"What is your name?"

"James Hill, sir."

"That is an alias. What is your real name?" Inspector Chippenfield glared fiercely at the butler in order to impress upon him the fact that subterfuge was useless.

"Henry Field, sir," replied the man, after some hesitation.

Inspector Chippenfield opened the capacious pocketbook which he had placed before him on the desk when the butler had entered in response to his summons, and he took from it a photograph which he handed to the man he was interrogating.

"Is that your photograph?" he asked.

Police photographs taken in gaol for purposes of future identification are always far from flattering, and Henry Field, after looking at the photograph handed to him, hesitated a little before replying:

"Yes, sir."

"So, Henry Field, in November 1909 you were sentenced to three years for robbing your master, Lord Melhurst."

"Yes, sir."

"Let me see," said the inspector, as if calling on his memory to perform a reluctant task. "It was a diamond scarf-pin and a gold watch. Lord Melhurst had come home after a good day at Epsom and a late supper in town. Next morning he missed his scarf-pin and his watch. He thought he had been robbed at Epsom or in town. He was delightfully vague about what had happened to him after his glorious day at Epsom, but unfortunately for you the taxi-cab driver who drove him remembered seeing the pin on him when he got out of the cab. As you had waited up for him suspicion fell on you, and you were arrested and confessed. I think those are the facts, Field?"

"Yes, sir," said the distressed looking man who stood before him.

"I think I had the pleasure of putting you through," added the inspector.

The butler understood that in police slang "putting a man through" meant arresting him and putting him through the Criminal Court into gaol. He made the same reply:

"Yes, sir."

"I'm glad to see you bear me no ill-will for it," said Inspector
Chippenfield. "You don't, do you?"

"No, sir."

"I never forget a face," pursued the officer, glancing up at the face of the man before him. "When I saw you yesterday I knew you again in a moment, and when I went back to the Yard I looked up your record."

The butler was doubtful whether any reply was called for, but after a pause, as an endorsement of the inspector's gift for remembering faces, he ventured on:

"Yes, sir."

"And how did you, an ex-convict, come to get into the service of one of
His Majesty's judges?"

"He took me in," replied the butler.

"You mean that you took him in," replied the inspector, with a pleasant laugh at his own witticism.

"No, sir, I didn't take him in," declared the butler. He had not joined in the laugh at the inspector's joke.

"Get away with you," said Inspector Chippenfield. "You don't expect me to believe that you told him you were an ex-convict? You must have used forged references."

"No, sir. He knew I was a—" Hill hesitated at referring to himself as an ex-convict, though he had not shrunk from the description by Inspector Chippenfield. "He knew that I had been in trouble. In fact, sir, if you remember, I was tried before him."

"The devil you were!" exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield, in astonishment. "And he took you into his service after you had served your sentence. He must have been mad. How did you manage it?"

"After I came out I found it hard to get a place," said Hill, "and when Sir Horace's butler died I wrote to him and asked if he would give me a chance. I had a wife and child, sir, and they had a hard struggle while I was in prison. My wife had a shop, but she sold it to find money for my defence. Sir Horace told me to call on him, and after thinking it over he decided to engage me. He was a good master to me."

"And how did you repay him," exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield sternly, "by murdering him?"

The butler was startled by the suddenness of the accusation, as Inspector
Chippenfield intended he should be.

"Me!" he exclaimed. "As sure as there is a God in Heaven I had nothing to do with it."

"That won't go down with me, Field," said the police officer, giving the wretched man another prolonged penetrating look.

"It's true; it's true!" he protested wildly. "I had nothing to do with it. I couldn't do a thing like that, sir. I couldn't kill a man if I wanted to—I haven't the nerve. But I knew I would be suspected," he added, in a tone of self-pity.

"Oh, you did?" replied Inspector Chippenfield. "And why was that?"

"Because of my past."

"Where were you on the date of the murder?"

"In the morning I came over here to look round as usual, and I found everything all right."

"You did that every day while Sir Horace was away?"

