house? She couldn’t be sure that it would stay there. It might have sunk. It might have drifted a mile farther.”

Lomas shrugged. “Well, as you say. But we don’t know that the bag was lost that night at all. She may have dropped it out of a boat any time and anywhere.”

“Yes, but plenty of boats go up and down that reach. And we found it bright and early the morning after she vanished. Why didn’t anybody else find it before? I rather fancy it wasn’t there, Lomas.”

“What’s your theory, Mr. Fortune?” said Bell eagerly.

“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow! I don’t know the lady.”

“They say she’s a sportive maiden,” Lomas smiled. “I’ll wager you’ll have a run for your money, Bell.”

Reggie Fortune considered him severely. “I don’t think it’s a race to bet on, Lomas, old thing.”

It was about this time that Mr. Montgomery Eagle’s name was brought in. “Will you see him, Mr. Lomas?” Bell said anxiously.

“Oh Lord, no. I have something else to do. Make him talk, that’s all you want.”

The Superintendent turned a bovine but pathetic gaze on Reggie. “I think so,” said Mr. Fortune. “There are points, Bell.”

Superintendent Bell arranged himself at the table, a large solemn creature, born to inspire confidence. Mr. Fortune dragged an easy chair to the window and sat on the small of his back and thus disposed might have been taken for an undergraduate weary of the world.

Mr. Montgomery Eagle brought another man with him. They both exhibited signs of uneasiness. Mr. Eagle, whose physical charms, manner and dress suggest a butler off duty, wrung his hands and asked if the Superintendent had any news. The Superintendent asked Mr. Eagle to sit down. “Er, thank you. Er—you’re very good. May I—this is Mr. Woodcote—the—er—author of the play Miss Sheridan was to—the—play I—er—hope to—very anxious to know if you——”

“Naturally,” said the Superintendent. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Woodcote.” The dramatist smiled nervously. He was still young enough to show an awkward simplicity of manner, but his pleasant dark face had signs of energy and some ability. “We’re rather interested in your case. Now what have you got to tell us?”

“I?” said Woodcote. “Well, I hoped you were going to tell us something.”

“We’ve heard nothing at all,” said Eagle. “Absolutely nothing. Er—it’s—er—very distressing—er—serious matter for us—er—whole production held up—er—this poor lady—most distressing.”

“Quite, quite,” Reggie murmured from his chair, and the two stared at him.

“The fact is,” said Superintendent Bell heavily, “we can find no one who has seen Miss Sheridan since she left her house. We’re where we were yesterday, gentlemen. Are you?”

“Absolutely,” said Eagle.

“First question—did she leave her house?” Reggie murmured. “Second question—why did she leave her house?” He sat up with a jerk. “I wonder. Do you know anything about that?”

Eagle gaped at him. “Did she leave her house?” Woodcote cried. “That’s not doubtful, is it? She’s not there.”

“Well, I like to begin at the beginning,” said Reggie gently.

“The local men have been over the house, Mr. Fortune,” Bell stared at him.

“I suppose they wouldn’t overlook her,” Woodcote laughed.

“Second question—why did she leave it? You see, we don’t know the lady and I suppose you do. Had she any friends who were—intimate?”

“What are you suggesting?” Woodcote cried.

“I don’t know. Do you? Is there anyone she liked—or anyone she didn’t like?”

“I must say,”—Eagle was emphatic in jerks—“never heard a word said—er—against Miss Sheridan—er—very highest reputation.”

“If you have any suspicions let’s have it out, sir,” Woodcote cried.

“My dear fellow! Oh, my dear fellow!” Reggie protested. “It’s the case is suspicious, not me. The primary hypothesis is that something made Miss Sheridan vanish. I’m askin’ you what it was.”

The manager looked at the dramatist. The dramatist looked at Mr. Fortune. “What is it you suspect, then?” he said.

“What does take a lady out alone after dinner?” said Reggie. “I wonder.”

“We don’t know that she went out of the garden, sir,” Bell admonished him.

