The Toff and The Lady

JOHN CREASEY

The Toff and The Lady

Copyright Note

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from back cover

The letter was simply addressed to “The Toff, London W1.” Inside it was a photograph of a lovely woman. The lady herself had arrived at a society ball the previous night, looking deadly pale in black satin and mink. She said she had lost her memory and nobody knew who she was. Within days, murder and intrigue had followed her.

Table of Contents

Copyright Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

CHAPTER ONE

MR. ROLLISON READS THE POST

FEW things gave Richard Rollison more pleasure than reading the post and the newspapers while having his morning tea. In far-off days it had been a ritual. Jolly, his man, who could make ritual out of scrambling an egg, would wait until he heard the first sound of movement inside the bedroom; then, as if by magic, he would appear with freshly made tea, the letters and the newspapers, neatly folded, on a large ornamental tray which Rollison said had a baroque quality more suitable to one of the more ornate hotels. It was a present from an Aunt. Nowadays the post arrived later and Rollison rose earlier than of yore; consequently it was seldom that he could indulge himself.

One September morning, however, when the skies were overcast and the heavens opened to send a deluge over London, was to be properly celebrated if the post arrived before Rollison woke up. Jolly went to the window several times to see what progress the postman was making, returning each time with the frown on his lined face a little deeper. When Jolly’s face was in repose most people thought him a gloomy fellow, and when he frowned he was like an apostle of gloom.

On the kitchen table the tray stood ready, glittering beneath the electric light; on the stove the electric kettle was singing, and by the tray were the newspapers. Jolly looked at them as if to make sure that no intruder had disarranged them, and then stepped towards the bedroom door. There was silence. His frown cleared a little. He stepped to the window and, after a moment, he looked radiant. From the house next door there came a rat-tat-tat, and then the postman appeared.

“I do hope,” murmured Jolly, who occasionally confided aloud in himself when he was alone, “that we have a cheerful post.”

He was doubtless thinking of the fact that on the previous night—or rather, in the early hours of that morning—Rollison had been in low spirits. The weather just now would be enough to depress a saint, and Jolly’s only hope of a brightening prospect was vested in the post. True, the chances were against such a fillip, but it was not surprising that a man who had worked for many years for the Hon. Richard Rollison believed in miracles.

The front door bell rang.

Jolly hurried to answer it, greeted the postman courteously, and was given a large bundle of letters and one packet which he did not examine. In fact he forewent his usual scrutiny of the post, for there came a summons from Rollison’s room.

“Jolly!”

“One moment, sir,” called Jolly.

He hurried into die kitchen, put the letters with the newspapers, wetted the tea, whisked the tray from the table and, in less than sixty seconds, opened the bedroom door.

“Good morning, sir.” He stepped towards the bedside table. “Your tea, sir. Your post. Your newspapers.”

“Ah,” said Rollison, his grey eyes kindling. He was lean and dark, with a thin dark moustache, and some people said that he was too good-looking and too conscious of his looks. “That helps. What do you think of the weather, Jolly?”

“Most unseasonal, sir, but it may clear before noon,” said Jolly, serenely, “I have often noticed, too, that when we have a wet September, October is usually a glorious month and November is almost spring-like. Would you like the fire switched on?”

“No,” said Rollison.

Jolly handed him the letters, including the package, and poured out tea. Rollison sat up in royal blue pyjamas decorated with silk lilies, his dark hair standing on end and his tanned face strikingly handsome. He switched on the lamp which was fitted to the wall above his head.

Your tea, sir,” said Jolly.

“Thanks.” Rollison took the cup, and picked up the letters one by one. “A bill, Jolly. A letter from Aunt Matilda. A letter from Alec Gregory—he probably wants me to go down on the farm for a few weeks.” He sipped his tea, continuing to turn the letters over. “Bill—receipt—bill—a letter from a man or woman who calls me Rawlison, posted in the East End—that might be interesting. Open it, Jolly.”

“Very good, sir.” Jolly used the paper-knife from the tray, and took out the letter as Rollison continued to murmur about the others. There were begging letters, appeals from charities, circulars, a selection of letters from relatives—in fact a surprising number. Rollison reached a bill which he thought was the last of the small letters, finished his tea, and looked up.

“Well. Jolly?”

“It is from Mrs. Link, sir, who hopes that you will go to supper to-night.” Jolly showed that he disapproved of the suggestion.

“Curious,” said Rollison. “She usually only invites me on great occasions. It isn’t my birthday, is it?”

“No, sir, that is in the Spring.”

“It looks as if the family is getting its happy returns in early,” said Rollison, “I haven’t known such a number of tender inquiries for a long time.”

He was holding out his cup for replenishment, and relinquished his hold too soon, so that only Jolly’s swift movement averted a minor disaster. “Jolly!”

Yes, sir,” said Jolly.

“Look at that!”

He was staring at the large envelope, and Jolly looked down, seeing the address for the first time. There was nothing really remarkable about it as far as Rollison was concerned, except that it had come through the post and been safely delivered.

“How very remarkable, sir,” said Jolly.

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Rollison, and peered at the postmark. “London, W.C.1, 6.15 p.m. yesterday. Jolly, we are famous!”

“It is really most gratifying,” murmured Jolly.

The typewritten address was:

The Toff,

London, W.l.

Many letters had been addressed to “The Toff, Gresham Terrace”, but never one as briefly as this. Rollison considered it curiously as Jolly handed him the paper-knife.

The envelope was a stout one, tightly packed. The contents would not come out when the top was slit, and so he slit one side and took out two pieces of thin cardboard, fastened together with gummed tape—the cardboard was almost the same size as the envelope. He cut the tape and took the pieces apart. There, face downwards, was what appeared to be a cabinet-size photograph.

Rollison looked up at Jolly.

“This looks like a family joke,” he said, “of the kind that would seem funny to one of my less responsible relatives. Or” —he grinned— “it might be from Lady Matilda. I sent her some rouge, lipstick and powder for her seventeenth birthday, and I knew she would revenge herself sooner or later.”

“Supposing you looked at the other side, sir,” suggested Jolly.

“I’m in the mood for a guessing game. My first is Lady Matilda. What’s yours?”

“If you insist, sir, I would say that it is perhaps a photograph of some film star, who chooses such a method of advertisement.”

“What! With no photographer’s studio emblazoned on the back? Never! As a matter of fact it looks like a newspaper print.” Rollison turned it slowly, and Jolly leaned forward to get a better view.

Neither of them made any comment.

It was the portrait of a woman. Rollison, studying it carefully, judged her to be in the early thirties. She was not beautiful by any accepted standard, but there was a quality about her which might loosely be termed “lovely”. The photograph itself was perfect. The woman seemed to be there in the flesh, looking up at him with narrowed, slightly oblique eyes under long, curved lashes. Her face was rather broad and her cheekbones a shade higher than those of most English women. Her mouth, wide and full, curved a little at the corners, as if she knew this was a joke and was getting great enjoyment from it. About her neck was a rope of pearls, three strings, close-fitting like a collar. The sweep of her neck into her shoulders was loveliness itself.

After a long pause, Rollison said:

“Well, well!” He looked up at Jolly. “No, it’s not a secret passion. She is a stranger to me as well.”

“Really, sir?”

“Oh indubitably.” Rollison held the photograph up, to get a better light on it.

“How would you describe her?”

“I do not feel qualified to say, sir.”

“You’re very non-committal this morning,” said Rollison. “I wonder if there’s a letter with it.”

There was no letter, no compliments slip, nothing except the postmark on the envelope to give any clue as to the source of the photograph. Either Jolly’s interest waned or he thought it time he began to cook breakfast, for he went out, leaving the tray. Rollison put the photograph on one side, but glanced at it each time he picked up a letter. Most of those from his relatives were casual enough; Lady Matilda Wirrington demanded to know, in colourful terms, whether he had sent her a package intended for some wench who was not satisfied with the face which nature had given her, and added a note that if he ever expected a gift from her he would be dis-appointed. In a postscript, which seemed a little wistful, she had added: “When are you coming to see me, Richard?” The bills and circulars were uninteresting, there were two begging letters and the note from Alec Gregory who wanted him to spend a week at his farm in Hampshire.

“I might even do that,” mused Rollison.

Jolly came to tell him that his bath was ready. He had not had time to open the papers, and he decided to look at the headlines while he was having breakfast. He got out of bed and stretched, nearly touching the ceiling with his fingers, for he was over six-foot. As he put on his dressing-gown, however, the tassel of the cord caught in the ornamental handle of the tray. He just saved the whole contents from falling, but knocked the newspapers to the floor. Absently, he picked them up. When bending down he caught another glimpse of the photograph, which intrigued him greatly. Anonymous letters were not rare, but an anonymous photograph had never come his way before.

Then he saw the front page of The Record.

A picture caught his eye, and slowly he raised the newspaper, for he saw that the picture was a likeness of the woman whose photograph lay on the bed. It was not a reproduction from the photograph; the angle was slightly different and the woman was not wearing her pearls, but undoubtedly it was the same woman. The difference between the pictures seemed more marked the longer he studied the newspaper. Gone were the curves at the corners of the lips and the suggestion of veiled mockery in the narrowed eyes. The photograph showed something of the character of the woman, the picture in The Record had a blankness of expression which disturbed him. She looked lost and forlorn.

In heavy type above the picture were the words: DO YOU KNOW THIS WOMAN? Beneath it, in italics: To read the amazing story turn to page 3, column 1.

Slowly, Rollison turned to page 3.

CHAPTER TWO

THE STORY OF THE LADY

“HALLO, Rolly,” said Superintendent Grice, “I thought you had gone north after some bad men.” He shook hands with Rollison and pulled up an armchair covered in faded green cloth, then offered cigarettes. “Couldn’t you find them?”

“They were non-existent,” Rollison said, sinking into the chair. “Thanks. You look very spruce this morning. Everyone seems to be celebrating something.”

Grice was, indeed, immaculately dressed. In his buttonhole was a white carnation, he wore a wing collar and a bow tie, and in place of his usual lounge suit which always looked in need of pressing, he had on morning dress. Scotland Yard had never seen him so well turned out. Nothing, however, could alter his rather severe, even aquiline features across which the skin was stretched tightly, showing the little parallel ridges at the bridge of his nose. His skin seemed to glow; it was a golden brown, more often seen in Italians and Spaniards than in Englishmen. Brown hair and brown eyes with that delicate skin made him look almost un-English.

“One of the Inspectors is getting married at noon,” he said, “hence the fal-de-rols.”

“Do I know him?” asked Rollison.

“I doubt it. Charters, who’s just been promoted—he was in the Records Office.”

“I seem to have heard of him vaguely,” said Rollison. “I’ve been out of touch for too long. Occasional descents on to the sanctum sanctorum aren’t enough.” He smiled. “I’ll have to put it right. You’ll soon find me at your elbow wherever you go, always ready with a word of advice. How does it appeal?”

“It sounds terrible,” said Grice.

Between these two men there was a friendship the stronger because when they had first met it had been in an atmosphere of mutual suspicion, not far removed on Grice’s side from hostility. That was in the days when Rollison, so widely known as The Toff, had taken on himself the investigation of crimes, with scant regard for police susceptibilities. The Toff had matured since then and the police even consulted him occasionally, although some officers at Scotland Yard could not forgive his early wilfulness. Grice knew his worth, however, and nothing seriously ruffled the calm of their association.

“As it’s now eleven,” said Grice, “I haven’t a lot of time this morning. Is there something on your mind?”

“Much,” said Rollison. He took from his pocket a folded Daily Record, and pushed it across the desk. “Who’s the lady?” he demanded.

Grice shot him a quick, searching glance.

“Can you tell me anything about her?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you interested?”

“Take one more look at her,” said Rollison, “and guess.”

Grice ignored the suggestion, sat back in his chair, and pressed the tips of his fingers together.

“Now look here, Rolly, you aren’t interested in her because of that photograph. It’s a bad one, in any case—and you aren’t the man to be intrigued by a loss of memory case unless you’ve a special reason.”

“Oh, I’ve a reason,” said Rollison, “but before we go into that, tell me more. All I know of her I read in The Record. The story of the Bal Masque, where she turned up, is highly decorative.”

“It’s true enough,” said Grice.

Rollison raised his eyebrows.

“The story isn’t in any of the other papers.”

“It didn’t happen until the ball was nearly over and most of the Press had gone home,” said Grice. “The Record still runs a gossip column, and their society newshound was there, when . . .”

At half-past two, when even the gaiety of a function sponsored by Mrs. Barrington-Ley was beginning to lose its vitality, the lady of the photograph had arrived at Barrington House. There, Mrs. Barrington-Ley had staged a Bal Masque on behalf of the Action Committee for Famine Relief, a generous and timely gesture. The Bal Masque had been one of the social events of London, and even the fact that it was held in September had not affected its success. Over five hundred people had been present, and the proceeds would probably reach five thousand pounds, for there had been auctions of jewellery and mock-auctions and all manner of ingenious ruses for raising money. Everything had gone smoothly, as was to be expected of any event organized by Mrs. Barrington-Ley, until half-past two, when only a few dozen guests remained, and most of them were beginning to collect their wraps and coats. Then into the ballroom, gay with lights and decorations, warm and filled with the haze of tobacco smoke, had come “the lady”.

No one had seen her enter, but it had been a warm night with doors and windows wide open. Taxis and a few private cars were packed outside in a long line; there had been a constant stream of guests to and from the cars. Anyone could have entered Barrington House without difficulty.

