"And so you've had no luck, Rolfe?"

Inspector Chippenfield, glancing up from his official desk in Scotland Yard, put this question in a tone of voice which suggested that the speaker had expected nothing better.

"I've seen the heads of at least half a dozen likely West End shops," Rolfe replied, "and they tell me there is nothing to indicate where the handkerchief was bought. The scrap of lace merely shows that it was torn off a good handkerchief, but there is nothing about it to show that the handkerchief was different in any marked way from the average filmy scrap of muslin and lace which every smart woman carries as a handkerchief. I thought so myself, before I started to make inquiries."

"Well, Rolfe, we must come at it another way," said the inspector. "Undoubtedly there is a woman in the case, and it ought not to be impossible to locate her. Your theory, Rolfe, is that the murder was committed by some one who broke into the place while Sir Horace was entertaining a lady friend or waiting for the arrival of a lady he expected. Either the lady had not arrived or had left the room temporarily when the burglar broke into the house. He had spotted the place some days before and ascertained that it was empty, and when he found that Sir Horace had returned alone he decided to break in, and, covering Sir Horace with a revolver, try to extort money from him. A riskier but more profitable game than burgling an empty house—if it came off. With his revolver in his hand he made his way up to the library. Sir Horace parleyed with him until he could reach his own revolver, and then got in the first shot but missed his man. The burglar shot him and then bolted. The lady heard the shots, and, rushing in, found Sir Horace in his death agony. She was stooping over him with her handkerchief in her hand, and in his convulsive moments he caught hold of a corner of it and the handkerchief was torn. The lady left the place and on arrival home concocted that letter which was sent here telling us that Sir Horace had been murdered. Is that it?"

"Yes," assented Rolfe. "Of course, I don't lay it down that everything happened just as you've said. But that's my idea of the crime. It accounts for all the clues we've picked up, and that is something."

"It is an ingenious theory and it does you credit," said the inspector, who had not forgotten that he had proposed to Rolfe that they should help one another to the extent of taking one another fully into each other's confidence, for the purpose of getting ahead of Crewe. "But you have overlooked the fact that it is possible to account in another way for all the clues we have picked up. Suppose Sir Horace's return from Scotland was due to a message from a lady friend; suppose the lady went to see him accompanied by a friend whom Sir Horace did not like—a friend of whom Sir Horace was jealous. Suppose they asked for money—blackmail—and there was a quarrel in which Sir Horace was shot. Then we have your idea as to how the lady's handkerchief was torn—I agree with that in the main. The lady and her friend fled from the place. Later in the night the place is burgled by some one who has had his eye on it for some time, and on entering the library he is astounded to find the dead body of the owner. Suppose he went home, and on thinking things over sent the letter to Scotland Yard with the idea that if the police got on to his tracks about the burglary the fact that he had told us about the murder would show he had nothing to do with killing Sir Horace."

"That is a good theory, too," said Rolfe, in a meditative tone. "And the only person who can tell us which is the right one is Sir Horace's lady friend. The problem is to find her."

"Right," said the inspector approvingly. "And while you have been making inquiries at the shops about the handkerchief I have been down to the Law Courts branch of the Equity Bank where Sir Horace kept his account. It occurred to me that a look at Sir Horace's account might help us. You know the sort of man he was—you know his weakness for the ladies. But he was careful. I looked through his private papers out at Riversbrook expecting to get on the track of something that would show some one had been trying to blackmail him over an entanglement with a woman, but I found nothing. I couldn't even find any feminine correspondence. If Sir Horace was in the habit of getting letters from ladies he was also in the habit of destroying them. No doubt he adopted that precaution when his wife was alive, and found it such a wise one that he kept it up when there was less need for it. But a weakness for the ladies costs money, Rolfe, as you know, and that is why I had a look at his banking account. He made some payments that it would be worth while to trace—payments to West End drapers and that sort of thing. Of course, Sir Horace, being a cautious man and occupying a public position, might not care to flaunt his weakness in the eyes of West End shopkeepers, and instead of paying the accounts of his lady friend of the moment, may have given her the money and trusted to her paying the bills—a thing that women of that kind are never in a hurry to do. In that case the payments to West End shopkeepers are for goods supplied to his daughter. However, I've taken a note of the names, dates, and amounts of a number of them, and I want you to see the managers of these shops."