Reggie lit a cigar. “Think there was a murderer waiting in the garden?” he said as he puffed. “Think she was feeling suicidal? Well, it’s always possible.”

“Good God!” said Eagle.

“You’re rather brutal, sir,” Woodcote grew pale.

“You don’t like those ideas? Well, what’s yours?” They were silent. “Has it ever occurred to you somebody might have annoyed Miss Sheridan?” Mr. Montgomery Eagle became of a crimson colour. “Yes, think it over,” said Reggie cheerfully. “If there was somebody she wanted to take it out of——” he smiled and blew smoke rings.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Woodcote stared at him.

“Really? It’s quite simple. Had anything happened lately to make Miss Sheridan annoyed with anybody?”

“I’m bound to say, sir,” Eagle broke out, “there was a—a question about her part. She was to play lead in Mr. Woodcote’s new comedy. Well—er—I can’t deny—er—Miss Darcourt’s been with me before. Miss Darcourt—she was—well, I had—er—representations from her the part ought to be hers. I—er—I’m afraid Miss Sheridan did come to hear of this.”

“Rose Darcourt couldn’t play it,” said the author fiercely. “She couldn’t touch it.”

“No, no. I don’t suggest she could—er—not at all—but it was an unpleasant situation. Miss Sheridan was annoyed——”

“Miss Sheridan was annoyed with Miss Darcourt and Miss Darcourt was annoyed with Miss Sheridan. And Miss Sheridan goes out alone at night by the river and in the river we find her bag. That’s the case, then. Well, well.”

“Do you mean that Rose Darcourt murdered her?” Woodcote frowned at him.

“My dear fellow, you are in such a hurry. I mean that I could bear to know a little more about Miss Darcourt’s emotions. Do you think you could find out if she still wants to play this great part?”

“She may want,” said Woodcote bitterly. “She can go on wanting.”

“In point of fact,” said Eagle. “I—er—I had a letter this morning. She tells me—er—she wouldn’t consider acting in—er—in Mr. Woodcote’s play. She—er—says I misunderstood her. She never thought of it—er—doesn’t care for Mr. Woodcote’s work.”

Mr. Woodcote flushed. “That does worry me,” said he.

“And that’s that.” Reggie stood up.

Whereon Superintendent Bell with careful official assurances got rid of them. They seemed surprised.

“That’s done it, sir,” said Bell. Reggie did not answer. He was cooing to a pigeon on the window-sill. “You’ve got it out of them. We’ll be looking after this Rose Darcourt.”

“They don’t like her, do they?” Reggie murmured. “Well, well. They do enjoy their little emotions.” He laughed suddenly. “Let’s tell Lomas.”

That sprightly man was reading an evening paper. He flung it at Bell’s head. “There you are. Six-inch headlines. ‘Famous Actress Vanishes.’ And now I do hope we shan’t be long. I wonder how she’ll manage her resurrection. Was she kidnapped by a Bolshevik submarine? U-boat in Boulter’s Lock. That would be a good stunt. And rescued by an aeroplane. She might come down on the course at Ascot.”

“He can’t take her seriously, Bell,” said Reggie. “It’s the other one who has his heart. Who ever loved that loved not at first sight? She captured him at a glance.”

Bell was shocked and bewildered. “What the deuce do you mean?” said Lomas.

“Lady Macbeth by the river. You know how she fascinated you.”

“Rose Darcourt?” Lomas cried. “Good Gad!”

“The morning after Sylvia Sheridan vanished, Rose Darcourt was looking unwell by the river and Sylvia Sheridan’s bag was found in the river just below Rose Darcourt’s house. Now the manager and the playwright tell us Rose has been trying to get the part which was earmarked for Sylvia, and Sylvia was cross about it. Since Sylvia vanished Rose has pitched in a letter to say she wouldn’t look at the part or the play. Consider your verdict.”

“There it is, sir, and an ugly business,” said Bell with a certain satisfaction. “These stage folk, they’re not wholesome.”

“My dear old Bell,” Reggie chuckled.