“The lady” had walked from the main doors towards the centre of the room. Half-a-dozen little groups of people had been laughing and talking, and the buffet, in an ante-room, was fairly full. The lady was wearing a black satin gown and over it a mink coat. There was nothing remarkable in that, but her pallor had arrested the attention of the people who saw her—her pallor, said Grice and The Record, and her feverishly bright eyes. A dozen or more men and women had watched her, and silence had fallen upon the hall when, in the middle of the floor, the lady had turned and looked about her in every direction—and then collapsed in a dead faint.

She had not come round for over an hour, by which time the police had been called, because no one present knew her.

“And is that the lot?” asked Rollison.

“It’s plenty, isn’t it?” said Grice.

“Yes and no. Isn’t it early for you to make an appeal through the Press?”

Grice laughed. “We didn’t. The Record said that we would welcome any information about her, which is true enough, but we would have waited for a day or two before publicizing it. I don’t know that any harm’s done. She says that she doesn’t remember her name or where she came from, no one I’ve seen or we’ve interviewed knows her.”

“Where is she now?”

“At the Lawley Nursing Home,” replied Grice. “Mrs. Barrington-Ley decided to adopt her and shrank from the idea of her being kept at a police-station or in hospital, so she has a room at the nursing home. She speaks in a whisper and looks like a ghost. Two doctors have examined her, and found nothing wrong except a bruise on the back of the head.”

“Let me have it all,” said Rollison, when Grice paused.

“I’m trying to find the right word,” said Grice. “She’s tired out, suffering from physical and probably mental exhaustion. There’s nothing organically wrong with her, and a week’s rest will probably put her right. Mentally—well, it’s hard to say. If her memory’s gone completely, she might be unwell for a long time.”

“Why “if”?” asked Rollison.

“How can you be sure that a stranger has lost her memory?” asked Grice. “You can’t check. We’ve got to take her word for it, and it’s early for that.”

“The natural scepticism of a policeman,” said Rollison. “Do the doctors suggest that she might be putting on an act?”

“They’re non-committal.”

“The natural self-defence of a doctor!”

“Look here,” said Grice, “time’s getting on. What made you come along?”

“This,” answered Rollison.

He took the photograph from beneath his coat and handed it to Grice, telling him everything relevant to it as Grice studied the face. Grice looked up.

“Have you got the envelope?”

“Yes,” said Rollison, and took the envelope, folded, from his pocket. “I ran over it for prints, but I don’t think you’ll find more than Jolly’s, mine and the postman’s. That’s curious, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” said Grice. “Whoever packed it wore gloves;

is that what you’re driving at?”

“Yes. No one handled the photograph with bare fingers, as far as I can find out—there are only my prints on ft. The mystery lady wasn’t in a state of mental or physical exhaustion when that photograph was taken, was she?”

“She looks very much all there,” said Grice. “What do you make of it?”

“Absolutely nothing,” said Rollison.

“I mean, of the photograph being addressed to The Toff?”

Rollison frowned. “It could be that someone who knows her knows also that she is in trouble and thinks I might be able to help. It suggests that whoever knows her and had the photograph has heard a fair amount about me, and perhaps even knows me.”

“I doubt it,” said Grice. “Otherwise it would have been addressed to you as Rollison.”

“Now, now!” said Rollison. “That wedding is getting on your mind. What could be better calculated to make me curious than a letter addressed to “The Toff”, not to Rollison? What could be better calculated to make me think that it’s a matter for investigation, not just of interest? Why was I chosen, and not the police? Because there is some hope that I might make private investigations—not everyone knows how friendly the Yard is towards me these days!”

Grice gave a somewhat sardonic smile.

“I thought you made nothing at all of this.”

“Inference and deduction doesn’t amount to knowledge,” retorted Rollison. “What do you make of it?”

“Nothing at all. I suppose you’ve come to me because you want to see her?”

“Any objections?”

“I couldn’t keep you away if I had,” said Grice, “but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go. Of course, it may peter out. She isn’t a woman whom anyone would readily forget, and someone who knows her will probably turn up during the day. You’d like to know if they do, I suppose?”

“Very much,” said Rollison, getting up. “Now you’ve got to go and kiss the bride—don’t get tight at the reception. I may want to see you again this afternoon!”

He was in a thoughtful frame of mind when he left Scotland Yard, and also a litde rueful. In his wallet was an invitation from Mrs. Barrington-Ley to the Bal Masque. He could have been there when the lady had arrived—unless, of course, he had become bored and left early.

The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still lowering. He walked to Barrington House, which was in a small street off Park Lane, calling to mind all that he knew of Hilda Barrington-Ley. A charming, winsome creature, who made many people think that she was feather-brained but who had helped to raise great sums of money for charities. She had hosts of friends and her husband, the banker, was extremely rich. That went without saying of the owner of Barrington House.

Barrington-Ley was twenty years older than his wife, a man of fifty-five who looked no more, than forty. He was of medium height, lean and wiry. He had been frequently consulted by the Government during financial crises. As far as Rollison knew his reputation was blameless. Like his wife he was a prominent worker for various charities.

Hilda was his second wife. He had a daughter of twenty-nine, named Gwendoline, a good-looking, earnest, serious-minded girl, often dubbed a blue stocking. Rollison remembered the deep, rollicking laugh which came from her occasionally, a laugh which was quite unexpected from someone usually so sober and who gave the impress on of lacking a sense of humour. There was, Rollison believed, a great affection between Gwendoline and Hilda. One other thing sprang to mind: the Barrington-Leys were often in the public-eye, but there was nothing about them on to which scandalous tongues could batten.

Rollison reached the house, which stood in its own grounds, a Georgian residence combining all that was best of the period and containing nothing of the worst. The wrought-iron gates were open, leading to a drive with a shubbery on either side, and in front of the main entrance stood a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce. As Rollison reached it Barrington-Ley came hurrying from the house. Rollison could not remember a time when the banker was not in a hurry. The tails of his mackintosh were flying and on his handsome face there was a look of great intensity—that, again, was usual; he always gave the impression that he was carrying a great load of responsibility. His bright blue eyes reflected a sudden, unexpected beam of sunshine, which made him blink, but in spite of that he saw Rollison and pulled up short as the chauffeur opened the car door.

“Hallo, Rollison! I didn’t expect you.”

“Not unwelcome, I hope,” said Rollison.

“Great Scott, no! You’re just what Hilda’s been praying for —she’s convinced that the police aren’t trying to find out who our lost lady is. An aura of mystery surrounds her, and Hilda’s revelling in it. I’m warning you what to expect.”

“I can face it,” said Rollison.

Barrington-Ley put a hand on his arm and a foot on the Rolls, and said earnestly:

“As a matter of fact I feel troubled about the woman—she is what you’ve come about, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Mainly out of curiosity.”

“Good! If you can help her, I’ll be really delighted.” Barrington-Ley squeezed Rollison’s arm and got into the car, while Rollison walked up the four stone steps and went into the hall, where a footman was waiting with the door open. The footman did not recognize him, and Rollison gave him his card. When he looked at it, he seemed startled.

“Mr. Richard Rollison, sir?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“Only a few moments ago there was a telephone call for you, sir, and the caller gave me his number, in the hope that you would be able to ring him back. Would you care to do so before I see whether Madam is at home?”

“Yes, I think I will,” said Rollison. “What’s the number?”

“Mayfair 03121, sir.”

That was his own number. As he went to the telephone in a small room to the right of the hall. Rollison thought with a smile of Jolly’s resourcefulness, for he had not said that he was going to visit Barrington House.

He dialled the flat, and after a moment Jolly said:

“This is the residence of the Hon. Richard Rollison.”

“Hallo, Jolly,” said Rollison. “What’s the trouble?”

“There is no trouble, sir, as far as I know, but I am very glad that I’ve found you. Have you discussed the matter with Mrs. Barrington-Ley yet?” He sounded faintly apprehensive.

“No,” said Rollison.

“Then I wonder if it will be possible to avoid doing so for the time being, sir,” said Jolly. “Miss Barrington-Ley is here.”

CHAPTER THREE

INTEREST IN THE TOFF

ROLLISON replaced the receiver thoughtfully, stood for a moment contemplating a water-colour by de Wint, and then went into the hall. The footman was waiting for him.

“Tell Mrs. Barrington-Ley that I called,” said Rollison, “and ask her whether it will be convenient for me to see her about half-past six this evening.”

“Very good, sir.”

The footman was tall and young and good-looking. He smiled at Rollison who reflected that the man’s surprise when he had read the card had been a little overdone. On reflection, too, the behaviour of Barrington-Ley might be thought unusual, even for that sprightly and high-pressured man. Had they been expecting him to call?

If they knew anything about the photograph sent to him, that was reasonable.

Rollison hailed a taxi, looked out of the small window at the back several times, and suddenly he leaned forward and spoke to the driver.

“Go down New Bond Street and turn into the far end of Gresham Terrace, will you?”

“Okay,” said the driver.

A small green car which Rollison thought had been following him continued along Piccadilly. Rollison smiled at his fancy, lit a cigarette, and was soon put down outside the tall, narrow, grey-faced house in which he had a first floor flat. As he paid the driver, he glanced towards the end of Gresham Terrace.

The small green car turned into the road.

“Okay, ta,” said the taxi driver.

“Are you in a hurry?” asked Rollison.

“Got to earn me living,” said the driver.

Rollison handed him a pound note.

“Wait here for me until I come out or until the little Morris moves off. It it moves before I arrive, follow it as far as the petrol in your tank will take you.”

The driver scratched his chin. He was a youthful-looking man, clean-shaven and unusually presentable.

“S’all right as far as it goes,” he said, “but I got three pounds worth of business in my tank.” He eyed Rollison curiously, and added: “And I can’t get more’n forty-five out of the cab, I might not be able to keep up wiv’ the car. Fair’s fair, ain’t it?”

“And you’re very fair,” said Rollison, giving him another two pounds. “If you find out where the Morris is garaged, come back and report and you can also live well to-morrow!”

“Don’t forget I ain’t making no promises,” warned the driver, “I’ll do me best.” He nodded and turned to his driving cabin, while Rollison strolled across the pavement and up the steps leading to the front door. The driver of the little car was sitting at the wheel reading a newspaper; he was nearly thirty yards away.

As Rollison put his key to the lock, the door opened and Jolly appeared.

“I’m very glad to see you, sir.” He stepped aside and then closed the door softly. Rollison stood watching him curiously. “Can we have a word together before you see Miss Barrington-Ley?” Taking assent for granted, he walked to the door of the small spare room. Rollison followed.

“We’re being very conspiratorial, aren’t we?”

“I think you will agree with the need for discretion, sir,” said Jolly, firmly closing the door. “Miss Barrington-Ley is in a state of some agitation, and although I have done my best to find out the cause for it, I have failed. However, I did manage to get some indication. I took the morning newspapers in to her, with The Record uppermost and folded so that she could not avoid seeing the photograph, and she showed some alarm.”

“Is alarm the word?”

“If you had been with me, I am sure you would have said so,” declared Jolly. “There was, also, some suggestion of distaste. I thought it wise that you should know before seeing her, sir.”

Yes,” said Rollison. “Thanks.”

“Excuse me,” said Jolly.

He went out ahead of Rollison, stepped to the front door and opened it, and then said in tones of delight:

“Good-morning sir!” He glanced at Rollison. “Miss Barrington-Ley has been waiting for some time.”

By that time Rollison had joined Jolly and the door of the living-room had opened.

Gwendoline Barrington-Ley stood in the doorway. She was taller than either her father or her mother, with an attractive figure not shown to advantage by a mannish tweed suit. Woollen stockings made her legs took sturdy. She wore a Tyrolean hat with a blue feather in the band, and on Gwendoline a Tyrolean hat looked slightly raffish.

“Hallo, Gwen!” said Rollison, stepping towards her with outstretched hand.

“Have you seen my mother to-day?” demanded Gwendoline.

“Why, no,” said Rollison.

“Thank heavens for that!” She took his hand and drew him into the room-. Her features were good, and with the right make-up she would have been attractive, but she scorned rouge and lip-stick. There was too much powder on the side of her nose, and it was nearly white—she needed a deeper shade to match her olive skin. Her grey eyes were very clear.

“Now what is all this?” demanded Rollison.

“Shut the door, please,” said Gwendoline, and would not go on until he had done so. Then she burst out: “It’s that dreadful woman!”

“There are so many,” murmured Rollison.

“You know what I mean. The woman who says she has lost her memory: Lost her memory!” Her voice was biting with contempt. “Rolly, I hate coming to you like this, I hate asking anyone to put themselves out, and if this were for my sake only I wouldn’t dream of it. But—well, there’s mother and father.”

“Oughtn’t we to start at the beginning?” asked Rollison. “And also be comfortable?” He led her to a chair and offered her cigarettes. She drew on one deeply, and when he was sitting in an easy chair opposite her, she began to talk in a low-pitched voice, quite determined that no one outside those four walls should hear.

“I don’t know when it really began. I do know that this woman is an impostor—lost memory indeed! she knows who she is as well as I know who I am. It’s a trick to outwit father, and she will do anything she can to make a fool of him, of that I’m quite sure. She’ll be absolutely ruthless, too, she won’t mind what trouble she causes between”

Gwendoline broke off, and bit her lip.

“This is in the strictest confidence,” murmured Rollison.

“Yes, I know, but—well, all right! Between Hilda and David.” She seemed to find it easier when she used the Christian names of her father and step-mother, and Rollison needed no more telling that she looked on them both as her natural parents. “I was there when she came in—I nearly had a fit! If you had seen David’s face you would know what I mean.”

“So he knows her,” said Rollison.

“Oh yes, although he pretends that he doesn’t. I often go to the London office, you see, and I was there when she came to see him, about ten days ago. Last night she looked like a ghost—on the previous occasion she looked like a Jezebel!”

“Strong sentiment,” murmured Rollison.

“Nothing can be too strong for her!”