"We are getting close to it now," said Rolfe, approvingly.

"I think so," was the modest reply of his superior. "There is one thing about Sir Horace's account which struck me as peculiar. Every four weeks for the past eight months Sir Horace drew a cheque for £24, and every cheque of the kind was made payable to Number 365. Now, unless he wished to hide the nature of the transaction from his bankers, why not put in the cheque in the name of the person who received the money? It couldn't have been for his personal use, for in that case he would have made the cheques payable to self. Besides, a man with a banking account doesn't draw a regular £24 every four weeks for personal expenses. He draws a cheque just when he wants a few pounds, instead of carrying five-pound notes about with him. I asked the bank manager about these cheques and he looked up a couple of them and found they had been cashed over the counter. So he called up the cashier and from him I learnt that Sir Horace came in and cashed them. As far as he can remember Sir Horace cashed all these £24 cheques. I assume he did so because he realised that there was less likely to be comment in the bank than if a well-dressed good-looking young lady arrived at the bank with them. This £24 a month suggests that Sir Horace had something choice and not too expensive stowed away in a flat. That is a matter on which Hill ought to be able to throw some light. If he knows anything I'll get it out of him. It struck me as extraordinary that Sir Horace should have taken Hill into his service knowing what he was. But this, apparently, is the explanation. He knew that Hill wouldn't gossip about him for fear of being exposed, for that would mean that Hill would lose his situation and would find it impossible to get another one without a reference from him. We'll have Hill brought here—"

There was a knock at the door, and a boy in buttons entered and handed
Inspector Chippenfield a card.

"Seldon from Hampstead," he explained to Rolfe. "Don't go away yet. It may be something about this case."

Police-Inspector Seldon entered the office, and held the door ajar for a man behind him. He shook hands with Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe, and then motioned his companion to a chair.

"This is Mr. Robert Evans, the landlord of the Flowerdew Hotel, Covent Garden," he explained. He looked at Mr. Evans with the air of a police-court inspector waiting for a witness to corroborate his statement, but as that gentleman remained silent he sharply asked, "Isn't that so?"

"Quite right," said Mr. Evans, in a moist, husky voice.

He was a short fat man, with an extremely red face and bulging eyes, which watered very much and apparently required to be constantly mopped with a handkerchief which he carried in his hand. This peculiarity gave Mr. Evans the appearance of a man perpetually in mourning, and this effect was heightened by a species of incipient palsy which had seized on his lower facial muscles, and caused his lips to tremble violently. He was bald in the front of the head but not on the top. The baldness over the temples had joined hands and left isolated over the centre of the forehead a small tuft of hair, which, with the playfulness of second childhood, showed a tendency to curl.

"Yes, you're quite right," he repeated huskily, as though some one had doubted the statement. "Evans is my name and I'm not ashamed of it."

"He came to me this morning and told me that Hill gave false evidence at the inquest yesterday," Inspector Seldon explained. "So I brought him along to see you."

"False evidence—Hill?" exclaimed Inspector Chippenfield, with keen interest. "Let us hear about it."

"Well, you will remember Hill said he was at home on the night of the murder," pursued Inspector Seldon. "I looked up his depositions before I came away and what he said was this: 'I took my daughter to the Zoo in the afternoon. We left the Zoo at half past five and went home and had tea. My wife then took the child to the picture-palace and I remained at home. I did not go out that night. They returned about half-past ten, and after supper we all went to bed.' But Evans tells me he saw Hill in his bar at three o'clock on the morning of the 19th of August. He has an early license for the accommodation of the Covent Garden traffic. He can swear to Hill. A man who goes to bed at half-past ten has no right to be wandering about Covent Garden at 3 a. m. And besides, Hill told us nothing about this. So I brought Evans along to see what you make of it."

Inspector Chippenfield had taken up a pencil and was making a few notes.

"Very interesting indeed," he said. Then he turned to Evans and asked, "Are you sure you saw Hill in your bar at three a. m.? There is no possibility of a mistake?"

"He is the man who was knocked down outside by a porter running into him," said Mr. Evans, mopping his eyes. "I could bring half a dozen witnesses who will swear to him."