“Good Gad!” said Lomas, and burst out laughing. “But it’s preposterous. It’s a novelette. The two leading ladies quarrel—and they meet by moonlight alone on the banks of the murmuring stream—and pull caps—and what happened next? Did Rose pitch Sylvia into the dark and deadly water or Sylvia commit suicide in her anguish? Damme, Bell, you’d better make a film of it.”

“I don’t know what you make of it, sir,” said Bell with stolid indignation. “But I’ve advised the local people to drag the river. And I suggest it’s time we had a man or two looking after this Miss Darcourt.”

“Good Gad!” said Lomas again. “And what do you suggest, Fortune? Do you want to arrest her and put her on the rack? Or will it be enough to examine her body for Sylvia’s finger-prints? If we are to make fools of ourselves, let’s do it handsomely.”

“It seems to me we look fools enough as it is,” Bell growled.

“This is a very painful scene,” Reggie said gently. “Your little hands were never made to scratch each other’s eyes.”

“What do you want to do?” Lomas turned on him.

“Well, it’s not much in my way. I like a corpse and you haven’t a corpse for me. And I don’t feel that I know these good people. They seem muddled to me. It’s all muddled. I fancy they don’t know where they are. And there’s something we haven’t got, Lomas old thing. I should look about.”

“I’m going to look about,” said Lomas with decision. “But I’m going to look for Sylvia Sheridan’s friends—not her wicked rivals. I resent being used as an actress’s advertisement.”

Reggie shook his head. “You will be so respectable, Lomas my child. It hampers you.”

“Well, go and drag the river,” said Lomas with a shrug, “and see who finds her first.”

Mr. Fortune, who has a gentle nature, does not like people to be cross to him. This was his defence when Lomas subsequently complained of his independent action. He went to lunch and afterwards returned to his house by the river.

Swaying in a hammock under the syringa he considered the Sheridan case without prejudice, and drowsily came to the conclusion that he believed in nothing and nobody. He was not satisfied with the bag, he was not satisfied with the pallid woe of Rose Darcourt, he was not satisfied with the manager and the playwright, he was by no means satisfied with the flippancy of Lomas and the grim zeal of Bell. It appeared to him that all were unreasonable. He worked upon his memories of Rose Darcourt and Sylvia Sheridan and found no help therein. The two ladies, though competent upon the stage and at times agreeable, were to him commonplace. And whatever the case was, it was not that. He could not relate them to the floating bag, and the story of jealousy and the disappearance. “This thing’s all out of joint,” he sighed, “and I don’t think the airy Lomas or the gloomy Bell is the man to put it right. Why will people have theories? And at their time of life too! It’s not decent.” He rang (in his immoral garden you can ring from the pergola and ring from the hammocks and the lawn) for his chauffeur and factotum, Sam.

Mr. Samuel Smith was born a small and perky Cockney. He is, according to Reggie, a middle-class chauffeur but otherwise a lad of parts, having a peculiarly neat hand with photography and wine. But a capacity for being all things to all men was what first recommended him. “Sam,” said Mr. Fortune, “do you go much into society?”

“Meaning the locals, sir?”

“That was the idea.”

“Well, sir, they’re not brainy. Too much o’ the nouveau riche.”

“It’s a hard world, Sam. I want to know about Miss Darcourt’s servants. I wouldn’t mind knowing about Miss Sheridan’s servants. They ought to be talking things over. Somebody may be saying something interesting—or doing something.”

“I’ve got it, sir. Can do.”

Mr. Fortune sighed happily and went to sleep.

For the next few days he was occupied with a number of new roses which chose to come into flower together. It was reported among his servants that Mr. Fortune sat by these bushes and held their hands. And meanwhile the papers gave much space to Miss Sylvia Sheridan, describing in vivid detail how the river was being dragged for her, and how her corpse had been discovered at Bradford and how she had been arrested while bathing (mixed) at Ilfracombe and seen on a flapper’s bracket in Hampstead.