"Not every day, sir. Three times a week: Mondays, Wednesdays, and
Fridays."

"Did you enter the house or just look round?"

"I always came inside."

"What for?"

"To make quite sure that everything was all right."

"And was everything all right the morning of the 18th?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are quite sure of that? You looked round carefully?"

"Well, sir, I just gave a glance round, for of course I didn't expect anything would be wrong."

Inspector Chippenfield fixed a steady glance on the butler to ascertain if he was conscious of the trap he had avoided.

"Did you look in this room?"

"Yes, sir. I made a point of looking in all the rooms."

"You are sure that Sir Horace's dead body was not lying here?" Inspector
Chippenfield pointed beside the desk where the body had been found.

"Oh, no, sir. I'd have seen it if it had."

"There was no sign anywhere of his having returned from Scotland?"

"No, sir."

"You didn't know he was returning?"

"No, sir."

"What time did you leave the house?"

"It would be about a quarter past twelve, sir."

"And what did you do after that?"

"I went home and had my dinner. In the afternoon I took my little girl to the Zoo. I had promised her for a long time that I would take her to the Zoo."

"And what did you do after visiting the Zoo?"

"We went home for supper. After supper my wife took the little girl to the picture palace in Camden Road. It was quite a holiday, sir, for her."

"And what did you do while your wife and child were at the pictures?"

"I stayed at home and minded the shop. When they came home we all went to bed. My wife will tell you the same thing."

"I've no doubt she will," said the inspector drily. "Well, if you didn't murder Sir Horace yourself when did you first hear that he had been murdered?"

"I saw it in the papers yesterday evening."

"And you immediately came up here to see if it was true?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you were taken to the Hampstead Police Station to make a statement as to your movements on the day and night of the murder?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the story you have just told me about the Zoo and the pictures and the rest is virtually the same as the statement you made at the station?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know if Sir Horace kept a revolver?"

"I think he did, sir."

"Where did he keep it?"

"In the second drawer of his desk, sir."

"Well, it's gone," remarked Inspector Chippenfield without opening the drawer. "What sort of a revolver was it? Did you ever see it? How do you know he kept one?"

"Once or twice I saw something that looked like a revolver in that drawer while Sir Horace had it open. It was a small nickel revolver."

"Sir Horace always locked his desk?"

"Yes, sir."

"None of your keys will open it, of course?"

"No, sir. That is—I don't know, sir. I've never tried."

Inspector Chippenfield grunted slightly. That trap the butler had not seen until too late. But of course all servants went through their masters' private papers when they got the chance.

"Do you know if Sir Horace was in the habit of carrying a pocket-book?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; he was."

"What sort of a pocket-book?"

"A large Russian leather one with a gold clasp."

"Did he take it away with him when he went to Scotland? Did you see it about the house after he left?"

"No, sir. I think he took it with him. It would not be like him to forget it, or to leave it lying about."

"And what sort of a man was Sir Horace, Field?"

"A very good master, sir. He could be very stern when he was angry, but I got on very well with him."

"Quite so. Do you know if he had a weakness for the ladies?"

"Well, sir, I've heard people say he had."

"I want your own opinion; I don't want what other people said. You were with him for three years and kept a pretty close watch on him, I've no doubt."

"Speaking confidentially, I might say that I think he was," said Hill.

He glanced apprehensively behind him as if afraid of the dead man appearing at the door to rebuke him for presuming to speak ill of him.

"I thought as much," said the inspector. "Have you any idea why he came down from Scotland?"

"No, sir."

"Well, that will do for the present, Field. If I want you again I'll send for you."

"Thank you, sir. May I ask a question, sir?"

"What is it?"

"You don't really think I had anything to do with it, sir?"

"I'm not here, Field, to tell you what I think. This much I will say: If I find you have tried to deceive me in any way it will be a bad day for you."

"Yes, sir."