"You see, it's this way," interpolated Inspector Seldon, taking up the landlord's narrative. His police-court training had taught him to bring out the salient points of a story, and he was naturally of the opinion that he could tell another man's story better than the man could tell it himself. "Hill was staring about him—it was probably the first time he had been to Covent Garden in the early morning—and got knocked over. He was stunned, and some porters took him in to the bar, sat him on a form, and poured some rum into him. Some of the porters were for ringing up the ambulance; others were for carrying Hill off to the hospital, but he soon recovered. However, he sat there for about twenty minutes, and after having several drinks at his own expense he went away. Evans served him with the drinks."

"Good," said Inspector Chippenfield, who liked the circumstantial details of the story. "And you can get half a dozen porters to identify him?"

"Bill Cribb, Harry Winch, Charlie Brown, a fellow they call 'Green
Violets'—I don't know his real name—"

Mr. Evans was calling on his memory for further names but was stopped by
Inspector Chippenfield.

"That will do very well. And how did you happen to be at the inquest at
Hampstead? That is a bit out of your way."

Mr. Evans mopped his eyes, and Inspector Seldon took upon himself to reply for him. "He has a brother-in-law in the trade at Hampstead—keeps the Three Jugs in Coulter Street. Evans had to go out to see his brother-in-law on business, and his brother-in-law took him along to the court out of curiosity."

Inspector Chippenfield nodded.

"Rolfe," he said, "take down Mr. Evans's statement outside and get him to sign it. Don't go away when you've finished. I want you."

Mr. Evans, even if he felt that full justice had been done to his story by Inspector Seldon, was disappointed at the police officer's failure to do justice to his manly scruples in coming forward to give evidence against a man who had never done him any harm. Addressing Inspector Chippenfield he said:

"I don't altogether like mixing myself up in this business. That isn't my way. If I have a thing to say to a man I like to say it to his face. I don't like a man to say things behind a man's back, that is, if he calls himself a man. But I thought over this thing after leaving the court and hearing this chap Hill say he hadn't left home that night, and I talked it over with my wife—"

"You did the right thing," said Inspector Chippenfield, with the emphasis of a man who had profited by the triumph of right.

Mr. Evans was under the impression that the inspector's approval referred chiefly to the part he had played as a husband in talking over his perplexity with his wife, rather than the part he had played as a man in revealing that Hill had lied in his evidence.

"I always do," he said. "My wife's one of the sensible sort, and when a man takes her advice he don't go far wrong. She advised me to go straight to the police-station and tell them all I know. 'It is a cruel murder,' she said, 'and who knows but it might be our turn next?'"

This example of the imaginative element in feminine logic made no impression on the practical official who listened to the admiring husband.

"That is all right," said Inspector Chippenfield soothingly. "I understand your scruples. They do you credit. But an honest man like you doesn't want to shield a criminal from justice—least of all a cold-blooded murderer."

When Rolfe returned to his superior with Evans's signed statement in his hand, he found the inspector preparing to leave the office.

"Put on your hat and come with me," said the inspector. "We will go out
and see Mrs. Hill. I'll frighten the truth out of her and then tackle
Hill. He is sure to be up at Riversbrook, and we can go on there from
Camden Town."

While on the way to Camden Town by Tube, Inspector Chippenfield arranged his plans with the object of saving time. He would interview Mrs. Hill and while he was doing so Rolfe could make inquiries at the neighbouring hotels about Hill. It was the inspector's conviction that a man who had anything to do with a murder would require a steady supply of stimulants next day.

Mrs. Hill kept a small confectionery shop adjoining a cinema theatre to supplement her husband's wages by a little earnings of her own in order to support her child. Although the shop was an unpretentious one, and catered mainly for the ha'p'orths of the juvenile patrons of the picture house next door, it was called "The Camden Town Confectionery Emporium," and the title was printed over the little shop in large letters. Inspector Chippenfield walked into the empty shop, and rapped sharply on the counter.

A little thin woman, with prematurely grey hair, and a depressed expression, appeared from the back in response to the summons. She started nervously as her eye encountered the police uniform, but she waited to be spoken to.

"Is your name Hill?" asked the inspector sternly. "Mrs. Emily Hill?"

The woman nodded feebly, her frightened eyes fixed on the inspector's face.

"Then I want to have a word with you," continued the inspector, walking through the shop into the parlour. "Come in here and answer my questions."