“As I don’t know the lady, I can’t be judge,” said Rollison.

“You’ll have to take my word for it,” said Gwendoline. “I am quite sure that there is nothing that woman won’t do if she sets her mind to it. I can only tell you that she has seen my father before, and that when she left his office he looked like a ghost. I think she is blackmailing him, but I can’t be sure. I know that he has behaved most oddly since that time. Normally you can set your clock by him—oh, he’s always in a hurry but he’s never late for an appointment, and if he says he will be home by seven or any particular time, you can rely on his getting there to the minute. That is, you used to be able to. Since he saw the woman, he’s been unreliable, almost irresponsible. I feel sure that he has been meeting her.”

Rollison looked at Gwendoline’s flushed face and angry eyes, and said deliberately:

“If you think there is an affaire, I can hardly interfere.”

“I don’t believe that David would sink to that!” said Gwendoline. “No, it’s something much more than an affaire, and the woman has chosen this way of wishing herself on to us. Hilda has already suggested that when she leaves the nursing home she should come to stay with us for a week or two, and David hasn’t made a demur. That’s unlike him, he usually prefers to have just Hilda and me at the house, and dislikes it when we have to do much entertaining. He’s a man of very few social contacts; he spends his life at his work, and the only rest he gets is with us. Now this woman is preventing him from getting any rest. There are times when he looks positively haunted! I knew when Hilda suggested that she should stay that he hated the thought, and yet for some reason he couldn’t refuse.”

“What prompted Hilda to be so kind?” asked Rollison.

“Her own generous heart,” said Gwendoline, and contrived to prevent the words from sounding trite. “She is quite the most generous person alive. If there’s a suggestion that anyone is in difficulties she’s on the spot as soon as she can get there. Surely you know her well enough for that.”

“Of course,” said Rollison, although he would not have rated Hilda quite so high. “Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Find out the truth about this woman.”

“Anyone who claims to have lost her memory comes under the jurisdiction of the police, you know, and they’ll find out who she is and whether she is telling the truth. They’re not unused to people who pretend.”

“Oh, the police,” said Gwendoline, scornfully. Then her eyes widened with alarm. “The police! I hadn’t thought of that. You can’t tell what clumsy idiots like policemen will do or say, they haven’t an ounce of tact in their make-up. Why, they might discover that the woman’s seen David before and tell Hilda without stopping to think.”

Rollison laughed.

“You’re too hard on the police.”

“I’m not,” said Gwendoline, warmly. “I’ve had some dealings with them over parking my car—they’re always unimaginative and sometimes unbelievably dense. Don’t grin like that! Rolly, will you help?”

“Why did you select me?” asked Rollison.

“Well, everyone knows that you’re interested in mysteries, and this is a mystery. Don’t forget that David is a banker of some standing. He has a lot of influence, and his support for a project, for instance, would persuade a lot of other people to support it.”

“What kind of project?”

“A loan, or a new Company, or something like that,” said Gwendoline. “This is exactly the kind of mystery which should interest you, and—well, we have some claim on your friendship, haven’t we?”

“You certainly have.”

“Then you’ll help?”

“If I can,” said Rollison, “and without admitting that you’re justified iii being alarmed. Let’s go back to my question— why select me? I don’t think you would pay much attention to the rumours concerning me. You’re not usually interested in anything that makes for notoriety. I would have put you in the category of those who strongly disapprove of my goings-on.”

Gwendoline coloured furiously.

“Well, sometimes I have, but—well, everyone knows that you’re sometimes called The Toff and that you do seem to have some influence with the police. As a matter of fact, I’m interested in the psychology of crime, and I’ve followed some of your cases. In their way they have been quite interesting.”

“Thanks,” said Rollison, humbly. “Have you ever written to me, Gwen?”

He felt quite sure that if she had first sent the photograph to arouse his interest, and was now following that up, he would have got some indication from her reaction. She looked blank and a little impatient, and at the same time puzzled.

“I sent you the invitation to the Bal Masque, didn’t I?” she asked. “Why do you ask?”

“I had an unsigned letter to-day on die lines of your diatribe about the lady.”

Gwendoline sat very straight in her chair.

“I do not send anonymous letters!”

“People do unexpected things when they’re driven to desperation,” said Rollison. “It rather looks as if someone else takes an equally poor view of the loss of memory, doesn’t it?”

“That shouldn’t surprise you.”

“I suppose not. Have you ever talked to the woman?”

“No.”

“Nor met anyone who knows her well?”

“No. If I could give you any more information I would, but surely you’ve enough to start work on.”

“I could hint broadly to your father”

“No!” Gwendoline rose abruptly from her chair and stood over him. “No, you mustn’t do that. He would know in a moment who had put you up to it. If I thought it would do any good to question him I would speak to him myself, but there must be some reason for him keeping it secret, or he would have told us by now. Rolly, don’t be indiscreet. I’m relying on you to—to make sure that”

She broke off, at a loss for words. Rollison stood up and lit another cigarette for her. He promised her that if there seemed any way in which he could find out the truth, he would try to help. The suggestion of speaking to David Barrington-Ley had upset her so much that he found it necessary to talk for several minutes before she calmed down and looked at him a little shamefacedly.

“I’m afraid I’ve been nearly hysterical,” she said.

“Not a bit! And I’m glad you managed to stop me from talking to Hilda before I saw you. How did you find out that I might be going to see her, by the way?”

Gwendoline stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Were you at the house?”

“Yes.”

“What on earth made you go there?” demanded Gwendoline. “Jolly told me that you were out, I’d no idea where you’d gone. Rolly! Did you know there was any reason to think

that this woman was trying to influence David?”

“I hadn’t a notion,” said Rollison. “The anonymous letter included a photograph, and a photograph and a story were in The Record. As I told David, when I met him coming out of the house, idle curiosity took me along. So you see I’ve already an excuse for being a prodnose!”

“I can tell you one thing,” said Gwendoline. “Nothing you say will make mother change her mind; when she’s set on helping someone in distress there’s just no holding her. Don’t let her think that you’re unfriendly towards this woman, will you? Otherwise she’ll probably get difficult and be as unhelpful as she can.”

“I’ll be very tactful,” Rollison promised.

He saw her to the door, and she hurried down the stairs. Looking out of the window, he could just see her on the pavement immediately beneath him. She spoke to the taxi driver, who was still there. The man’s words floated upwards.

“Sorry, I’m engaged.”

Gwendoline walked on, and Rollison looked towards the little green car. It began to move. He stepped swiftly to the door and called for Jolly, and his man appeared from die main bedroom.

“There’s a taxi downstairs,” said Rollison. “The driver’s acting under my orders and is about to follow a green car that’s just started after Miss Barrington-Ley. Hurry, Jolly!”

“At once, sir,” said Jolly, and, taking his bowler hat and his furled umbrella from a hall-stand, he hurried downstairs. Rollison returned to the window in time to see him step into the taxi as it moved after the little green car.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE TOFF MEETS THE LADY

ROLLISON turned away from the window and sat down. He leaned back and contemplated the ceiling, lit a cigarette and, after a few moments, hummed, Why oh Why oh Why with some gusto. He was not thinking about popular songs, however. He was thinking of the curious fact that the Barrington-Leys appeared to be associated with the mysterious lady, and the even more significant fact that Gwendoline was greatly disturbed. Her excitement and hysteria—and in so staid a person as Gwendoline her behaviour had amounted to hysteria—had not quite rung true. It would not surprise him if she had behaved in this manner solely in order to arouse his interest—with the same purpose, in fact, as the sender of the photograph.

One fact had emerged, obvious enough and yet he had missed it before. The photograph had been sent before the lady’s arrival at Barrington House. Consequently the sender could not have expected him to see another likeness in The Record.

The grandfather clock behind him struck one o’clock.

He sat up, stubbed out his cigarette, and picked up his hat. He wished he could have followed the green Morris, but there was no telling how long that trail would take.

He had lunch at a small restaurant which served the flat in Gresham Terrace, and then took a taxi to the Lawley Nursing Home, which was in Grosvenor Place. He was most anxious to meet the lost lady.

A stately, well-preserved woman in a navy blue dress received him. With his card in front of her, she was very gracious; how could she help Mr. Rollison?

Rollison said, mildly, that he would very much like to see the patient who had lost her memory.

“Why, do you know her?” asked the stately woman, who was the matron.

“I think I might,” murmured Rollison.

“I do hope you do,” said the stately woman. “We all feel so desperately sorry for her, Mr. Rollison; we have had some experience of amnesia cases, you know, and I assure you that there is nothing more distressing. She is not well, of course, but we have little doubt that she will soon be physically herself. As for her memory”

“Time will tell.” said Rollison.

“Exactly! And if she sees someone whom she knows, it might bring everything back to her. You won’t mind if I come with you, I hope? I can watch the patient closely when she sees you. I’ll first make sure that she is awake,” the matron added, “it would be a pity to disturb her is she has fallen asleep.”

“If she has, I’ll come again later,” said Rollison.

He waited in the office while the matron was out, and he looked about the room with casual interest. There were photographs of royalty and other distinguished patients, and on every hand there were evidence of a discreet effort to impress visitors.

After five minutes he began to fidget. At the end of ten minutes he stood up, and almost immediately the door opened. A young nurse who looked a little scared entered, coughed in some confusion, and said:

“Matron says, sir, if you don’t mind, sir, perhaps it would be better if you were to come back to-morrow morning.”

“To-morrow,” ejaculated Rollison.

“Yes, sir. This way out, sir.”

“What room is the patient in?” asked Rollison.

“Number 4, sir, this way out, sir.” She led the way to the front door, and only when she reached it did she realize that Rollison was going in the opposite direction. She exclaimed in concern. Rollison ignored her; he had seen that the door of a room on the ground floor was marked 4. As he stood outside it for a moment the nurse came back, speaking in a low-pitched but appealing voice: the patient could not be allowed visitors that day. Rollison held up his hand, and succeeded in silencing her as he listened to the murmur of voices from the room beyond. First there were two voices, then only the matron’s, raised a little so that he could hear every word. She was holding a disjointed conversation.

“YesYes, doctor, she was perfectly all right at half-past

two, and had a good lunch . . . . Her pulse is very low and she

is running a hundred-and-one . . . One, yesYes, complete

coma.” There was a longer pause, before she went on: “I have done all that, doctor . . . . In half-an-hour, that’s splendid.”

After she finished there was the ting of the telephone being replaced.

Rollison put his fingers on the handle of the door.

“Oh, please!” appealed the nurse.

“I shall tell matron that you did all you could to stop me,” promised Rollison, and opened the door.

The matron was standing by the side of a single bed, in a room where everything was white or green. A nurse in starched cap and white dress, was standing with a hand on the forehead of the woman who lay on the enamel-painted bed, a woman whose pallor was so marked that Rollison drew in his breath in surprise. The sound made the matron swing round.

“Hallo,” said Rollison. “Serious trouble?”

“You shouldn’t be in here!” whispered the matron. “Go out at once.”

“Not just yet,” said Rollison. He gave her a most charming smile, and approached the bed. There he stood looking down on the woman of the photograph. Because of her pallor she was remarkable. Apart from it, she looked as she had done in the newspaper photograph, and he got the impression that all vitality, all personality and charm had been drawn out of her. She seemed hardly to be breathing. Her high cheek-bones looked more prominent than in his photograph, and her lips were parted slightly. Now that he saw her with her eyes closed, the fact that they sloped upwards a little towards the temples confirmed his first impression—that she was not English.

“Mr. Rollison!” said the matron, sharply.

“I’ll come into your office,” said Rollison, but instead he stepped across the room and examined the window carefully. The day had turned warm, and the window was wide open. It was of the modern type, with a patent, self-locking fitting, and, when ajar, could easily be opened from the outside. He stood there for some moments, and then turned to the cabinet by the side of die bed.

“Has anything been touched since you found her?”

“No, of course not,” said the matron, while the nurse looked at him with startled curiosity. “Mr. Rollison, I must insist”

Rollison ignored her and picked up a medicine glass. There was a little green liquid at the bottom.

“What time did she take this?”

“After lunch. I positively must insist—what are you doing?” The matron’s voice rose a shade as Rollison took a folded handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it about the glass, and stuffed it back in his pocket. “You have no right to do that!”

“I want to make sure that nothing happens to it before the police arrive,” he said.

“The—police!”

“Obviously we must tell them of this at once,” said Rollison, and his expression was bleak. “It isn’t nice and it might be murder. But then, you know that, don’t you? What are the symptoms?” When she did not answer, he went on: “Acute narcotic poisoning, aren’t they?” He judged her agreement from her expression, and nodded. “I was afraid so. Have you any men on the staff?”

“We—Mr. Rollison!”

“Have you?” insisted Rollison, and added very gently: “The nursing home has an excellent reputation, matron, and I should not like anything to happen which would cause it harm.”

The matron became almost as pale as the patient.

“We have—two porters.”

“Have one of them stand outside the window and make sure that no one attempts to force an entrance,” said Rollison. “Have the other outside the door, with the same instructions. I’m afraid it’s a case of locking the stable door after the horse has gone, but it might come back, you know. Will you do what I ask?”

“I suppose you know what you’re doing,” she said. “I will send for them at once, but please come out.”

“Will the nurse be here all the time?”

“Yes.”

“Good. It isn’t likely that the patient will come round, but if she shows any sign of returning consciousness, send for the matron at once, nurse. And remember, that if she should utter even a single word, it might be helpful.”

The nurse promised hoarsely that she would do what he said. She looked as frightened as the matron, presumably worried so much because there had been a serious lapse of discipline. He followed the matron out of the room. The little nurse was waiting outside, obviously apprehensive. The matron gave her instructions to send the porters to the office, and maintaining her stately poise, she walked to the office and sat down at her desk. She was inwardly in a state of great agitation.

