Horrified though he was, Westerham made no sign. He had stood in the presence of death before, and he had faced it in more dreadful forms, though it is true he had never known it so intimately and so poignantly.

“The girl may be the next,” the words seemed ominous—like a doom. Troubles encompassed him on every side. An hour or so previously he had faced the greatest odds he had ever known till then. The odds were greater now.

Conscious that the keen eyes of Rookley were upon him, he saw that instant action was necessary, and turning on his heel he walked deliberately into the sitting-room.

The detective followed him, and then seating himself at the table, Westerham bade the man take a chair.

For a moment the detective's face lighted up with anticipation. It seemed to him that at last the mysterious Mr. Robinson was about to make some statement. His anticipations were, however, to be disappointed.

“Well,” said Westerham, in a pleasant, even voice, “I am waiting for you to begin.”

“I was hoping,” said Mr. Rookley, “that you were about to make some statement.”

“I never make statements,” said Westerham, “any more than I answer questions which are inconvenient. What have you to say?”

Suddenly the detective leant forward and spoke so quickly that Westerham was almost thrown off his guard.

“Who are you, Mr. Robinson?”

“I can only give you the same answer,” said Westerham, “which I gave you before—that my name is my own business.”

“You are aware, of course,” pursued Rookley, “that the present occasion is more serious than the last. You seem to have an unfortunate habit of coming in on the heels of awkward occurrences.”

“It does seem like it just now,” agreed Westerham.

There was a pause and Westerham was the first to speak again. “As you yourself know full well that I was not here when this business happened, I think that you had better clear the ground by telling me all you know if you wish me to assist you.”

Rookley looked at him sharply, but decided that Westerham was right.

“I will tell you,” he said.

“At about ten o'clock two men called and asked for you. Both of them were dressed rather like sailors, one man being short, the other tall. They were told that you were out.

“The tall man, however, said that he had come to see you in response to a letter, and that, as he knew you had a sitting-room, he would be obliged if they would allow him to wait with his friend.

“As the men were both quiet and respectable in dress and in manner, they were allowed to do so.

“After a little while the taller of the two men went down to the hall and told the porter that he had left his friend upstairs, and that he himself was going out to buy some cigarettes.

“The porter was a little surprised, but said nothing, but when half an hour had gone by he grew uneasy and going upstairs to the sitting-room discovered what you have just seen.

“The body was not touched, and we were immediately summoned by the police at Bow Street. The police-surgeon happened to be absent, and has not yet called. That accounts for the body being still undisturbed. We had, as a matter of fact, only been here a few minutes when you yourself arrived.”

“Is that all?” asked Westerham.

“That's all that I can tell you up to the present,” said the detective.

“What were the men like?” asked Westerham, though he had by this time little doubt as to the identity of the murderer, just as he knew well enough the identity of the victim.

“The murdered man,” said the detective, “you have seen yourself. The murderer—for there is not the slightest doubt that the taller of the two men stabbed the other—is described as being spare in build and black-bearded.”

“Black-bearded?” said Westerham, wonderingly.

Rookley looked at him sharply.

“You have suspicions?” he said.

“Is there a man without them?” asked Westerham.

“Come, come, sir,” urged the detective, “this is not a time for jesting.”

“I am not jesting,” said Westerham, and relapsed into silence.

“Don't you think,” asked the detective after a little while, “it would be better if you were to make a clean breast of everything?”

“I tell you frankly, Mr. Robinson,” he continued, “that I have changed my opinion about yourself. At first I thought you were a dupe of Melun's, but I was soon convinced that a man so astute as yourself could not possibly have been misled even by that clever scoundrel.

“Indeed, it seemed to me improbable that a gentleman of such ingenuity as yourself should have become a victim of any conspiracy. No, sir, it appears to me—mind, I am giving you every credit—that you are in some way bound up with a very extraordinary network of crime.

“What it is, of course, I cannot tell, unless you trust me. I wish you would see the wisdom of giving me your confidence. In the meantime I can only theorise.”

Mr. Rookley paused and looked infinitely wise.

“Go on,” said Westerham.

“In all probability,” Mr. Rookley proceeded, “you have become involved in some peculiar kind of vendetta. I assure you, sir, that when you are as versed in the machinations of mankind as I am you will not find such a supposition as mine at all romantic.