Mrs. Hill followed him timidly into the room he had entered. It was a small, shabbily-furnished apartment, and the inspector's massive proportions made it look smaller still. He took up a commanding position on the strip of drugget which did duty as a hearth-rug, and staring fiercely at her, suddenly commenced:

"Mrs. Hill, where was your husband on the night of the 18th of August, when his employer, Sir Horace Fewbanks, was murdered?"

Mrs. Hill shrank before that fierce gaze, and said, in a low tone:

"Please, sir, he was at home."

"At home, was he? I'm not so sure of that. Tell me all about your husband's movements on that day and night. What time did he come home, to begin with?"

"He came home early in the afternoon to take our little girl to the Zoo—which was a treat she had been looking forward to for a long while. I couldn't go myself, there being the shop to look after. So Mr. Hill and Daphne went to the Zoo, and after they came home and had tea I took her to the pictures while Mr. Hill minded the shop. It was not the picture-palace next door, but the big one in High Street, where they were showing 'East Lynne,' Then when we come home about ten o'clock we all had supper and went to bed."

"And your husband didn't go out again?"

"No, sir. When I got up in the morning to bring him a cup of tea he was still sound asleep."

"But might he not have gone out in the night while you were asleep?"

"No, sir. I'm a very light sleeper, and I wake at the least stir."

Mrs. Hill's story seemed to ring true enough, although she kept her eyes fixed on her interrogator with a kind of frightened brightness. Inspector Chippenfield looked at her in silence for a few seconds.

"So that's the whole truth, is it?" he said at length.

"Yes, sir," the woman earnestly assured him. "You can ask Mr. Hill and he'll tell you the same thing."

Something reminiscent in Inspector Chippenfield's mind responded to this sentence. He pondered over it for a moment, and then remembered that Hill had applied the same phrase to his wife. Evidently there had been collusion, a comparing of tales beforehand. The woman had been tutored by her cunning scoundrel of a husband, but undoubtedly her tale was false.

"The whole truth?" said the inspector, again.

"Yes, sir," answered Mrs. Hill.

"Now, look here," said the police officer, in his sternest tones, as he shook a warning finger at the little woman, "I know you are lying. I know Hill didn't sleep in the house, that night. He was seen near Riversbrook in the early part of the night and he was seen wandering about Covent Garden after the murder had been committed. It is no use lying to me, Mrs. Hill. If you want to save your husband from being arrested for this murder you'll tell the truth. What time did he leave here that night?"

"I've already told you the truth, sir," replied the little woman. "He didn't leave the place after he came back from the Zoo."

Inspector Chippenfield was puzzled. It seemed to him that Mrs. Hill was a woman of weak character, and yet she stuck firmly to her story. Perhaps Evans had made a mistake in identifying Hill as the man who had been carried into his bar after being knocked down. Nothing was more common than mistakes of identification. His glance wandered round the room, as though in search of some inspiration for his next question. His eye took mechanical note of the trumpery articles of rickety furniture; wandered over the cheap almanac prints which adorned the walls; but became riveted in the cheap overmantel which surmounted the fire-place. For, in the slip of mirror which formed the centre of that ornament, Inspector Chippenfield caught sight of the features of Mrs. Hill frowning and shaking her head at somebody invisible. He turned his head warily, but she was too quick for him, and her features were impassive again when he looked at her. Following the direction indicated by the mirror, Inspector Chippenfield saw Mrs. Hill had been signalling through a window which looked into the back yard. He reached it in a step and threw open the window. A small and not over-clean little girl was just leaving the yard by the gate.

Inspector Chippenfield called to her pleasantly, and she retraced her steps with a frightened face.

"Come in, my dear, I want you," said the inspector, wreathing his red face into a smile. "I'm fond of little girls."

The little girl smiled, nodded her head, and presently appeared in response to the inspector's invitation. He glanced at Mrs. Hill, noticed that her face was grey and drawn with sudden terror. She opened her mouth as though to speak, but no words came.

The inspector lifted the child on to his knee. She nestled to him confidingly enough, and looked up into his face with an artless glance.

"What is your name, my dear?"

"Daphne, sir—Daphne Hill."

"How old are you, Daphne?"

"Please, sir, I'm eight next birthday."

"Why, you're quite a big girl, Daphne! Do you go to school?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I'm in the second form."

"Do you like going to school, Daphne?"

"Yes, sir."