Mr. Fortune, engaged upon a minute comparison of the shades of tawny red in five different but exquisite roses, was disturbed by Superintendent Bell. He looked up at that square and gloomy visage and shook his head. “You disturb me. I have my own troubles, Bell. Darlings, aren’t they?” He made a caressing gesture over his roses. “But I can’t make up my mind which is the one I really love. Go away, Bell. Your complexion annoys them.”

“We haven’t found her, sir,” said Bell heavily. “She’s not in the river.” Reggie dropped into a long chair and, watching him with dreamy eyes, filled a pipe. Bell glowered. “I thought you were going to say, ‘I told you so.’”

Reggie smiled. “I don’t remember that I told you anything.”

“That was about the size of it, sir,” Bell reproached him.

“Well, I thought it was possible the body was in the river. But not probable.”

“Nothing’s probable that I can see. Roses are a bit simpler, aren’t they, sir?”

“Simpler!” Reggie cried. “You’re no gardener. You should take it up, Bell. It develops the finer feelings. Now, don’t be cross again. I can’t bear it. I haven’t forgotten your horrible case. Nothing’s probable, as you say. But one or two things are certain all the same. Sylvia Sheridan’s servants have nothing up their sleeves. They’re as lost as you are. They are being quite natural. But Rose Darcourt has a chauffeur who interests me. He is a convivial animal and his pub is the ‘Dog and Duck.’ But he hasn’t been at the ‘Dog and Duck’ since Sylvia vanished. The ‘Dog and Duck’ is surprised at him. Also he has been hanging about Sylvia’s house. He has suddenly begun an affair with her parlourmaid. He seems to have a deuce of a lot of time on his hands. Rose Darcourt don’t show. She’s reported ill. And the reputation of the chauffeur is that he’s always been very free and easy with his mistress.”

Bell grunted and meditated and Reggie pushed a cigar-case across to help his meditations. “Well, sir, it sounds queer as you put it. But it might be explained easy. And that’s what Mr. Lomas says about the whole case. Maybe he’s right.” The thought plunged the Superintendent into deeper gloom.

“What a horrible idea,” said Reggie. “My dear fellow, don’t be so despondent. I’ve been waiting for you to take me to the parlourmaid. I want a chaperon.”

Inspector Oxtoby in plain clothes, Superintendent Bell in clothes still plainer and Mr. Fortune in flannels conducted an examination of that frightened damsel, who was by turns impudent and plaintive, till soothed by Mr. Fortune’s benignity. It then emerged that she was not walking out with Mr. Loveday the chauffeur: nothing of the kind: only Mr. Loveday had been attentive.

“And very natural, too,” Reggie murmured. “But why has he only just begun?”

The parlourmaid was startled. They had had a many fellows round the house since mistress went off. She smiled. It was implied that others beside the chauffeur had remarked her charms.

“And Mr. Loveday never came before? Does he ask after your mistress?”

“Well, of course he always wants to know if she’s been heard of. It’s only civil, sir.” She stopped and stared at Reggie. “I suppose he does talk a deal about the mistress,” she said slowly.

“When he ought to be talking about you,” Reggie murmured.

The parlourmaid looked frightened. “But it’s as if he was always expecting some news of her,” she protested.

“Oh, is it!” said Inspector Oxtoby, and Reggie frowned at him.

“Yes, it is!” she cried. “And I don’t care what you say. And a good mistress she was”—she began to weep again, and was incoherent.

“I’m sure she was,” Reggie said, “and you’re fond of her. That’s why we’re here, you know. You want to help her, don’t you? When was Mr. Loveday going to meet you again?”

Through sobs it was stated that Mr. Loveday had said he would be by the little gate at his usual time that night.

“Well, I don’t want you to see him, Gladys,” said Reggie gently. “You’re to stay indoors like a good girl. Don’t say anything to anybody and you’ll be all right.”

On that they left her, and Reggie, taking Bell’s arm as they crossed the garden, murmured, “I like Gladys. She’s a pleasant shape. This job’s opening out, Bell, isn’t it?”