“If, however, such is the case, then Melun plays a part in it. And if Melun plays a part in it,” concluded the detective, with a fine show of pitiless logic, “then he had a hand in this. Now tell me, sir, do you suspect him?”

“I must once again,” said Westerham, “be allowed to point out that what I suspect is no affair of yours at all.

“I don't mind telling you, however, that I am involved in a very remarkable conspiracy. The part which I play is entirely innocent; on the other hand, it is impossible for me to make the faintest revelation concerning it.”

“But this is not the end of it,” cried Rookley. “By no means the end of it. Look at the threat on the luggage label. ‘The girl may be the next.’ Now, what does that mean? Who is the girl?”

Westerham's ruddy face grew a little pale.

“The girl,” he said, “is the lady it is my business to shelter and protect. By holding silent I can at least secure her life; if I breathe one word I can well believe that her fate may be the same as that of the man within.”

He pointed to the bedroom.

“Then, sir,” said the detective, banging his fist on the table, “it is your duty to tell us everything.

“The police can give protection to all who need it,” he added after a pause.

“The police did not save the dead,” answered Westerham. “And they cannot save the girl.”

“Mr. Robinson,” said the detective, darkly, “if you persist in silence I must resort to extreme measures. There was no justification in my detaining you yesterday over the gagging of your valet. But this is an entirely different piece of business.

“This is murder, and I should not be doing my duty if I did not turn every stone to bring the murderer to justice, I warn you solemnly that there is such a thing as being charged with complicity, and, if you continue to defy me as you do, then I shall have no other course but to take you in charge.”

“My dear man,” said Westerham, “don't be a fool. Let me implore you not to be led by a little exercise of your authority into taking a step which you would for ever regret.

“You have been extremely clever in your theories, but you have not been quite clever enough. I don't wish to be unkind, but you have lacked imagination. This is not some comparatively small affair; it is by no means a vendetta; it is by no means a quarrel over a woman.

“It is an affair in which half the participators act in blind ignorance. There are possibly only three people in existence who can throw any light on the matter. And they occupy such a position in this world that it would be extremely unwise for you to take any steps without their sanction.”

“I don't know who are concerned in the matter,” said the detective. “It is that of which I complain.”

“And I,” answered Westerham, “am not in a position to enlighten you.”

“One thing, however, I can tell you,” said the detective, “and that is that however he may be indirectly concerned in this murder, Melun himself did not actually commit it. I have already ascertained that he was in his club at the time.”

If he expected Westerham to betray the slightest surprise, Rookley was disappointed. For although, as a matter of fact, he was astounded at this information, Sir Paul continued to stare at his interrogator in stony and unemotional silence.

“Indeed!” was the only remark he made.

Mr. Rookley rose and rang the bell, and when the servant appeared, asked him to request Mr. Moore to step upstairs.

A few minutes later Mr. Moore, the young detective whose acquaintance Westerham had made at his rooms in Bruton Street the day before, came briskly into the room.

“Mr. Moore,” said the detective, solemnly, “we must do our duty.

“It is our task to charge this gentleman with being concerned in this business.”

Westerham turned his hard, stern eyes on Moore, and the man felt uncomfortable.

“Very well, sir,” he said, looking at his chief.

“Stop!” cried Westerham, “before you do so, I want to ask you one or two questions. You, of course, are responsible to the Commissioner?”

Rookley nodded.

“And the Commissioner is responsible to the Home Secretary?”

Rookley nodded again.

“And the Home Secretary is, to a certain extent, responsible to the Prime Minister?”

Once more Rookley nodded.

“That being so,” Westerham continued, “will you allow me to ask you if you have ever known even as bad a business as this hushed up for high political motives?”

Rookley started and stared at him.

“Oh, I see you have,” said Westerham.

“This is not Russia, sir,” remarked Mr. Rookley.

“No,” said Westerham, “but, on the other hand, Russian methods are not wholly unknown in this country.”

It was Mr. Rookley's turn to look uncomfortable now.

“Now,” continued Westerham, “you have warned me. I want to warn you. In dealing with me you are dealing with no ordinary person. I assure you that by my silence I am doing my duty by the State, although I practically know no more what this means than you do. I give you my word on that.