Grave, taciturn, watchful, secret and suave, with an appearance of tight-lipped reticence about him which a perpetual faint questioning look in his eyes denied, Hill looked an ideal man servant, who knew his station in life, and was able to uphold it with meek dignity. From the top of his trimly-cut grey crown to his neatly-shod silent feet he exuded deference and respectability. His impassive mask of a face was incapable—apart from the faint query note in the eyes—of betraying any of the feelings or emotions which ruffle the countenances of common humanity.

On the way downstairs, Hill saw Police-Constable Flack in conversation with a lady at the front door. The lady was well-known to the butler as Mrs. Holymead, the wife of a distinguished barrister, who had been one of his master's closest friends. She seemed glad to see the butler, for she greeted him with a remark that seemed to imply a kinship in sorrow.

"Isn't this a dreadful thing, Hill?" she said.

"It's terrible, madam," replied Hill respectfully.

Mrs. Holymead was extremely beautiful, but it was obvious that she was distressed at the tragedy, for her eyes were full of tears, and her olive-tinted face was pale. She was about thirty years of age; tall, slim, and graceful. Her beauty was of the Spanish type: straight-browed, lustrous-eyed, and vivid; a clear olive skin, and full, petulant, crimson lips. She was fashionably dressed in black, with a black hat.

"The policeman tells me that Miss Fewbanks has not come up from Dellmere yet," she continued.

"No, madam. We expect her to-morrow. I believe Miss Fewbanks has been too prostrated to come."

"Dreadful, dreadful," murmured Mrs. Holymead. "I feel I want to know all about it and yet I am afraid. It is all too terrible for words."

"It has been a terrible shock, madam," said Hill.

"Has the housekeeper come up, Hill?"

"No, madam. She will be up to-morrow with Miss Fewbanks."

"Well, is there nobody I can see?" asked Mrs. Holymead.

Police-Constable Flack was impressed by the spectacle of a beautiful fashionably-dressed lady in distress.

"The inspector in charge of the case is upstairs, madam," he suggested. "Perhaps you'd like to see him." It suddenly occurred to him that he had instructions not to allow any stranger into the house, and police instructions at such a time were of a nature which classed a friend of the family as a stranger. "Perhaps I'd better ask him first," he added, and he went upstairs with the feeling that he had laid himself open to severe official censure from Inspector Chippenfield.

He came downstairs with a smile on his face and the message that the inspector would be pleased to see Mrs. Holymead. In his brief interview with his superior he had contrived to convey the unofficial information that Mrs. Holymead was a fine-looking woman, and he had no doubt that Inspector Chippenfield's readiness to see her was due to the impression this information had made on his unofficial feelings.

Mrs. Holymead was conducted upstairs and announced by the butler. Inspector Chippenfield greeted her with a low bow of conscious inferiority, and anticipated Hill in placing a chair for her. His large red face went a deeper scarlet in colour as he looked at her.

"Flack tells me that you are a friend of the family, Mrs. Holymead. What is it that I can do for you? I need scarcely say, Mrs. Holymead, that your distinguished husband is well known to us all. I have had the pleasure of being cross-examined by him on several occasions. Anything you wish to know I'll be pleased to tell you, if it lies within my power."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Holymead.

She seemed to be slightly nervous in the presence of a member of the Scotland Yard police, in spite of his obvious humility in the company of a fashionable lady who belonged to a different social world from that in which police inspectors moved. It took Inspector Chippenfield some minutes to discover that the object of Mrs. Holymead's visit was to learn some of the details of the tragedy. As one who had known the murdered man for several years, and the wife of his intimate friend, she was overwhelmed by the awful tragedy. She endeavoured to explain that the crime was like a horrible dream which she could not get rid of. But in spite of the repugnance with which she contemplated the fact that a gentleman she had known so well had been shot down in his own house she felt a natural curiosity to know how the dreadful crime had been committed.