“What else has gone wrong?” demanded Rollison.

A tinge of colour stained the woman’s cheeks, and he admired her as she pulled herself together and answered.

“She should not have been left. The police asked us to arrange for a nurse to be with her all the time, and the doctors were equally emphatic. Nurse Armitage, who was on duty, was taken ill, and we could not find another at short notice who was free. It was only a matter of half an hour that the patient was left. She was well enough at lunch, because I was there with her myself.”

“I see,” said Rollison.

“What is your interest in her?” asked the matron, now rallying well. The shock of the discovery had temporarily unbalanced her, for if the patient died some blame would undoubtedly be attached to the nursing home. Now, however, she resumed her cloak of authority.

“I think she is a friend of a friend,” said Rollison, evasively.

There was a tap at the door, and the porters came in, two ordinary men in white smocks. The matron gave them precise instructions, dismissed them, and turned to Rollison.

“Why were you so—officious?”

“Someone had to make sure that everything necessary was done,” said Rollison. He touched the little bulge which the medicine glass made in his pocket. “That would probably have been washed, and someone might have closed the window. Should that have been left open?”

“Not at the bottom—there is a special ventilation shutter at the top. The nurse on duty was careless, and I didn’t notice it. I should have done, of course; the responsibility is mine.”

“I wonder if it is all yours,” murmured Rollison, and having won her hopeful interest, he went on: “This nurse who was taken ill—where is she?”

“She has gone home.”

“Has she been with you long?”

“Only a few weeks.”

“Have you found her quite satisfactory?”

“Perfectly,” said the matron, who obviously caught the drift of his questions. “I do not think that she co-operated with the people who administered the poison—if there was a poison. We are speculating, and I really cannot allow it, Mr. Rollison. It may be a natural illness, a result of the prostration, or of some trouble which had not been discovered. I really can’t assume that the patient was poisoned. She was to have had a dose of Neuro-Phosphates before tea—before all meals—so that was quite in order. The drop of liquid at the bottom of the glass was green, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“Then it is almost certainly Neuro-Phosphates.”

“Where is the bottle from which it was taken?” asked Rollison, and when she hesitated, he added: “I saw the police before I came here, they won’t object to these questions.”

“The bottle is in our dispensary,” replied the matron. “It is frequently prescribed, and we have it in bulk quantities.”

“Can I see it?” asked Rollison, and then changed his mind, anticipating a refusal and avoiding it. “No, that can wait for the police, provided it is put aside and not touched again until they’ve examined it.”

“I will see to that,” said the matron. “I suppose I’d better do it myself. Is there anything else you would like?”

“Several things,” said Rollison, “including a word with the police. May I use the telephone?”

She said Yes,” not very graciously, and went out. Rollison dialled Whitehall 1212, but did not wait to speak to Grice. He left a message which should bring Grice here hot-foot, rang off and moved to an oak filing cabinet by the side of the desk. He was not in view of anyone who might pass the window, but he looked at the door from time to time as he pulled open the filing cabinet and ran through the manilla folders inside. Under “N” he found “Nurses”. On the matron’s desk was a time-table of duties, which confirmed that Nurse Armitage had been on duty in Room 4 that afternoon. He picked out the card about Nurse Armitage, reading:

Armitage, Phyllis Jane, 6a Leeming House, White Court, Kensington.

Age: 26.

Certificates: S.R.N.; S.C.M.

Previous experience: Castle Nursing Home, Leamington

Spa. Seaview Maternity Home, Bournemouth.

References: Attached. Excellent.

Reports: After 1 month, most satisfactory.

He read the address again, murmuring to himself: “Phyllis Jane Armitage, 6a Leeming House, White Court, Kensington, aged 26.” Then he replaced the folder, without looking at the various letters attached, and closed the filing cabinet. His hand was on the telephone when the matron came in, carrying a large bottle of a clear green liquid, and a white record card.

“I have it,” she said, unnecessarily. “The contents are quite uncontaminated, as far as I can find on a quick analysis, Mr. Rollison.”

“I didn’t think they’d try to polish off the entire nursing home,” said Rollison, mildly. “The police will be here soon. Would you prefer to tell them what happened, or shall I wait?”

“I would much prefer to be on my own.”

“Then I won’t embarrass you,” said Rollison. “Will you tell Superintendent Grice that I have the medicine glass?”

She was obviously about to ask him to leave it behind, but he smiled at her from the door and disappeared before she could protest. She sat back and looked at the door, frowning, still greatly upset, and she was sitting like that when the police arrived.

In his taxi Rollison took out the glass, sniffed the contents but recognized no particular smell. He put a two-shilling piece into the glass, so that it lodged itself half-way down, like a stopper, then carefully wrapped it up again in the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket, lodged against his wallet so that it could not move on its side. Grice would not like him taking the glass away, and would express himself colourfully if the dregs of the dose were lost.

The taxi turned off Bayswater Road into Queen’s Road, and, a little way along, pulled up sharply as the driver saw the nameplate on the wall of a narrow turning—White Court. There was just room for the taxi to get into the Court, and beyond there was plenty of room for a cab or a small car to turn when on full lock. White Court consisted of a dozen tall, drab-looking houses, packed tightly together. Only one of them had been painted recently. Outside it hung a notice board: Leeming House—Furnished Flatlets. Rollison saw that as they passed a laundry van drawn up just outside Leeming House; and then he forgot it, for parked behind the laundry van was a small green-painted Morris car.

CHAPTER FIVE

PHYLLIS JANE ARMITAGE

“CAN’T get by the house, mister,” said the taxi driver, “I’LL have to drop you further back.”

“As far back as you can, please,” said Rollison. “And wait, will you?”

The cab pulled up. As Rollison climbed out a sombre figure, dressed in black, appeared in the doorway of one of the houses. He did not venture far into the cul-de-sac, but attracted Rollison’s attention by raising his furled umbrella. Rollison joined him, and smiled a greeting.

“Where lone trails meet, eh, Jolly?”

“They appear to, sir.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A little more than an hour.”

“Where’s the taxi?”

“Waiting for me in the main road, sir. I thought it best to make sure that I had some means of transport available.”

“Quite right,” said Rollison. “What else?”

“There is nothing of great moment,” said Jolly. “The driver of the car is a good-looking young man of quite pleasant aspect. After leaving Gresham Terrace, Miss Barrington-Ley secured a taxi. I expected that the young man would follow her, but he did not. He went to a popular restaurant and had lunch, and I thought it wise to do the same and thus to keep him under my eye. He gave me no reason for thinking that he knew that he was being followed, sir, and I am sure that I did not attract his attention. From the restaurant he went to an office in the Strand—I have the address, and I was able to find out which office in the building he visited. It was a firm of accountants, sir, next door to a firm of solicitors of the same name.”

“I see,” said Rollison. “And then?”

“He was there for some time, but I thought it might be wise to wait and follow him to his next destination,” said Jolly. “He left the office a little after four-forty-five, and came straight here. It is now nearly six o’clock. I am afraid” — Jolly looked apologetic — “that I have not yet discovered which particular flatlet that young man has visited.”

“He might live there,” Rollison said.

“I think it unlikely, sir. He spent some time looking at the board on to which the cards of the residents are pinned. After he had done that, he first left his car outside, sir, and I followed on foot—he went out and brought the car into the Court. On that occasion he gave me the impression of being very pleased with himself.”

“So he’s found his quarry,” mused Rollison.

“Presumably. May I inquire what brought you here?”

“Someone has no love for the mysterious lady,” said Rollison, “and the someone may be Nurse Phyllis Jane Armitage, of Flatlet 6a. Stay here, and if the man comes out alone, follow him.”

“Supposing the lady comes out alone, sir?”

“I’ll follow her,” decided Rollison.

He walked close to the walls of the houses, so that he could not be seen easily, nodded to his cabby, who was reading a paper-covered book, and entered the gloomy doorway of the house. It was gloomy because the landing windows were boarded up, but it had recently been repainted, and there was a smell of paint in the passage. On the first floor landing two men in overalls were busy on the woodwork. They paused and wished him good-day. He nodded amiably, but wished them anywhere but at Leeming House. However, when he reached the next floor and glanced down, he saw that they were beginning to pack up for the end of the day’s work.

On that floor was Flatlet 6a.

It was one of two flatlets on the right-hand side of the landing; those on the left-hand side were number 5 and 5a. Except for the murmur of voices from the workmen, there was no sound, although he pressed his ear close to the door of the nurse’s flat, in the hope of hearing a snatch of conversation. Instead, he could get no confirmation that anyone was inside.

He hesitated before he examined the lock of the door. It was old-fashioned, and anyone with a pen-knife and some dexterity could open it. He had a pen-knife . . .

The front door opened on to the small, gloomy hall, a box of a place from which two doors led. Both doors were closed, now he could hear the murmur of voices, and one of his fears —that the nurse might have been hurt—faded. He stepped close to the door from which the voices were coming, and heard a girl say sharply:

“Must I tell you again? No!”

“Now look here, Phyl.” began a young man.

“I will not do anything more!” declared Phyllis Armitage, and judging from the tone of her voice she was on the point of losing her temper. “I wish I’d had nothing to do with it at all! I was a fool. Why, I might lose my job and my references, I might even have my certificates cancelled!”

“Oh, nonsense! You couldn’t help being ill.”

“I’m not ill.”

“No one else knows that,” said the man. “Honestly, Phyl. you’ll be doing a lot of people a good turn if you’ll go back and take on night duty.”

“I said no, and I meant no. They’ll realize at once that I was malingering if I get back by eight o’clock. Even if I were to go, I can’t be sure that they would post me to her room. And if I did go back and they did post me to her room and she talked all night, I wouldn’t pass on a word to you.” She sounded almost in tears.

The man spoke again.

His voice had altered, and Rollison frowned as he heard the words, carefully uttered and with just the degree of menace which might be expected to take effect.

“You know, Phyl, now you’ve started, you can’t very well back out.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“Supposing someone was to drop a hint that”

“You—beast!” cried Phyllis Armitage. There followed a

sharp sound; very much like a slap, and a thud, as if the slap had taken the man by surprise and he had staggered back against the wall. There followed another silence, broken only by the laboured breathing of the girl.

Then: “You’d better be careful.” said the young man who, according to Jolly, had a pleasant countenance. “You’ll fly into a temper once too often. I won’t try to make you see sense any more to-night, but you’ll go on duty to-morrow and you’ll do what I ask you.”

The girl did not answer.

“Or you’ll have cause to regret it,” said the young man, and there was the sound of footsteps.

By then Rollison was at the front door. He went out but did not close it. He stepped up the stairs and reached the next landing before the young man appeared. He caught a glimpse of fair, curly hair and a round, ingenuous face, on which was a look of some surprise. Rollison stepped out of sight. The young man stood on the landing for some time, and then he seemed to make a decision, for the door closed with a snap and he walked quickly down the stairs. By the time Rollison was on the landing again, an engine was starting up in the Court. The boarded windows prevented Rollison from looking out, but he felt sure that Jolly would not lose the man, and he knocked at the door of Flatlet 6a.

There was no immediate answer.

He knocked again. The knocker was a small one of brass, and there was no bell. If the girl were in the inner room, she might not hear, unless the inside door were open. He gave her a minute by his watch, then rapped loudly.

He heard her footsteps in the hall.

When she opened the door, she backed away, startled at the sight of a stranger, although the stranger was smiling. Her face was pale, and she looked as if she had been crying. He thought she had hastily wiped her eyes and put on powder, which was more expertly applied than Gwendoline’s had been.

Phyllis Jane Armitage was better looking than Gwendoline Barrington-Ley. She was fair, and her hair was in loose, probably natural curls, making her head look round. Only a nose which was nearly snub prevented her from being really lovely, but it was somehow the right nose in the right place. The look of surprise on her face was not altogether because of Rollison—she had an air of perpetual surprise.

“Good-evening,” said Rollison.

“Good-evening.”

“May I see Miss Phyllis Armitage?”

“I am Miss Armitage.”

“Then I hope you can spare me a few minutes,” said Rollison, and walked past her into the hall. She looked still more surprised but did not protest. She closed the door, glanced at him curiously, and then led the way to the room where she had talked with the young man. Almost the first thing Rollison saw was a man’s cigarette case, large enough to hold twenty cigarettes, on a small table by the side of an easy chair.

The flatlet was comfortably and pleasantly furnished. There was good taste in the flowered cretonnes at the windows and loose-covers of the same material on the three easy chairs and a pouffe in front of the electric fire. A small gateleg table stood in the middle of the room, a console radio was the most expensive piece of furniture there—it was in a corner, with a vase of antirrhinums and phlox on it.

Rollison handed the girl his card.

He did not think she had ever heard of him, and he felt quite sure that she had not sent him the photograph.

“I don’t quite understand why you have called,” she said.

“I hope I will be able to save you trouble,” said Rollison, and accepted a chair which she touched. As she sat down opposite him she looked apprehensive, and he went on: “I’ve come from the nursing home.”

She was immediately on the defensive. “I have never seen you there.”

“I hadn’t been there until this afternoon,” said Rollison. “Miss Armitage, there was an unfortunate incident after you left. Your patient was taken seriously ill.”

As she sat back aghast, she seemed all eyes. There was green and blue and grey in those eyes, which were glistening

as if it would not take much to make her cry.

“The illness probably won’t prove fatal, but it might. In any case, the police will make close inquiries into what happened while you were in the room with her, and why you left at such short notice.”

“I—I was taken ill.” The words lacked conviction. She had been allowed no time in which to collect herself; had he spoken to her an hour later, she might have managed to sound convincing.

“Were you?”

“Of course! I had permission to leave!”