“I know, however, sufficient to appreciate that my arrest must result in a great many inquiries, the effect of which will be disastrous, not only to individuals, but to the State. I repeat again that I cannot see plainly in what way, but I have sufficient knowledge to justify my assuming this conclusion.

“What I ask you therefore is this: Will you allow me to write a note to the Prime Minister in person? I will abide by the answer, which you can easily get from Downing Street within the space of half an hour.”

Mr. Rookley's face suddenly brightened, and there was a certain triumphant air in his manner, as much as to say that he had convicted Westerham of having blundered badly.

“The Prime Minister is away,” he snapped.

“I know that,” said Westerham, “but his private secretary, the Hon. Claude Hilden, is at No. 10. There is, moreover, a private telephone wire to Trant Hall. I know that because I was at the Hall yesterday.”

Mr. Rookley opened his eyes wide. His astonishment was intense and undisguised.

“I will write that note,” said Westerham—“and believe me that the writing of it will save a vast deal of trouble—on one condition. Will you pledge me your word that it shall not be tampered with and shall not be read by anyone until it is placed in the hands of Mr. Hilden himself?”

For a few moments the detective looked worried and doubtful.

“Very well,” he said finally; “but, of course, you must realise that if you are simply putting up a game on us the consequences will be all the worse for yourself.”

“I am perfectly aware,” said Westerham, coldly, “of precisely what I am doing.”

Thereupon he rose, and, going over to the writing-table, hastily wrote the following letter:—

“To the Honourable Claude Hilden, Private Secretary to the Right Honourable the Earl of Penshurst.

“Personal and private.

“Dear Sir,—Kindly inform Lord Penshurst at once by telephone that the writer of this note—Mr. James Robinson, of Bruton Street—whose rooms were burglariously entered by yourself yesterday afternoon—is in an awkward predicament.

“For your own convenience I occupied, besides the flat in Bruton Street, rooms in Walter's Hotel. During my absence to-night an atrocious murder was committed in those rooms. The detectives called in to take charge of the case are convinced that, while I am not the murderer, I am involved in the conspiracy which brought it about. That conspiracy is perfectly well known to Lord Penshurst. There is no justification for my arrest, and the result of police-court proceedings must compel me to make revelations which may prove exceedingly awkward to his lordship.

“I recognise that there must be an inquest, and I am prepared to give evidence there. Nothing I may say there, however, will in any way involve the Prime Minister.

“I venture to write to you and point these things out, and to ask you that you should immediately communicate with Lord Penshurst by telephone, as, although I am practically in ignorance of all that is going on about me, I realise that some very important matter is involved which Lord Penshurst desires to keep to himself.—I am, yours faithfully,

“James Robinson.”

Westerham fastened the note down, sealed it, and handed it to Rookley, who instructed Moore to take it immediately to Downing Street.

There, Moore told Rookley afterwards, he had the unusual experience of seeing Mr. Hilden go pale as death, and of hearing him mutter excitedly to himself.

Then the private telephone was busy for some ten minutes, and presently Mr. Hilden came back still greatly agitated, and told Moore to instruct Rookley that Mr. Robinson was on no account to be detained.

Both the men were, moreover, enjoined to complete silence, and told that not a word of the matter must be breathed to anyone except the Commissioner himself.

When Moore came back with these various messages, Rookley sat for some moments as though entirely overcome.

When at last he spoke his voice was husky.

“I don't know what it's all about, sir,” he said to Westerham, “or who you may be. Apparently it is none of my business to inquire; but I tell you frankly that this beats everything that I have ever known in the course of my long experience.

“You will naturally have to take another room, as the body must not be touched till the police-surgeon has seen it, when it can be removed to the mortuary. You will get your summons for the inquest in the morning.”

He went into the bedroom where the dead man lay and shut the door with a bang.

Westerham, without even troubling to gather together his different effects, rang the bell and ordered another room. But, as may be imagined, he did not sleep much; indeed, he sat and smoked throughout the entire night, trying to account for the real motive which underlay the murder.

Slowly, too, he began to see that he had underrated Melun's resources and fiendish cleverness; for this was evidently Melun's work.