Inspector Chippenfield availed himself of the opportunity to do the honours of the occasion. He went over the details of the tragedy and pointed out where the body had been found. He showed her the bullet mark on the wall and the flattened bullet which had been extracted. Although from the mere habit of official caution he gave away no information which was not of a superficial and obvious kind, it was apparent he liked talking about the crime and his responsibilities as the officer who had been placed in charge of the investigations. He noted the interest with which Mrs. Holymead followed his words and he was satisfied that he had created a favourable impression on her. It was his desire to do the honours thoroughly which led him to remark after he had given her the main facts of the tragedy:

"I'm sorry I cannot take you to view the body. It is downstairs, but the fact is the Home Office doctors are in there making the post-mortem to extract the bullet."

Mrs. Holymead shuddered at this information. The fact that such gruesome work as a post-mortem examination was proceeding on the body of a man whom she had known so well brought on a fit of nausea. Her head fell back as if she was about to faint.

"Can I have a glass of water?" she whispered.

A fainting woman, if she is beautiful and fashionably dressed, will unnerve even a resourceful police official. Had she been one of the servants Inspector Chippenfield would have rung the bell for a glass of water to throw over her face, and meantime would have looked on calmly at such evidence of the weakness of sex. But in this case he dashed out of the room, ran downstairs, shouted for Hill, ordered him to find a glass, snatched the glass from him, filled it with water, and dashed upstairs again. His absence from the room totalled a little less than three minutes, and when he held the glass to the lady's lips he was out of breath with his exertions.

Mrs. Holymead took a sip of water, shuddered, took another sip, then heaved a sigh, and opened to the full extent her large dark eyes on the man bending over her, who felt amply repaid by such a glance. She thanked him prettily for his great kindness and took her departure, being conducted downstairs, and to her waiting motor-car at the gate, by Inspector Chippenfield. That officer went back to the house with a pleased smile on his features. But he would not have been so pleased with himself if he had known that his brief absence from the room of the tragedy for the purpose of obtaining a glass of water had been more than sufficient to enable the lady to run to the open desk of the murdered man, touch a spring which opened a secret receptacle at the back of it, extract a small bundle of papers, close the spring, and return to her chair to await in a fainting attitude the return of the chivalrous police officer.

Mrs. Holymead's return to her home in Princes Gate was awaited with feverish anxiety by one of the inmates. This was Mademoiselle Gabrielle Chiron, a French girl of about twenty-eight, who was a distant connection of Mrs. Holymead's by marriage. A cousin of Mrs. Holymead's had married Lucille Chiron, the younger sister of Gabrielle, two years ago. Mrs. Holymead on visiting the French provincial town where the marriage was celebrated, was attracted by Gabrielle. As the Chiron family were not wealthy they welcomed the friendship between Gabrielle and the beautiful American who had married one of the leading barristers in London, and finally Gabrielle went to live with Mrs. Holymead as a companion.

From the window of an upstairs room which commanded a view of the street, Gabrielle Chiron waited impatiently for the return of the motor-car in which Mrs. Holymead had driven to Riversbrook. When at length it turned the corner and came into view, she rushed downstairs to meet Mrs. Holymead. She opened the street door before the lady of the house could ring. Her gaze was fixed on a hand-bag which Mrs. Holymead carried—a comparatively big hand-bag which the lady had taken the precaution to purchase before driving out to Riversbrook.

The French girl's face lighted up with a smile as she saw by the shape of the bag that it was not empty.

"Have you got them?" she whispered.

"Yes," was the reply. "I followed out your plan—it worked without a hitch."

"Ah, I knew you would manage it," said the girl. "I would have gone, but it was best that you should go. These police agents do not like foreigners—they would be suspicious if I had gone."

"There was a big red-faced man in charge—Inspector Chippenfield, they called him," said Mrs. Holymead. "He was in the library as you said he would be—he was sitting there calmly as if he did not know what nerves were. He knew me as a friend of the family and was quite nice to me. I saw as soon as I went in that the desk was open—he had been examining Sir Horace's private papers. I asked him to tell me about the—about the tragedy. He piled horror on horror and then I pretended to faint. He ran down stairs for a glass of water, and that gave me time to open the secret drawer. They are here," she added, patting the hand-bag affectionately; "let us go upstairs and burn them."