“You don’t look ill.”

“You are impertinent!” she snapped, but he thought her resistance was likely to collapse at any moment.

“I don’t think impertinent’s the word,” Rollison said, gently. “The police will make sure that they get the truth, you know, and they will think it odd that you show no signs of illness now.”

“Are—are you a policeman?”

“No, I’m responsible only to myself,” said Rollison, “and what I learn I can keep to myself. Why did you pretend to be taken ill?”

He was afraid that she was going to be stubborn even now. If he was to help her, and he was quite sure that she badly needed help, he needed her confidence and trust. So he sat back, smiling at her invitingly, while she fought her battle. He could see the changing thoughts in the expression of her eyes. Abruptly, she said:

“I did it to help a friend.”

“How could it help anyone?” demanded Rollison.

“A friend of mine knew—knew about the patient who has lost her memory.” She was talking quickly, rather like a child anxious to be finished with a recitation which it had been learning with great difficulty. “He said that he thought he knew her but wasn’t sure. He wanted to look at her. He could have done that through the window, of course, but—well, he said that a quick glance wouldn’t be any good. He suggested that I left the room without telling anyone. Then if another nurse entered the room and saw him there it wouldn’t be serious for me, as I was supposed to be ill. I let him persuade me. Once I’d left the room and said that I was unwell. I had to keep up the pretence. Matron sent me home. That is all I can tell you.”

“Except the name of the friend,” said Rollison.

She set her lips tightly and did not answer.

“Isn’t that mistaken loyalty?” asked Rollison.

She did not answer.

“You’ll have to tell this story to the police,” said Rollison, “and they’ll insist on knowing who it was. If you refuse to tell them they will think the story is a false one; assume that you administered the poison to”

“Poison!” gasped Phyllis. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “I am quite sure.”

“Poison!” she exclaimed again, and she rose from her chair and looked at him, her eyes rounded with horror, and her breathing quickening. She held her hands up in front of her, as if to fend off an evil thing. “I—didn’t dream” she continued, and then she turned away and stepped to the window, where she stood looking out on the dreary house opposite. “I can’t believe that Marcus would do that!”

“Someone did, this afternoon,” said Rollison.

She said: “I can’t believe that Marcus would do anything like that. He’s cruel sometimes, and—but that has nothing to do with it.” She swung round, suddenly angry. “I believe you’re lying to me! I believe you’re trying to make me say too much, that you want to make me incriminate myself.”

“Now don’t talk nonsense,” said Rollison. He stood up and went to the window by her side. “I would like to help you. I have an interest in the lady in question, too, and I shall have to go on making inquiries, whether you are free or not. If you tell me and then the police the whole truth, you won’t be detained.”

“How—how do you know?”

“They would need more evidence than that would give them,” said Rollison. He put his hands on her shoulders and made her look at him. Her eyes were bright and her face had a freshness and vitality which her fears and terrors then could not wholly hide. She was trembling, but she faced him frankly as he went on: “If there is anything in your story that it wouldn’t be wise to tell the police just now, I’ll tell you so. Seriously—I want to help.”

“I don’t see why you should,” she said.

“But you think I do, don’t you?”

After a pause, she slipped away from him and stepped to the table, where her handbag lay open. She took out a cigarette case and lit a cigarette, without once looking at him. She coughed when the smoke caught at her throat.

“I suppose so,” she said. “Marcus—Marcus Shayle is a friend of mine.”

“Did he give you any other explanation of his anxiety to look at the lady?”

“No, I’ve told you all I know,” she said, “except—oh, I know I shouldn’t have let him go there, I should have refused to have anything to do with it! But there seemed no harm, and Marcus—well, he’s engaged to my sister.”

“I see,” said Rollison.

“Need I tell the police that? I don’t want Janice to be brought into this if I can help it, she’s—she’s younger than l.

it might upset her, and” She paused, miserably, and then

asked: “Can you see what I mean?”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “But they’ll soon find out that he is engaged to sister Janice, you know. The police had better be told everything, but your best attitude is one of repentance. It was an odd request, you knew that you shouldn’t have acceded, but Marcus was a friend and you saw no real harm. Then when you had left the room you realized that if the matron discovered that you weren’t ill it might get you into trouble, so you decided to carry the thing through properly. That isn’t so far from the truth, is it?”

“No,” she said. “But it will make it look as if Marcus gave her the poison.”

“If he didn’t give it to her there is nothing to worry about, and if he did the sooner we know it the better,” said Rollison.

“Is Marcus Shayle a curly-haired man with a round, rather boyish face?”

Yes,” she said. “I suppose you saw him as you came up.”

“I saw him in the street. What did he want here?”

She told him, filling in the gaps of the conversation, although Rollison had heard all that really mattered while listening at the door. At first Marcus had said he much appreciated her help, and promised it would not get her into difficulties at the nursing home. After she had made tea, he had broached the subject of her returning to take up night duty, so as to make a note of everything the woman said.

When she had finished, Rollison asked:

“How long has your sister known Marcus?”

“Not very long,” she said. “Two or three months.”

“Before you went to the nursing home?”

“Yes, but after I had applied for a post there,” said Phyllis. “What has that got to do with it?”

“Nothing, probably,” said Rollison. “How long has he known where you worked?”

“Well—since I started, of course. In fact since I interviewed matron and she offered me the post. That can’t have anything to do with this, can it?”

“I don’t see how,” admitted Rollison.

As he spoke a car drew up outside with a squeal of brakes which startled the girl. Rollison leaned forward, and saw the top of a Wolseley. A moment later Grice and two of his men climbed out of the car. Rollison turned hastily.

“The police are here. Tell them the truth, as we’ve discussed it. If they ask whether I’ve been here, you can tell them, but there’s no need to volunteer the information. And don’t worry too much!” He was walking across the room as he spoke, and he picked up the man’s cigarette case and slipped it into his pocket.

“That belongs to Marcus,” Phyllis said.

“I hoped it did,” said Rollison: “He’ll get it back.” He stepped to the front door. As he opened it he heard footsteps on the stairs. Then a door opposite Flatlet 6a opened, and a man in painter’s overalls appeared. He seemed taken aback at the sight of Rollison, and darted behind the door again. As he did so he slid his right hand into the capacious pocket of his overalls, but he was a shade too late to hide the gun in his hand.

CHAPTER SIX

NO MURDER

THE door slammed. The footsteps of the police reached the first landing. Rollison raised his voice, and there was an urgent note in it.

“Grice! Stop the painter in overalls at the back!”

He put his left shoulder to the door behind which the man had disappeared. He was handicapped because of the glass in his pocket—if he shook it too much the two-shilling piece might move and the liquid would splash up to the handkerchief and be soaked up. The door sagged under his pressure. On the landing below Grice was calling orders to his men. As the door sagged still further, Grice came rushing up the stairs, and the door of Phyllis Armitage’s flat opened.

“Finish this off, will you,” said Rollison to Grice, and stood aside. Grice put his whole weight behind the effort, and the door burst open.

As he staggered inside, Grice muttered: “I hope you’ve good grounds for this.”

“A man with a gun and intent to murder,” said Rollison, and stepped past him towards a room which looked exactly the same as 6a. The window was wide open and a gentle breeze coming through. He looked out in time to see the man in overalls jump from the ladder to die pavement and run towards Queen’s Road. At the same time Grice’s two men reached the street and raced in pursuit.

Grice reached the window in time to see his men disappearing. He drew back as Phyllis came into the room.

Rollison beamed. “Miss Armitage—Superintendent Grice, of New Scotland Yard.”

“How do you do,” said Phyllis, calmly enough.

“Er—good-evening.”

“May I inquire what is happening?” asked Phyllis, and her turned-up nose helped to give her just the right expression of ingenuous bewilderment. “There’s no one in this flat—the

tenant has gone away for a week.”

“There was someone inside,” stated Grice.

“About whom we shall tell you in due course,” said Rollison, who felt on top of the world. “I think the Superintendent wants a few words with you, Miss Armitage.”

She still looked puzzled. “Of course,” she said, and went back to her own rooms, leaving both front doors ajar.

Grice had changed into a brown lounge suit and looked much more comfortable. There was a note of acerbity in his voice.

“I thought I’d find you here when I heard you’d been to the nursing home,” he said.

“Prophecies all coming true,” said Rollison, “and yet you always say you don’t believe in hunches.” He unbuttoned his pocket as he spoke.

Grice said: “What have you said to the girl?”

“You didn’t give me time to say much,” said Rollison. “Another ten minutes, and I would have got the whole story out of her. Here’s a present for you. I don’t mean the florin,” he added as he held the medicine glass out. There was still a little liquid at the bottom when he tilted it. “Go on, it won’t bite—didn’t the matron tell you I’d taken it away?”

“Yes,” said Grice. He took the glass and put it on the mantelpiece. “Why did you take it?”

“Curious disquiet at nursing home,” said Rollison. “It may have been genuine alarm at the collapse of “the lady”, or it might have been because they have failed to carry out police and doctors’ instructions, but it might also be because they harbour deep and guilty secrets. I didn’t intend to take any chances with that glass, although it probably contains nothing but Neuro-Phosphates.” The bantering note faded from his voice as he added: “How is the lady?”

“It will be touch and go,” Grice answered. “They think they’ll pull her round.”

“No murder yet,” said Rollison. “Here nor there.”

“You’re in an infuriating mood,” said Grice. “Here or there what?”

“No murder,” said Rollison. “Man with gun dressed as a painter was almost certainly after our demure little lady here. She has a very pretty face, not at all a bad figure, and something of the air of an ingenue which I think is natural and unassumed.”

You always did fall for a pretty face,” said Grice.

“That’s uncalled for, unfair, unjust and quite true,” declared Rollison. “See what you can find out from her. I don’t think she will keep much back. I do not think that she left the mystery lady’s room on a pretext, but I shouldn’t read too much in that. By the way, what doctors attend “the lady”?”

“Renfrew, of Wimpole Street, and Cray.”

“Renfrew as Mrs. Barrington-Ley’s society nominee, I suppose,” said Rollison. “Cray put up by the Yard.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity,” said Rollison.

“You’re unbearable,” said Grice. “Are you coming in with me to talk to this girl?”

“No, I must be off. I promised to call on Hilda to-night.”

“Mrs. Barrington-Ley?”

“Yes. Good hunting!” Rollison smiled and led the way out of the room.

As he reached the landing one of Grice’s men appeared on the landing below. The man came up when Rollison beckoned him, and reported that the pseudo-painter had managed to get away, but that Sergeant Miller was trying to find out where he had gone.

Grice was about to tap at Phyllis Armitage’s door and Rollison was half-way down the stairs, when he stopped, turned and called:

“Oh, William?”

“Yes?” said Grice, also turning.

“How was the wedding?”

Grice glared. Rollison, smiling as if he thought he had cracked a brilliant joke, continued down the stairs and into the street. There was a chance that Jolly had succeeded in tracing Marcus Shayle’s home, and therefore a chance of seeing the man before the police reached him. Hilda could wait until he had heard from Jolly. He called his taxi and, in a voice loud enough for Grice to hear, gave him the address of Barrington House, changing it only when they were in Bayswater Road.

Beneath his good mood there was an underlying note of uneasiness. Even if the case resolved itself fairly well, and Marcus Shayle had poisoned the lady of lost memory, much would remain unsolved, and there would be danger to both the unknown woman and to Phyllis Armitage. It was disquieting to think that a man had been waiting in the neighbouring flatlet, doubtless with the intention of murdering Phyllis. The man had probably postponed action because he knew that Phyllis had a visitor, but then been forced into the open. From these conclusions it was reasonable to suppose that Marcus Shayle and others were most anxious that Phyllis should not disclose the story of her actions that day.

Jolly had not yet returned to Gresham Terrace. It was then nearly half-past seven, and Rollison telephoned Barrington House, asking for Hilda. A man with a stilted voice regretted that Madam was out. So, it proved, were David Barrington-Ley and Gwendoline. He had been wrong to assume that Hilda would be sitting at home waiting for him.

He took out the slip on which he had written down the name and address of the firm of accountants which Shayle had visited. Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, of 88g The Strand, were in the telephone directory, and he made a note of their number. Then he called the house of Sir Lancelot Anstey. He was remotely related to Anstey by marriage; Anstey managed all his legal affairs and, for a man of nearly seventy, viewed his activities with a remarkably benevolent eye.

When Anstey came to the telephone, he said:

“More trouble, Rolly?”

“Certainly not,” said Rollison. “A trifling matter in which the advice of the most distinguished member of the legal profession would be welcome.”

Anstey chuckled.

“You certainly want me to do what I shouldn’t!”

“If that were so I should come and see you with a bottle of fine old brandy,” said Rollison. “The question before the oracle is—if you were not in existence, would anyone recommend me to take my business to Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, of the Strand?”

“No,” said Anstey, promptly. “Not unless they had a good reason to dislike you.”

“It’s as bad as that, is it?”

“Now don’t misunderstand me, Rolly,” said the older man. “I know nothing against the firm, except that it sometimes handles cases which are rather unsavoury. It hasn’t a large connection and it isn’t very well-established. There is a companion firm of accountants—virtually the same people of course.”

“Is it a new firm?”

“It was started about ten years ago,” said Anstey. “It specializes in raising loans and mortgages and arranges advances on testamentary expectations.”

“Ah,” said Rollison. “Moneylenders.”

“What makes you inquire?” said Anstey.

“You’ve probably heard of the case of the lady in high society who lost her memory,” said Rollison.

“Do Pomeroys claim to know her?”

“They haven’t done, yet,” said Rollison. “Many thanks for the information.”

“I suppose it’s no use trying to make you explain,” said Anstey.