Yet it was difficult to account for Melun's presence in his club at the moment of the perpetration of the crime. Melun must have acted with almost superhuman swiftness and ingenuity.

Piecing the affair together as best he could, Westerham came to the conclusion that after the men had left Limehouse Melun must have purchased Crow's adherence out and out; and this more than ever puzzled Westerham to understand what the amazing mystery in which he was entangled meant. He could well believe now that the stake was even greater than the quarter of a million the captain himself had mentioned.

Then he also became convinced that not only had he underestimated Melun's mental capacity, but that he had underrated his physical hardihood; for by this murder, unless he had in some subtle way pre-armed himself with a triumphant excuse, the captain had automatically cut himself adrift from the rougher spirits of his gang.

This reflection led to a great anxiety on Westerham's part, for he realised that if Melun could afford to take this step the crisis must be close at hand. And it was an exceedingly uncomfortable and hair-raising thought when he remembered the threat pinned to the dead man's chest.

“The girl may be the next.”

The words haunted him more than Kathleen's own extraordinary statement. He wondered impotently when the problems which beset him would cease to multiply.

The whole situation seemed to have a double edge, for while he rejoiced to think that the crisis must now be close at hand, he was correspondingly terrified by the thought that the crisis might involve, not only the safety, but even the life of Lady Kathleen.

That he could actually blackmail the Prime Minister to the extent of securing his immunity from arrest only increased his alarm, because he was able thereby to appreciate more than ever the reality of the unknown peril in which Lord Penshurst stood.

It was with much apprehension that he sent for the morning papers and read what they might have to say concerning the tragedy.

Fortunately the newspapers—whether by Rookley's instrumentality or not Westerham didn't know—were discreet almost to the verge of being indefinite.

They confined themselves to setting forth those details of the murder which could not be hidden; they advanced no theories whatsoever, contenting themselves by stating that the police had a clue and that important developments might be expected.

They did not mention the fact that the murder had been committed in the room occupied by a Mr. James Robinson, but Westerham was glad to note that they did not speculate as to who he might be, nor did they attempt to give any account of his present or past circumstances.

He was prepared to face, and if necessary to defeat, a battery of questions when he went to the inquest.

The strange little coroner's court was packed to suffocation, and Westerham was conscious that every eye was turned upon him. But he drew some comfort from the reflection that this was inevitable, seeing that he was the only witness in the case beyond the hall-porter and the detective.

To his surprise he found that the coroner led him quietly through a few formal questions as to the hour at which he arrived at the hotel and what he had seen there. The coroner, indeed, made no attempt to discover Westerham's actual identity, nor even suggested that he should advance any theory of the strange affair.

At the close of Westerham's evidence, however, one of the jurymen became for a few moments a little troublesome.

“I think it should be asked,” said this gentleman, “whether Mr. Robinson's suspicions turn in any particular direction.

“Has anything occurred in his life that would suggest that such a crime might be looked for?”

But the coroner cut him short in such a freezing manner that Westerham rightly guessed that Rookley had been using a tactful influence.

“I consider that question,” said the coroner, “a most improper one. We have been assured by Mr. Rookley that there is not the slightest reason to associate Mr. Robinson with this crime. Interference on your part is out of place, and may even lead to a miscarriage of justice. I am perfectly certain that this matter may be safely left to the police, who should be allowed to take their own course of action.”

The juryman grumbled a little, but subsided, and the sharp eyes of the reporters at the tables looked disappointed.

A verdict of wilful murder by some person unknown concluded the inquest, from which Westerham hurried in order to evade further questionings from curious journalists.

He imagined that his hotel was likely by this time to be beset by reporters, and so, having first acquainted Inspector Rookley with his intention, he went back to his rooms in Bruton Street.

There even the mask-like face of his valet bore some traces of distrust and curiosity. It was, however, without a word that the man handed him a note.

To his surprise, and with a little leap of his heart, Westerham saw that it was addressed in a woman's hand-writing, and for a moment he thought that the letter might be from Lady Kathleen. But he was very roughly undeceived, for, tearing open the envelope, his eye instantly caught the address—“Laburnum Road, St. John's Wood”—while across half a sheet of newspaper was scrawled:—

“For Lady Kathleen's sake, come to me at once.

“Marie Estelle.”