“It beats me,” said Bell. “What’s the fellow after?”

“He knows something,” said Oxtoby.

“And he’s not quite sure what he knows,” said Reggie. “Well, well. An early dinner is indicated. It’s a hard world. Come and dine with me.”

That night as it grew dark the chauffeur stood by the little gate of Sylvia Sheridan’s garden, an object of interest to three men behind a laurel hedge. He waited some time in vain. He lit a cigarette and exhibited for a moment a large flat face. He waited longer, opened the gate and approached the back of the house.

“Better take him now,” said Reggie. “Loitering with intent. I’ll go down to the station.”

Inspector Oxtoby, with Bell in support, closed upon the man in the kitchen garden.

In the little office at Stanton police-station Albert Edward Loveday was charged with loitering about Miss Sheridan’s house with intent to commit a felony. He was loudly indignant, protesting that he had only gone to see his girl. He was told that he could say all that to the magistrates, and was removed still noisy.

Mr. Fortune came out of the shadow. “I don’t take to Albert Edward,” he said. “I fear he’s a bit of a bully.”

Bell nodded. “That’s his measure, sir. A chap generally shows what he’s made of when you get him in the charge room. I never could understand that. You’d think any fellow with a head on him would take care to hide what sort he is here. But they don’t seem as if they could help themselves.”

“Most of the fellows you get in the charge room haven’t heads. I doubt if Albert Edward has. He looks as if he hadn’t thought things out.”

Inspector Oxtoby came back in a hurry. “My oath, Mr. Fortune, you’ve put us on the right man,” he said. “Look what the beggar had on him.” It was a small gold cigarette-case. It bore the monogram S.S., and inside was engraved “Sylvia from Bingo.”

“That’s done him in,” said Bell. “Any explanation?”

“He wouldn’t say a word. Barring that he cursed freely. No, Mr. Albert Edward Loveday wants to see his solicitor. He knows something.”

“Yes. Yes, I wonder what it is?” Reggie murmured.

“He had some pawn-tickets for jewellery too. Pretty heavy stuff. We’ll have to follow that up. And a hundred and fifty quid—some clean notes, some deuced dirty.”

Bell laughed grimly. “He’s done himself proud, hasn’t he?”

“Some clean, some dirty,” Reggie repeated. “He got the dirty ones from the pawnbroker. Where did he get the clean ones? Still several unknown quantities in the equation.”

“How’s that, sir?” said Inspector Oxtoby.

“Well, there’s the body, for instance,” said Reggie mildly. “We lack the body. You know, I think we might ask Miss Darcourt to say a few words. Send a man up in a car to tell her she’s wanted at the police-station, because her chauffeur has been arrested. I should think she’ll come.”

“That’s the stuff!” Inspector Oxtoby chuckled and set about it.

“You always had a notion she knew something, sir,” said Bell reverently.

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured.

She did come. The little room seemed suddenly crowded, so large was the gold pattern on her black cloak, so complex her sinuous movements, as she glided in and sat down. She smiled at them, and certainly she had been handsome. From a white face dark eyes glittered, very big eyes, all pupil. “Oh, my aunt,” said Reggie to himself, “drugged.”

“Miss Rose Darcourt?” Inspector Oxtoby’s pen scratched. “Thank you, madam. Your chauffeur Albert Edward Loveday (that’s right?) has been arrested loitering about Miss Sheridan’s house. He was found in possession of Miss Sheridan’s gold cigarette-case. Can you explain that?”

“I? Why should I explain it? I know nothing about it.”

“The man is in your service, madam.”

“Yes, and he is a very good chauffeur. What then? Why should you arrest him?” She talked very fast. “I don’t understand it at all. I don’t understand what you want me to say.”

“Only the truth,” said Reggie gently out of the shadow.

“What do you mean by the truth? I know nothing about what he had. I can’t imagine, I can’t conceive”—her voice went up high—“how he could have Miss Sheridan’s cigarette-case. If he really had.”