Although he had been very forthcoming for a lawyer, Anstey could probably have said much more. Rollison pondered over that and the record of the dual firms of Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, until the telephone awoke him from his reverie.

“Hallo, Jolly!” he said a moment later. “News?”

“Of a kind, sir,” said Jolly. “I am speaking from a telephone kiosk in the Strand. After making several brief calls at shops, and two telephone calls from public call-boxes, the young man returned to the office and is still there. I am now watching the entrance, sir, and it occurred to me that you would probably like to know at once what was happening.”

“Yes,” said Rollison. “I’ll come over at once. Follow him if he leaves again.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

Rollison picked up his hat and gloves and hurried downstairs. It was five minutes before he got a taxi, but the driver made good speed, and a quarter of an hour after he had received the message the taxi pulled up outside 80 The Strand. On the other side of the road, just emerging from an amusement hall from which came strident music, was Jolly. He showed himself for a moment and then disappeared.

Rollison paid the cabby and then went to 88g. On the ground floor there was a shop, and at the side door a board with a list of those companies which had offices above. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy occupied two name-plates and the whole of the second floor. He went up the stone stairs, unable to keep his progress quiet and so walking boldly.

There was only one door on the second floor landing, marked with the two firms’ name and the word: Inquiries. A smaller hand-written notice invited everyone to “Please Walk In.”

Rollison did so.

He found himself in an empty outer office of sumptuous appearance. Here was nothing of the traditional fustiness of an accountant’s or solicitor’s office, but chromium and light oak furniture, a thick pile carpet, and a polished counter with a bell and the words: “Please Ring If Office Empty: Comfortable armchairs with leather seats were lined along one wall, and by the side of each was an ash-stand with a magazine rack. Rollison glanced at a dozen magazines and found they were current issues.

On the other side of the counter were three doors, one leading right, and marked: “Mr. J. E. Pomeroy,” the others blank. From J. E. Pomeroy’s office there came a murmur of conversation and, as Rollison lifted the flap in the counter and stepped through to the forbidden side, the clink of glasses. A man laughed, another spoke in a low-pitched voice which Rollison heard with difficulty, and then the other man laughed more loudly. It was a throaty sound.

“Enjoying themselves,” murmured Rollison, and reached the door.

Suddenly the office was filled with the jangle of swing music which even a swing fan might have thought discordant. It came from Mr. Pomeroy’s office; the men inside were indeed about to enjoy themselves. The music was so loud that it was unlikely that they were carrying on a conversation. Rollison hesitated. If he opened the door and walked in, they might, with some justification, take a very high hand. He did not want to give them reasonable grounds for doing so, and decided to return to the right side of the counter and ring the bell. As he turned, he saw a door opposite open.

He stood still.

“Good-evening,” said Marcus Shayle.

He stood by the open door, smiling broadly, as if he were taking great pleasure in discomfiting Rollison, who stared at him without expression. Marcus Shayle was a man with most pleasant features. He had bright and rather merry eyes, his full lips smiled as if he were really amused, and there was something boyish about his round face and curly hair. He was well-dressed in flannels, and looked as flourishing as the outer office of the firm.

“Good-evening,” said Rollison.

“Can I help you?” asked Shayle.

“I’m not sure,” said Rollison.

“Or would you prefer to help yourself?” asked Shayle, with a broad beam. “I wonder if you will do something for me?”

It was clear that when Rollison had stepped through the counter he had trodden on a warning bell or a light—and that the radio had been switched on to deaden the sound of movement in the other room. The laughter was explained; it had been to deceive anyone who stood outside. In those few seconds his respect for Marcus Shayle and the firm rose considerably.

“Will you do something for me?” insisted Shayle.

“What?” asked Rollison, giving the impression that he was very much alarmed.

“Lift the telephone and dial Whitehall 1212,” said Shayle.

Rollison murmured: “The number sounds familiar.”

“It’s very well known,” said Shayle. “You see, when a stranger forces open the door of this office and shows other indications of being here with a dishonest purpose, we always call the police.”

“Very sound policy,” said Rollison. “The door was open.”

“Oh, I assure you that it was most securely locked.” Shayle stepped across to the door and put down the catch; as it clicked home, he laughed. “You see? Only an extremely clever cracksman could pick that lock, and the police will doubtless be able to identify you. You will oblige me, won’t you?”

“I wonder if I should,” murmured Rollison.

“After all. if you were to try to get away or struggle or fight,” said Shayle, still in the best of good spirits, “it would add violence to the crime.”

“You could ring them yourself,” said Rollison.

“But that would spoil my enjoyment,” said Shayle. “However, if you insist”

“Oh, I’d hate to be disobliging,” said Rollison, and he turned and lifted the receiver, without batting an eye. Shayle looked startled. Deliberately Rollison dialled WHI 1212, with Shayle watching him closely so that he could be in no doubt about the number, and he heard the operator at Scotland Yard.

“Give me Superintendent Grice, please,” he said.

The smile had faded completely from Shayle’s face. He took a step forward and much of the pleasantness had gone, like his smile. In fact he looked disagreeably surprised and uncertain.

“I didn’t tell you to ask for anyone,” he said.

“I know you would like to fly high,” murmured Rollison. “Hallo? . . . Oh, he’s not in . . . . No, I won’t leave a message, unless—hold on a moment, will you?” He turned to Shayle, and asked, politely: “Would you like to leave a message?”

“No,” said Shayle, curtly.

“No, no message,” said Rollison, and replaced the receiver. He took out his cigarette case and proffered it. Shayle waved it aside. He lit a cigarette, replaced the case, and smiled. “Checkmate,” he said. “Or your move.”

“Who the devil are you?” demanded Shayle.

“I thought I was an expert cracksman,” said Rollison. “Where do we go from here?”

“What do you want?” demanded Shayle.

“Freedom from fear for the fair sex,” murmured Rollison, and saw that the thrust reached home. “Or—who put the poison in the Neuro-Phosphates? My dear chap, aren’t you well?”

“What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Shayle. “You have the nerve to break into this office and to start uttering threats”

“No threats meant, only taken,” smiled Rollison. “We aren’t getting very far, are we? May I see who’s with you?”

“Get out of here!” snapped Shayle.

“After all.” said Rollison, reasoningly, Tm only looking for a pair of painter’s overalls with a large gun-pocket, and that’s the kind of thing I might find anywhere.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean!”

“Then let’s make ourselves comfortable and I’ll tell you a story,” said Rollison. He stepped to the door of Pomeroy’s room and, before Shayle could stop him, thrust it open. It struck an obstruction on the other side and swung back against Rollison’s hand, but he was ready for it and thrust it open again. Into the middle of the office a man was staggering back —a little round podge of a man who held his plump right hand to his face and whose eyes were watering freely. He wore a remarkable suit of red, yellow and white check, and looked a very sporting gentleman.

“Mr. Pomeroy, I presume,” murmured Rollison.

Mr. Pomeroy, if it were he, was bereft of words. He took a colourful handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed gingerly at his nose, while Shayle strode forward and clapped a hand on Rollison’s shoulder, with the manifest intention of swinging him round and throwing him out of the office. Rollison steeled himself so that Shayle could not move him, and looked into the eyes which were no longer merry, but blazing with anger.

Rollison slipped from Shayle’s hold without trouble, eyed the men thoughtfully and noted the bright red spots on the coloured handkerchief; the sporting gentleman’s weak feature was obviously his nose.

Neither of the others spoke.

“The fount of words dries up,” said Rollison. “Perhaps that’s just as well. Listen to me with great care. I have a reputation for liking the ladies, and on my visiting list at the moment are two—Miss Phyllis Armitage and the forlorn one at the Lawley Nursing Home. I should hate anything to happen to either of them. As a matter of fact there are three, for there is Miss Armitage’s younger sister. Do I make myself clear?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

SEPTEMBER THE THIRTIETH

THE sporting gentleman appeared to be solely concerned with his nose, although now and again he shot a quick, birdlike glance at Rollison. Neither of them spoke, and Rollison judged it the right moment to withdraw. He did not think the police would be long in arriving, and they would probably hold Shayle for questioning.

“I hope you’ll remember,” he said.

Shayle took a step forward, as if to prevent him from leaving, but changed his mind. The other stopped dabbing his nose and glared at him. It was a peculiar glare. Most people would have thought the fat man a witless creature of no account, but his expression was not far removed from malignance.

Rollison went into the outer office, closing the door behind him. He stepped across to the passage, and hurried down the steps.

He hoped to find Grice coming along the road, but there was no sign of the Wolseley. He walked across the road to the amusement hall, from whence the strident cacaphony was apparently affording amusement to a small crowd gathered at the entrance. Near the door were glass-enclosed machines filled with tiny glass balls with which were mixed a variety of glittering articles, apparently of great value. For sixpence one could pull a handle which operated a small crane and disport oneself trying to get a glittering article between the claws and so win it as a prize. At the far end of the hall was a rifle range and clay pipes and pigeons, round the walls were a remarkable variety of machines, all patronized and all offering something for nothing in a game of skill which certainly skilfully avoided the gaming laws. From the depth of the hall came warm, rather smelly air, as well as the noises of machines and men and women, the clink of coins and the jovial, congratulatory voice of an attendant when a player won a prize.

There was no sign of Jolly.

He had stationed himself at one of the machines near the door to get a better view of 88g The Strand, and Rollison had expected to find him still there. He stood near the entrance, pretending to watch the fun and games, and actually looking for Grice’s car. It did not come. After a quarter of an hour the fat little man came out of the doorway, looked rather nervously in each direction, and then hailed a taxi. A stream of traffic prevented Rollison from crossing the road quickly, and the taxi was out of sight, going towards Trafalgar Square, before he could get another cab. Grimly, Rollison resigned himself to waiting for Shayle.

At last Grice arrived.

Rollison watched the Superintendent get out and hurry into the building accompanied by two sergeants. He expected them to be some time, and to come out with Shayle. They were less than ten minutes, and they came out without him. Rollison overcame the temptation to show his presence, and watched Grice drive away. Obviously Shayle had made his way out by a back entrance. He dallied with the idea of making a quick search of the offices, decided against it and walked through the gathering dusk towards Piccadilly.

In the affair so far there were all the makings of discord with the police.

A light was shining from the window of his living-room, and as he walked towards the house he saw Jolly, drawing the curtains. That was more cheering, and he hurried up the stairs, let himself in with a key, and met Jolly coming out of the bedroom.

“Did the Fun Fair make you tired?” There was an unusual edge to Rollison’s voice.

“No, sir,” said Jolly, “I thought it wise to leave when faced with the need for making a quick decision without being able to consult you.”

“Oh,” said Rollison.

“Some five minutes after you went into the building, sir,” said Jolly, with great deliberation, “Miss Gwendoline Barrington-Ley arrived.” His expression did not change when he saw Rollison’s astonishment. “I was greatly interested, of course, and somewhat surprised when she came out after a very few minutes and walked back towards Trafalgar Square. I thought it wise to follow her, and was somewhat disappointed when she returned on foot, to Barrington House. I thought it better to return here.”

“Quite rightly,” said Rollison. “Get me a drink, Jolly,”

“Whisky, sir?”

Yes. Don’t spare the soda.”

Rollison sat down and watched his man get the drink from a chiffonier of great age, which vandals said was now a cocktail cabinet. He took the glass and drank slowly. Jolly hovered in the background for some minutes, and then walked towards the door.

“Don’t go,” said Rollison.

“Very good, sir.” Jolly went over to the book-cases in the corner of the room and appeared to interest himself in straightening the books on the shelves. After a long silence, Rollison spoke as if to himself:

“That suggests that she did not tell me all the truth, doesn’t it?”

“A possibility which you had already considered, sir.”

“And which I hoped wouldn’t be substantiated,” said Rollison. “Jolly, I am not covering myself with glory. I’ve prevented Grice from catching Marcus Shayle—your pleasant young man. And how pleasant!” Rollison finished his whisky, lit a cigarette, and began to talk, going over everything that had happened in a matter-of-fact voice, as if he were anxious to get it all clear in his own mind.

Jolly did not interrupt. He showed some concern when he heard of the poisoning and of the man with the gun, and when at last Rollison finished, he said:

“You appear to have been instrumental in saving Miss Armitage from injury, sir, and you may have been just in time to save the unknown lady.”

“No credit where no credit’s due,” said Rollison. “The matron was telephoning the doctor, and that was not because I was on the spot. The unknown lady—what shall we call her?”

After a moment, Jolly suggested: “Lady Lost, sir?”

“I suppose that’s as good as anything,” said Rollison. “Where was I?” He went on with hardly a pause. “Lady Lost was in no great danger; obviously the poison was not enough to kill her. I think my painter would have shot Phyllis Armitage, but now that these people know that the police have visited Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, she will probably be all right. It isn’t often that a man thinks it worth taking a potshot at someone who might be able to give evidence against him.” He paused. “Well. I want to know who sent me that photograph. I think I’ll have a snack and then go to Barrington House.”

“I will prepare something for you at once,” said Jolly.

Rollison dialled Whitehall 1212, only to learn that Grice had left for home. He tried the Chelsea number, and was answered by the Superintendent.

“Why the devil didn’t you tell me that the girl had given you Shayle’s name?” demanded Grice. “You try one’s patience beyond endurance. You went to see Shayle, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“You’re never happy unless you think you’re one step ahead of us,” complained Grice. “Did you see Shayle?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Rollison, apologetically.

“I suppose you know you scared him away?”

“Late arrival of the police is hardly a fault of mine,” murmured Rollison. “In any case, Shayle caught me on the wrong foot. While I was in his office I telephoned the Yard. You weren’t there.”

“Then why didn’t you wait until I arrived?”

“I did,” said Rollison. “Shayle went out the back way.”

“Was he there alone?”