"I suppose you like going to the Zoo better? Did you like going with father the other day?"

The child's eyes sparkled with retrospective pleasure.

"Oh, yes," she said, delightedly. "We saw all kinds of things: lions and tigers, and elephants. I had a ride on a elephant"—her eyes grew big with the memory—"an' 'e took a bun with his long nose out of my hand."

"That was splendid, Daphne! Which did you like best—the Zoo or the pictures?"

"I liked them both," she replied.

"Was Father at home when you came home from the pictures?"

"No," said the little girl innocently. "He was out."

Mrs. Hill, standing a little way off with fear on her face, uttered an inarticulate noise, and took a step towards the inspector and her daughter.

"Better not interfere, Mrs. Hill, unless you want to make matters worse," said the inspector meaningly. "Now, tell me, Daphne, dear, when did your father come home?"

"Not till morning," replied the little girl, with a timid glance at her mother.

"How do you know that?"

"Because I slept in Mother's bed that night with Mother, like I always do when Father is away, but Father came home in the morning and lifted me into my own bed, because he said he wanted to go to bed."

"What time was that, Daphne?"

"I don't know, sir."

"It was light, Daphne? You could see?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

Inspector Chippenfield told the child she was a good girl, and gave her sixpence. The little one slipped off his knee and ran across to her mother with delight, to show the coin; all unconscious that she had betrayed her father. The mother pushed the child from her with a heart-broken gesture.

A heavy step was heard in the shop, and the inspector, looking through the window, saw Rolfe. He opened the door leading from the shop and beckoned his subordinate in.

Rolfe was excited, and looked like a man burdened with weighty news. He whispered a word in Inspector Chippenfield's ear.

"Let's go into the shop," said Inspector Chippenfield promptly. "But, first, I'll make things safe here." He locked the door leading to the kitchen, put the key into his pocket, and followed his colleague into the shop. "Now, Rolfe, what is it?"

"I've found out that Hill put in nearly the whole day after the murder drinking in a wine tavern. He sat there like a man in a dream and spoke to nobody. The only thing he took any interest in was the evening papers. He bought about a dozen of them during the afternoon."

"Where was this?" asked the inspector.

"At a little wine tavern in High Street, where he's never been seen before. The man who keeps the place gave me a good description of him, though. Hill went there about ten o'clock in the morning, and started drinking port wine, and as fast as the evening papers came out he sent the boy out for them, glanced through them, and then crumpled them up. He stayed there till after five o'clock. By that time the 6.30 editions would reach Camden Town, and if you remember it was the six-thirty editions which had the first news of the murder. The tavern-keeper declares that Hill drank nearly two bottles of Tarragona port, in threepenny glasses, during the day."

"I should have credited Hill with a better taste in port, with his opportunities as Sir Horace Fewbanks's butler," said Inspector Chippenfield drily. "What you have found out, Rolfe, only goes to bear out my own discovery that Hill is deeply implicated in this affair. I have found out, for my part, that Hill did not spend the night of the murder at home here."

There was a ring of triumph in Inspector Chippenfield's voice as he announced this discovery, but before Rolfe could make any comment upon it there was a quick step behind them, and both men turned, to see Hill. The butler was astonished at finding the two police officers in his wife's shop. He hesitated, and apparently his first impulse was to turn into the street again; but, realising the futility of such a course, he came forward with an attempt to smooth his worried face into a conciliatory smile.

"Hill!" said Inspector Chippenfield sternly. "Once and for all, will you own up where you were on the night of the murder?"

Hill started slightly, then, with admirable self-command, he recovered himself and became as tight-lipped and reticent as ever.

"I've already told you, sir," he replied smoothly. "I spent it in my own home. If you ask my wife, sir, she'll tell you I never stirred out of the house after I came back from taking my little girl to the Zoo."

"I know she will, you scoundrel!" burst out the choleric inspector. "She's been well tutored by you, and she tells the tale very well. But it's no good, Hill. You forgot to tutor your little daughter, and she's innocently put you away. What's more, you were seen in London before daybreak the night after the murder. The game's up, my man."

Inspector Chippenfield produced a pair of handcuffs as he spoke. Hill passed his tongue over his dry lips before he was able to speak.

"Don't put them on me," he said imploringly, as Inspector Chippenfield advanced towards him. "I'll—I'll confess!"