“Oh, he had it all right,” said Inspector Oxtoby.

“Why, then perhaps she gave it him.” She laughed so suddenly that the men looked at each other. “Have you asked him? What did he say? I know nothing about Miss Sheridan.”

“You can tell us nothing?” said Reggie.

“What should I tell you?” she cried.

There was silence but for the scratching of the Inspector’s pen. “Very good, madam,” he said. “You have no explanation. I had better tell you the case will go into court. Thank you for coming. Would you like to have the car back?”

“What has Loveday said?” She leaned forward.

“He’s asked for his solicitor, madam. That’s all.”

“What is this charge, then?”

The Inspector smiled. “That’s as may be, madam.”

“Can I see him?”

“Not alone, I’m afraid, ma’am,” said Bell.

“What?” she cried. “What do you mean?”

“The car’ll take you back, ma’am.”

She stared at him a long minute. “The car?” she started up. “I don’t need your car. I’ll not have it. I can go, can I?” she laughed.

Bell opened the door. “Phew!” he puffed as he closed it. “She looked murder, didn’t she?”

“Nice young woman for a quiet tea-party,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder. I wonder. I think I’ll use that car.”

As it drew out upon the bridge he saw the tall shape of Miss Darcourt ahead. She was going slowly. She stopped. She glanced behind her at the lights of the car. She climbed the parapet and was gone.

“Oh, damn!” said Mr. Fortune. “Stop the bus.” He sprang out, looked down for a moment at the foam and the eddies and dived after her.

Some minutes afterwards he arrived at the bank with Miss Darcourt in tow and waddled out, dragging her after him without delicacy and swearing in gasps. She was in no case to protest. She did not hear. Mr. Fortune rolled her over and knelt beside her.

“What’ll I do, sir? Can’t I do something?” cried the chauffeur.

“Police-station,” Reggie panted. “Bring down the Inspector or the Superintendent. Quick! Damn quick!” And he wrought with Miss Darcourt’s body. . . .

He looked up at the large shape of Superintendent Bell. “Suicide, sir?”

“Attempted suicide. She’ll do, I think. Wrap her in every dam’ thing you’ve got and take her to hospital quick.”

“I know this game, sir,” Bell said, and stooped and gathered the woman up: “you run along home.”

“Run!” said Reggie. “My only aunt.”

In the morning when he rang for his letters, “Superintendent Bell called, sir,” said the maid. “About eight it was. He said I wasn’t to waken you. He only wanted to tell you she was going on all right. And there’s a message by telephone from Mr. Lomas. He says you should be at Paddington by twelve, car will meet you, very urgent. And to tell you he has the body.”

“Oh, my Lord!” said Reggie. He sprang out of bed. Superintendent Bell was rung up and told to commit himself to nothing over Albert Edward Loveday and his mistress.

“Remanded for inquiries—that’ll do for him, sir,” said Bell’s voice. “And she can wait. Hope you’re all right, Mr. Fortune.”

“I’m suffering from shock, Bell. Mr. Lomas is shocking me. He’s begun to sit up and take notice.”

Inadequately fed and melancholy, Mr. Fortune was borne into Paddington by a quarter-past twelve. He there beheld Lomas sitting in Lomas’s car and regarding him with a satirical eye. Mr. Fortune entered the car in dignity and silence.

“My dear fellow, I hate to disappoint you,” Lomas smiled. “You’ve done wonderfully well. Arrested a chauffeur, driven a lady to suicide—admirable. It is really your masterpiece. Art for art’s sake in the grand style. You must find it horribly disappointing to act with a dull fellow like me.”

“I do,” said Mr. Fortune.

Lomas chuckled. “I know, I know. I can’t help seeing it. And really I hate to spoil your work. But the plain fact is I’ve got the body.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Fortune.

“And unfortunately—I really do sympathize with you—it isn’t dead.”

“When did I say it was?” said Mr. Fortune. “I said you hadn’t a corpse for me—and you haven’t got one now. I said it was all muddled—and so it is, a dam’ muddle.”