“No,” said Rollison. He told Grice about the gentleman in sporting tweeds, and mentioned that because his nose had come in contact with the door it might be red and swollen. By the time the conversation was over and Jolly had come in with a tray on which was an omelette, Grice was mollified though obviously not pleased. He assured Rollison that Phyllis Armitage would be watched, not only because she might not have told the whole truth, but because she might be in personal danger. At least, thought Rollison, he accepted the theory that the pseudo-painter had meant to prevent her from talking.

Rollison sat down and began to eat, and then said:

“There is a snag about Shayle—have you seen it, Jolly?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Shayle wanted Phyllis Armitage to go back on duty. Would he have worried about that if Lady Lost had been dead— or if he thought she would die? Why did he try to poison her, and then show such anxiety about her well-being? Why did he get the nurse out of the room, when, later, he wanted her to report to him anything that Lady Lost said?”

“I see, sir,” said Jolly.

“Contradictory motives,” remarked Rollison.

He continued to eat, making an occasional comment. Jolly interpolated a word now and again, but did nothing to brighten his spirits. A little before half-past nine Rollison left for Barrington House. Lights were shining through gaps in the curtains as he entered the garden. There as a wait of some minutes after he had rung the bell, and then a footman opened the door—the man who had been on duty that morning. He recognized Rollison on sight.

“Good-evening, sir.”

“I’m a little late,” said Rollison. “Is Mrs. Barrington-Ley at home?”

“I believe so, sir. If you will wait just one moment, I will make sure.”

The footman went off, and as Rollison waited in the hall he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. While showing great interest in an oil-painting which he did not admire, he looked about him. There were several closed doors, and only one, on the first landing, which was ajar. A light was coming from it, and there was a shadow on the wall nearby. Rollison turned towards the opposite wall, and, after a moment, swung round quickly.

Outlined in the doorway was the round face of the sporting gentleman, his nose very swollen!

The man closed the door quickly. Rollison moved slowly towards the stairs, but before he reached them the footman came from a downstairs room and announced that Mrs. Barrington-Ley would see him.

“Thanks,” Rollison said. “Who is the gentleman in draughtboard tweeds?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“The man I saw upstairs just now,” said Rollison.

He thought that the man was going to be evasive, but the fellow changed his mind, and said:

“Perhaps you mean Mr. Pomeroy, sir.”

“Has he a right to be here?”

The footman stared. “Naturally, sir, or he wouldn’t be here. Perhaps you would like to inquire from Mrs. Barrington-Ley?”

There was an undercurrent of insolence in the man’s manner, reminding Rollison of his earlier doubts. He nodded, and walked to the door of the sitting-room.

Hilda Barrington-Ley rose quickly from an easy chair and approached him with hands outstretched. She was a demonstrative little creature for whom most of her friends had much affection. She wore an evening gown of midnight blue satin, in which she looked chic and attractive—and, thought Rollison, she was trying hard to pretend that she had nothing on her mind.

“Why, Rolly, how delightful!”

“The word is beautiful.” smiled Rollison, taking her hands. “You ought to be prostrate after the ball, and instead you look as if you want to compete with the morning dew. How are you?”

“Very pleased,” said Hilda. “We made nearly six thousand pounds for charity, Rolly, isn’t it magnificent? I do wish you had been there, but how sweet of you to send a cheque. Do sit down. What will you have to drink?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Oh, you must!” She fluttered to a table where there were decanters, bottles and glasses which shone in the light from an electric chandelier. I feel like champagne,” she said, “but I don’t suppose you do. Whisky or brandy?”

Rollison laughed. “Whisky, thanks. You’re very bright.”

“Haven’t I every reason to be bright?” she demanded.

“I suppose so. Hilda” He stepped to her side and

watched her handle the decanter, the rings on her small, white hands glittering, everything about her light and lively and lovely. She deliberately ignored the more sober note in his voice as he went on: “Who is Pomeroy?”

“Pomeroy?” echoed Hilda. Her hand tightened on the glass, but she had herself under control and looked at him brightly. “Oh, that funny little fat man. He’s come to see David. Isn’t he sweet?”

“Why does he want to see David?” demanded Rollison.

“I don’t know,” said Hilda. “Is that as you like it?” She handed him his glass and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I never interfere with anything David does. Finance is absolutely beyond me, Rolly. Cheers!”

“Cheers,” said Rollison, and sipped his drink. “Is David in?”

“No, he’s not,” said Hilda. “But you know what it is like these days—loans for Africa, loans for India, loans for every country which needs them; he’s so busy, poor dear, that he hardly ever gets in early. Oh! If you’re thinking of Mr. Pomeroy, he’s waiting for David—he said he would wait until half-past ten, and I didn’t like to refuse him, although goodness knows when David will come back. Is that all right?”

“I can’t interfere,” said Rollison, deliberately obtuse.

“I mean the whisky?”

“Oh, yes, thanks.” Rollison followed her as she walked to a chair, and sat down. He had not suspected Hilda of such ability to dissemble. She was worried, but determined not to admit it. “How is the lady of the lost memory?” he asked, casually.

“Poor thing, she’s had a relapse,” said Hilda, brightly. “I was hoping she would be able to come here for a few days, but she isn’t likely to be released from the nursing home for a week. Perhaps she’ll have recovered her memory by then. Wasn’t it a strange business?”

“Very.”

“No one seems to know her,” said Hilda. “After the story in the newspaper I quite thought a lot of people would prove they had seen her before. A few have claimed to know her; a policeman was here a little while ago and he told me so, but he said they were just seeking publicity. Don’t people do strange things?”

“Very strange,” agreed Rollison.

“But then, you’re an expert on odd happenings, aren’t you?” said Hilda. She put down her glass. “Why, Rolly! Perhaps you can help her!”

“What makes you say that?” asked Rollison, a little heavily.

“Why, it’s a mystery, isn’t it?” asked Hilda, eagerly. “It’s exactly the kind of thing that interests you—I’ll introduce her to you when she’s a little better. Will you have another?”

“No, thanks,” said Rollison. “And I ought to be going.”

“What, so soon?” Her voice suggested that she wanted him to stay, but she stood up promptly. “Do come again when you can spare a few minutes, Rolly, and if you are interested in my lost lady, that would be splendid!”

Rollison found himself in the hall, with Hilda chattering all the time. The footman appeared from a doorway and opened the door. Hilda repeated how delighted she was that he had called and how she hoped that he would come again soon— and then Rollison found himself on the porch, with the door closed firmly behind him, and a feeling of great disquiet in his mind.

The disquiet continued.

The lost lady did not die, and the doctors said that she would be able to leave the nursing home by the end of the month. There were no further attempts to attack her. Phyllis Armitage resigned from her post, and, as far as the police and Rollison were able to find out, did not seek other work. Her sister came to stay with her at the flatlet.

On the day after Rollison’s burst of activity, Grice went to the offices of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy. The two firms were in many respects as one, and had the same principals. Grice was received by a pompous, well-dressed gentleman who denied all knowledge of the sporting gent, but admitted that Marcus Shayle was his head clerk. Shayle had not come to the office that morning.

He did not come to the office that afternoon, nor on the following days. The police found no trace either of him or the man in coloured check tweeds. Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy, Grice told Rollison, were very correct in their behaviour, and professed to be puzzled by the disappearance of their head clerk.

The Barrington-Leys left London for their Sussex home. On the two occasions when Rollison tried to get in touch with Gwendoline, he failed—and obviously she meant him to fail.

In all thirty-five people wrote to Scotland Yard or called there in person, declaring that they had recognized the photograph in The Record. The lost lady was variously described as a Pole, a Czech, a Russian, a Greek and a French Countess, the wife of a grocer’s assistant, a school-mistress, a spiritualist medium, an obscure musical comedy star, the winner of a beauty competition a few years ago and other things, but none of the claims could be substantiated. The only two people who gained the ear of the police could not name her, but said that they had seen her in a small restaurant in Soho, where she had dined in a secluded corner on three successive nights before her appearance at Barrington House. Grice went himself to see the proprietor, and arrived when the lady in question was in her secluded corner, vaguely like the woman of the photograph; she was a mannequin at a West End store.

“It can’t just peter out,” said Rollison, glumly.

He tried to find out what loans Barrington-Ley was financing, but no one in the City was able to give him reliable information. There was a vague rumour that Barrington-Ley was not well, but there were no open suggestions that his fianances were in bad order. Friends had advised him to rest, which was why he was out of London, but he visited the City two or three times a week and maintained a regular correspondence with his office.

Then dawned the thirtieth of September.

Never had Jolly known Rollison in such poor spirits over so long a period. Seldom had he spent so many evenings at home, renewing, he said, his acquaintance with the older poets, but often sitting with a book open in his hands and obviously pondering over more recent matters. On the twenty-ninth of September, Jolly, almost distraught, clung to the hope that a regimental dinner would cheer him up. It did—and, walking along the wide passage of the officer’s club he saw Grice.

“Great Scott!” he said. “Have you joined the Army?”

“Where is she?” demanded Grice, sharply.

“Who?” inquired Rollison.

“Rolly, you’ve gone too far this time. Where is that woman?”

“Which woman?” asked Rollison, but the smile left his face and his mind flew to the unconscious woman of the pale face and the lack-lustre eyes.

Grice, who was breathing rather heavily, rested a hand on his arm. Only a serious matter would have made him brave the lion’s den and go through the obstructionist ceremony which all without a special pass were compelled to endure downstairs.

“The woman has disappeared from the nursing home,” he said, with great care. “The matron says that she had a letter from you, and within an hour she had gone. She dressed in the evening gown in which she was first found, as she had no others. She wasn’t fit enough to travel far. Where have you taken her?”

Rollison said: “Is the nursing home watched?”

“That’s nothing to do with it.”

“It’s a lot to do with it,” said Rollison. “If it were watched your men either fell down on the job, or else she went out dressed very different from what you say. Had you a man on duty?”

“Two,” said Grice.

“Then probably she didn’t go out in an evening gown,” said Rollison, hurrying along the passage with a hand on Grice’s arm, “and she certainly didn’t get a letter from me.”

“She did,” said Grice. “I’ve seen it.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE TOFF HAS A VISITOR

THE letter, which was soon established as a forgery, said so little that Grice admitted that there was no real reason for thinking that it explained the woman’s disappearance. In fact as they went to Grice’s office, Rollison came to the conclusion that the Superintendent had never been really convinced that he was behind it, but had drawn a bow at a venture.

The letter said that Rollison knew the woman’s identity.

Grice said: “Do you?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“You haven’t sat back and counted chickens this last three weeks, have you?”

“I’ve got no practical results,” said Rollison. “Have you?”

“None at all.” admitted Grice. He sat back, worriedly. “I know no more about her now than I did when she first appeared, but at least one attempt has been made to murder her, and I am afraid of what might happen next. We might find her body. Why were you so interested in the Barrington-Leys?”

“Because she turned up at their house.”

“You know the family well, don’t you?”

“Fairly well.”

“Why did they suddenly leave London?”

“I haven’t a notion.”

“The daughter came to see you on the day you first heard of the affair, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“What about?”

“I don’t see why this interests you,” said Rollison, “but she came because she didn’t want her mother to dispense charity on this woman. She thought I might be able to say enough to discredit Lady Lost.”

“That’s pretty thin,” said Grice. He leaned forward. “Rolly,

there are times when personal loyalty has no place in one’s actions. If you are hiding, or trying to hide, anything about the Barrington-Leys, you are making a big mistake.” He paused, then asked tersely: “Is Barrington-Ley in difficulties?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Rollison.

“Did you know that they’ve recently used Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy for most of their audit work?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“Then why the devil didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought it was general knowledge to the police if not to the public.”

“I doubt that,” said Grice, still bad tempered, “but I suppose I’ll have to accept your word for it.” He stood up. “Rolly, we’ve worked together a lot and I’ve always given you your head when I could. I hope you won’t let me down this time. You know something more than you admit, don’t you?”

“Nothing that even remotely concerns the police,” said Rollison. “I have told you of the little fat man who was with Marcus Shayle—have you traced him yet?”

“No,” said Grice, sourly, “although I think he is a Pomeroy. The principals aren’t too happy about him.”

“Find him and Shayle, instead of leathering me,” said Rollison, and rose to go.

He did not like being on strained terms with Grice, and was not sure that he was justified in respecting Gwendoline’s confidence. The rumours about Barrington-Ley’s financial position had not yet reached him, but if they materialized he would have to tell Grice of Gwendoline’s suspicions. On the other hand, Grice might have invented these rumours to try to make him talk.

As Rollison saw the position, there was a possibility that the root cause was a domestic upset in the family.

He went to Gresham Terrace, still troubled but much more alert than he had been for days. Grice might be right in his fears for the lost lady’s life, and he could not get out of his mind the fact that Marcus Shayle had wanted to know what she said while she was unconscious. The contradictory motives puzzled him most.

As he inserted his “key in the lock, the door opened—a sure sign that Jolly did not want it known that he had returned. He entered, without speaking, and Jolly closed the door without a sound. Voices came from the living-room—the first a woman’s voice which startled him.

“Miss Armitage has called, sir,” whispered Jolly, “with her sister.”

“Have they said what they want?” asked Rollison.

“Not freely, sir. They have, however, been quarrelling since they arrived. I have heard an occasional word, and I thought you might like to play upon their differences of opinion.”

Both girls were sitting down when he entered the room, and both looked eagerly towards him. The first thing that struck him about Janice Armitage was her youthfulness; she looked no more than sixteen or seventeen. The second thing was her clothes; she was extremely well-dressed—far better than her sister. She wore a dark green coat and a dress of the same material, the coat trimmed with sable. There was something comical about her face. It was round and she had the snub nose which seemed to run in the family, but none of Phyllis’s prettiness or air of perpetual surprise. She had very round eyes, a wrinkled forehead and a petulant mouth.