“Don’t you want to know why the fair Sylvia left home?”

“Yes. Do you know, Lomas?”

“She’s gone off with a man, my dear fellow,” Lomas laughed.

“Well, well,” said Reggie mildly. “And that’s why the Darcourt’s chauffeur had her cigarette-case in his pocket! And that’s why the Darcourt jumped into the river when we asked her to explain! You make it all so clear, Lomas.”

“Theft, I suppose, and fright.” Lomas shrugged. “But we’ll ask Sylvia.”

“Where is she?”

“I had information of some one like her from a little place in the wilds of Suffolk. I sent a fellow down and he has no doubt it’s the lady. She’s been living there since she vanished, with a man.”

“What man?”

“Not identified. Smith by name,” said Lomas curtly. “You’d better ask her yourself, Fortune.”

“Yes. There’s quite a lot of things I’d like to ask her,” said Reggie, and conversation languished. Even the elaborate lunch which Reggie insisted on eating in Colchester did not revive it, for Lomas was fretful at the delay. So at last, with Reggie somnolent and Lomas feverish, the car drew up at the ancient inn of the village of Baldon.

A young fellow who was drinking ginger-beer in the porch looked up and came to meet them. “She’s done a bunk, sir,” he said in a low voice. “She and her Mr. Smith went off half an hour ago. Some luggage in the car. Took the London road.”

“My poor Lomas!” Reggie chuckled.

“Damme, we must have passed them on the road,” Lomas cried. “Any idea why she went, Blakiston?”

“No, sir. The man went into Ipswich in their car this morning. Soon after he came back, they bolted together. I couldn’t do anything, you know, sir.”

“You’re sure Mrs. Smith is Miss Sheridan?”

“I’d swear to her, sir.”

“It’s damned awkward,” Lomas frowned. “Sorry, Fortune. We’d better be off back.”

“I want my tea,” said Reggie firmly, and got out: and vainly Lomas followed to protest that after the Colchester lunch he could want no more to eat for twenty-four hours. He was already negotiating for cream. “If it hadn’t been for your confounded lunch we should have caught her,” Lomas grumbled. “Now she’s off into the blue again.”

Reggie fell into the window seat and took up the local paper. “And where is he that knows?” he murmured. “From the great deep to the great deep she goes. But why? Assumin’ for the sake of argument that she is our leading lady, why does she make this hurried exit?”

“How the devil should I know?”

Reggie smiled at him over the top of the papers. “This is a very interestin’ journal,” he remarked. “Do you know what it is, Lomas? It’s the Ipswich evening paper with the 2.30 winner. Were you backing anything? No? Well, well. Not a race for a careful man. I read also that Miss Darcourt’s chauffeur was brought up before the Stanton magistrates this morning and Miss Darcourt jumped into the river last night. It makes quite a lot of headlines. The Press is a great power, Lomas.”

Lomas damned the Press.

“You’re so old-fashioned,” Reggie said sadly. “My child, don’t you see? Mr. Smith went to Ipswich, Mr. Smith read the early evening paper and hustled back to tell Mrs. Smith, and Mrs. Smith felt that duty called her. Assuming that Mrs. Smith is our Sylvia, where would it call her? Back to Stanton, to clear up the mess.”

“I suppose so,” said Lomas drearily. “She can go to the devil for me.”

“My dear chap, you do want your tea,” said Reggie. Then Lomas swore.

It was late that night when a dusty car driven by Mr. Fortune approached the lights of Stanton. Mr. Fortune turned away from the bridge down a leafy byway and drew up with a jerk. Another car was standing by Miss Sheridan’s gate. The man in it turned to stare. Reggie was already at his side. “Mr. Smith, I presume?” he said.

“Who the devil are you?” said a voice that seemed to him familiar.

The night was then rent by a scream, which resolved itself into a cry of “Thieves! Help, help! Police!” It came from the house.

Reggie made for the door and banged upon it. It was opened by an oldish woman in disarray. “We’ve got burglars,” she cried. “Come in, sir, come in.”

“Rather,” said Mr. Fortune. “Where are they?”

“On the stair, sir. I hit him. I know I hit one. It give me such a turn.”

Reggie ran upstairs. The light was on in the hall, but on the landing, in the shadow, he stumbled over something soft. He ran his hand along the wall for a switch and found it. What he saw was Sylvia Sheridan lying with blood upon her face.

“It’s all right. You’ve only knocked out your mistress,” he called over the stairs.

“Oh, my God!” the housekeeper gasped. “The poker on her poor head! Oh, sir, she’s not dead, is she?”

“Not a bit. Come along, where’s her room?” Reggie picked her up.

The man from the car was at his elbow. “Thank you, I’ll do that,” he said.

“Why, it’s Mr. Woodcote. Fancy that!” Reggie smiled. “But why should the dramatist carry the leading lady?”

“I’m her husband,” said Woodcote fiercely. “Any objection, Mr. Fortune?”

“Oh, no, Mr. Smith. I beg pardon, Mr. Woodcote. But you’ll want me, you know. If it’s only to sew her up.”

He bore the lady off to her bedroom.

******

The case ended as it began, with a morning voyage in a punt. Lomas brought that craft in to the landing-stage and embarked Reggie, who laid himself down on the cushions elaborately and sighed. “My dear fellow, I know you were always a lady’s man,” Lomas remonstrated. “But you’re overdoing it. You’re enfeebled. You wilt.”

Reggie moaned gently. “I know it. I feel like a curate, Lomas. They coo over me. It’s weakening to the intellect. Rose holds my hand and tells me she’s sorry she was so naughty, and Sylvia looks tenderly from her unbandaged eye and says she’ll never do it again.”

“Have you got anything rational out of them?”

“I have it all. It’s quite simple. Sylvia heard that Rose was trying to do her out of the part. She was pained. She went round in a hurry to talk to Rose. In the garden she saw Albert Edward, the chauffeur, who told her that Rose was on the boat-house balcony, her favourite place on a fine evening. Sylvia went there straight. Hence none of the servants but Albert Edward knew that Sylvia had called that night. Sylvia and Rose had words. Sylvia says she offered Rose quite a good minor part. Rose says Sylvia insulted her. I fear that Rose tried to slap her face. Anyway, Sylvia tumbled down the boat-house steps and there was a splash. Rose heard it and thought Sylvia had gone in and was delighted. Albert Edward heard it as he had heard the row, and thought something could be done about it. But he saw Sylvia rush off rather draggled round the skirts, and knew she wasn’t drowned. Rose didn’t take the trouble to see Sylvia scramble out. She was too happy. Sylvia was annoyed, but she has an ingenious mind. It occurred to her that if she did a disappearance Rose would get the wind up badly and it would be a howling advertisement for Miss Sylvia Sheridan and Woodcote’s new play. Yes, Lomas dear, you were quite right. Only Bell was too. Sylvia scurried off to London and let herself into her flat and telephoned to Woodcote and told him all about it. He was badly gone on Sylvia before. He gave way to his emotions and those two geese arranged their elopement that night. She went off at break of day and he got a special licence. Meanwhile Albert Edward was getting busy. He collected the cigarette-case from the boat-house first thing in the morning, he found out Sylvia hadn’t gone home and he started blackmailing Rose. That was why we saw her looking desperate. She got more and more funky, she paid that bright lad all the money she could spare (the clean notes) and most of her jewellery (the pawn-tickets). The only thing that worried Albert Edward was when Sylvia would turn up again. Hence that interest in the parlourmaid which gave him away. Poor Rose tried to drown her sorrows in morphia, and when she found Albert Edward was in the cells, she wanted to go under quiet and quick.”

“I have a mild, manly longing to smack Sylvia,” said Lomas.

“Well, well. The housekeeper did that. With a poker,” Reggie murmured. “Life is quite just to the wicked. But wearing to the virtuous. I am much worn, Lomas. I want my lunch.”

CASE VII