“Why, hallo!” said Rollison, as if greeting old friends, “how nice to see you!” He shook hands first with Janice, who looked taken aback. “Phyllis, you deceived me, you didn’t tell me how attractive your sister was!” He stood back, still holding the younger girl’s hand, admiration in his eyes—and she fell for it as if she had never had a compliment in her life.

“Why, hello,” she said, in a voice of exaggerated refinement. “I’ve so wanted to meet you, Mr. Rollison.”

“If I’d known the truth I would have wanted to meet you,” said Rollison. He turned to Phyllis and took her hand—and winked. The expression of amazement on her face faded, and she hid a smile. “Now, isn’t it time for a drink?”

“I don’t” began Phyllis.

“Don’t take any notice of Phyllis,” said Janice, with a moue, “she’s a sober old stick. I’d love a gin-and-It.”

Rollison went to the wall and pressed the bell, although he was quite sure that Jolly was standing near the door. After a discreet pause, Jolly entered. Rollison imagined that the younger girl would get a kick out of having the drinks served by Jolly, and as she preened herself and tucked a few odd strands into the regimented waves of her hair, he knew that he was right to butter Janice Armitage excessively.

“And you?” he asked Phyllis.

“I’d rather not,” said Phyllis, and then relented. “Well, perhaps a sherry.”

“Dry or sweet?”

“Dry, please,” she said, and Rollison beamed at Janice and said that he would follow her example. He watched Jolly’s impassive face as the drinks were poured. Then Jolly retired and Rollison drank to his guests. Janice made it clear that she was mostly pleasantly surprised.

“I don’t know why Phyllis wanted me to come,” she said, “and I don’t mind admitting that at first I didn’t want to—not a bit. I don’t often get on with friends of Phyllis’s. You’re different, though I don’t know where on earth she met you.”

Rollison smiled. “We can’t tell you all our secrets.”

“Oh, go on,” said Janice.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Phyllis. “Mr. Rollison, I told you that Janice was engaged to Marcus Shayle, didn’t I?”

“What does that matter—I’m not now,” said Janice, tartly. “There’s no need to bring that up.”

“There is,” said Phyllis, wearily. “You’ve been hearing from him.”

“I tell you I haven’t! And it’s no business of yours if I have, and I certainly don’t see why it should concern Mr. Rollison. A girl can have a letter now and again, can’t she?”

“Marcus Shayle,” murmured Rollison, “is wanted by the police. Don’t you know that?”

“Well. I don’t know where he is,” said Janice, “and I certainly don’t think Marcus would do anything wrong; the police are fools, everyone knows that. It’s really too bad!” she went on, raising her voice, “you didn’t say you were going to talk about this with Mr. Rollison, he doesn’t want to hear—do you?”

“Only if you can tell me where to find Shayle,” said Rollison, improvising magnificently. You see, he once let a friend of mine down rather badly, and I’d like a few words with the gentleman. Still, if you don’t know where he is” He paused, invitingly, and Janice jumped in.

“I certainly don’t! And I am not receiving presents from him. I don’t have to explain to Phyllis every time I have a new dress, do I?”

Phyllis’s expression told Rollison that he now knew the whole purport of the call. So he sympathized a little with Janice and said that he was sure she deserved every present she received. Janice, elated at scoring a triumph over her sister, grew more and more fulsome, and drank more and more gin-and-Italians. Phyllis sat back, with a look of hopeless resignation.

Finally it transpired that Janice was receiving letters from Marcus Shayle, letters with a Devon address—an address where Janice had once been to see him. Everything was very proper, of course, and after all they had been engaged, hadn’t they? She was nearly drunk by then, and grew a little maudlin, while Phyllis sat back, disapproving and, Rollison thought, angry and hurt by the exhibition which her sister was making of herself.

Then Janice wanted to powder her nose.

Jolly escorted her with great dignity to the bathroom, leaving Rollison free for a word with her sister. Phyllis got up quickly, and said:

“I knew she was hearing from him and that he was sending her money. I couldn’t make her tell me where he is, but I thought you might. I have done right, haven’t I?”

“Perfectly, in more ways than one, but let’s change the subject—have you seen the patient again?”

“No,” said Phyllis, startled. “Isn’t she still at the nursing home?”

“They say that she made a voluntary departure,” said Rollison. “Do you know whether Marcus Shayle has anything to do with the nursing home?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen him in the company of a fat man with

a nice taste in broad checks?”

“No,” said Phyllis, “but Janice knows him much better than I do.”

Janice was more dignified on her return, and Rollison decided not to press the inquiry about the little fat man. He made an appointment with Janice for the next day, for lunch, and then ushered them out. When they had gone, Rollison drew his hand across his forehead and became aware of Jolly standing at his side.

“Two very different beans out of the same pod,” said Jolly, gravely.

Rollison laughed. “Very different is right.”

“Are we going to Devonshire, sir?” asked Jolly.

“Not yet,” said Rollison, “but we are going to cheer Grice up. If Shayle’s at the Devon address the police will get him before the night’s out.” He went to the telephone and tried Grice’s home number.

“How much is Shayle’s address worth?” Rollison asked.

“What?” cried Grice. “Have you got it?”

Rollison passed on the necessary particulars. The Superintendent was in such a hurry to get in touch with the Devonshire police that he did not even ask Rollison where he had obtained the information, but rang off and said that he would look in later. Rollison replaced the receiver, paused for a moment, and then said slowly: “Jolly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If she is alive, I am going to find Lady Lost.”

“I am sure you are sir,” said Jolly, “I have no doubt at all about that. I—excuse me.”

He made his dignified way towards the hall and the front door, for the bell had rung. Before he opened it there was another ring, which did not stop until there was an exclamation from Jolly—one so unexpected and so out of character that Rollison was afraid his man had been hurt. He stepped swiftly to the door, putting his right hand to his pocket, an instinctive gesture, for he was not carrying a gun.

Before he looked round the door, some of his fears were dispelled, for Jolly said in a voice that was a little unsteady: “Good-evening, Madam.”

Rollison stepped forward—and he saw Lady Lost huddled in costly furs, bare-headed and very pale, push past Jolly and walk slowly towards him.

CHAPTER NINE

‘COME BACK PETER, FLY AWAY PAUL’

ON the woman’s lips was a smile which made her the living image of that photograph; as indeed, she was. She advanced slowly towards Rollison, her right hand outstretched, and he stood still. The photograph had been a triumph of the camera’s art, but beside this woman it was insignificant, a dull shadow, a paltry thing to be forgotten.

Her eyes were hazel, the brown lashes curled upwards as if nature had been improved upon, and yet Rollison got the impression that their curve was natural. Her eyes slanted ever so little towards the temples, and her cheek-bones were high although not remarkably so; certainly the type was not English. But what most attracted him was her complexion. There was not a tinge of colour in it; it was like alabaster, pale and glowing, so perfect that it did not seem quite real. She had used no make-up, and her lips were only faintly outlined, yet in spite of that warmth and vitality seemed to spring from her.

When he touched her outstretched hand and bowed over it, her fingers were cool.

You are very welcome,” he murmured, and into his eyes there sprang a smile, at once gallant and gay. When Jolly saw it, his own face lit up; here was the real Rollison.

“You are very kind,” said the woman.

Her voice had a huskiness which was attractive. There was a trace of foreign accent, too.

“After all,” said Rollison, taking her arm and leading her into the study, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time.”

“So I understand,” she said. “You wrote to me.”

Rollison did not correct her.

“And you lied to me,” she said slowly. “I can see that now— you have never seen me before and you do not know who I am, although in your letter you said you did.” Something of her vitality seemed to ebb, and she sat down slowly. Rollison took her coat and handed it to Jolly.

She looked up at him. “Why did you make me hope?”

“Not I,” said Rollison, “but a mutual friend. I’m glad that he wrote to you, because otherwise you would not have come.”

She frowned. “More knavery?” The word came naturally from her lips.

“More knavery which we can counter,” said Rollison, sitting on the arm of his chair and smiling at her. “Will you have a drink?”

She said: “No, but I am very hungry.”

“That can soon be put right,” said Rollison, and he rang for Jolly. “We will have dinner as quickly as possible.”

“Very good, sir.” Jolly retired, and Rollison looked back at the woman.

If she were not lying by inference, her memory was no better than when she had arrived at Barrington House. It was too soon for him to be convinced that she was telling the truth, and yet he wanted to believe her. From the moment he had seen her photograph he had wanted to see her in the flesh, to hear her voice and see the colour of her eyes, to know the living reality of her—and here she was, dressed in a plain black evening gown, with shoes of black satin trimmed with diamante, without other jewellery or make-up, with her brown hair plaited and coiled about her head and shining with a soft lustre.

“So,” she said, speaking with great deliberation, “you do not know me, and you cannot help me.”

“Only the first is true,” he said.

She looked puzzled. “Why should that be?”

“Nearly a month ago, before you arrived at Barrington House, an unknown person sent me your photograph, and I have been at your command from that moment!”

She smiled. “An Englishman who is gallant!”

“There is more in us than you suspect,” he said. “So you know that you are not English?”

“That is one thing about which there is no doubt,” she said.

“The doctors were quite sure of that, and so they tried to make me remember what I am, and yet they failed. I remember nothing, except appearing in that gay ballroom, with many strange people looking at me. Then the room suddenly began to go round, the lights danced, the people swayed as they came towards me—and then, darkness!” Throughout that speech her voice had been pitched on so low a key that he could hear what she said only with difficulty. After a long while, she went on: “Darkness, and the hospital, and all that happened afterwards. I remember quite well.”

“Everything!” asked Rollison.

“Everything,” she said, “and yet not enough, for your police have asked me whether I saw a stranger in my room, and I remember no stranger; I remember only that I was sick, so very sick, and I did not think that I would live. Yet I am here —as I was there—seeking myself:

“With others also looking for you,” said Rollison. “Someone knows who you are.”

Her eyes lit up. “That is the first time I have been given real hope! Can you be sure?”

“Quite sure,” said Rollison. “They would not be so interested in you unless they knew who you were and what you are doing in England.” He remembered himself and offered her cigarettes, but she refused, and also refused another offer of a drink. So he went on: “What they know, we can learn, and when we’ve learned it then the doctors can help you to remember all that you’ve forgotten.”

“Almost you make it sound simple.”

“Few things are as complicated as they look,” said Rollison. “I wonder if the doctors or the police realize one thing that can be helpful?”

“What do you mean?”

“That you learned English in England or from an English governess with whom you spoke the language from childhood,” said Rollison. “Have they said that?”

“No. You are performing miracles, Mr. Rollison! I am already becoming excited.”

“After dinner you will probably get hilarious,” said Rollison, for he heard Jolly coming into the hall. “Now, you must have some sherry.”

“I do not like it,” she said.

He stared down at her, leaning forward a little, his eyes brighter than ever.

You see! Another thing you remember.”

“But”

“They don’t give you sherry in the nursing home,” said Rollison, “so you must have disliked it before you lost your memory. A cocktail?”

She made a face. “They burn one so!” Her eyes lighted up, not with the effort of remembering but because some things were coming to her mind so naturally. “There are two things I do not like about the Americans—they invented cocktails and they invented high buildings.”

“Which are called”

She stared at him, with great concentration, and then said delightedly:

“Sky-scrapers!”

“Sky-scrapers,” echoed Rollison. He was surprised by his own elation.

Jolly came in and laid the table while they talked gaily and irresponsibly, and for the first time a tinge of colour crept into her cheeks. As they talked, he recalled all that he had heard about her. When she had arrived at Barrington House she had no jewellery, no handbag, no papers, nothing but the clothes in which she now stood: clothes which Grice had told him were of American make and could not be traced in England. According to the police no one could be sure who had made her gown or who had supplied her furs.

Marcus Shayle had wanted to know what she said. He or some unknown person had tried to kill her. Another had sent her the letter which had brought her here

“You have thought of something else,” she said, seeing the gleam in his eyes.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “That letter. Whoever sent it wanted you to come here, and the man or woman who sent me your photograph also wanted me to meet you. So they were probably sent by the same person.”

“It is most likely,” she said.

Jolly had been busy with steaks and frozen peas and grilled tomatoes, and murmured that dinner was served. He hovered about them throughout the meal, while they talked and laughed with animation; this was a miracle; They drank sparingly of champagne, but enough to bring an added sparkle to their eyes, and behaved as if they were old friends who had met after a long separation. No stranger would have believed that they had met for the first time only an hour before.

She would have coffee, she said.

She grimaced when she sipped it, and set her cup down, without taking it up again. Rollison noticed that and made no comment. Then being a woman, she rose and looked at herself in a small mirror, and exclaimed in mock horror.

“Mr. Rollison, I am”

“Delightful.” he said.

“But my lips! And my cheeks! I am like a ghost!”

“A very lively ghost,” said Rollison. “Come with me.” He took her to the dressing-table where, spread out, was everything any woman could need for her make-up and her toilet; Jolly had found time to put them ready. She sat at the dressing-table, looking up at him, and he went out and closed the door.

Jolly was clearing the table.

“We’re getting results,” said Rollison, his voice much more confident. “Get that cleared as quickly as you can and then— Jolly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who has the best collection of gramophone records of our acquaintance?”

Jolly considered. “Mr. Jeffrey, sir, or perhaps Sir Lancelot Anstey.”

“Sir Lancelot—he’s the man! Go and borrow some records from him. We want the Yugo-Slav National Anthem—in fact the National Anthems of all the Balkan countries—some national music from them all, folk-songs, gypsy music, a good general selection. If Sir Lancelot hasn’t got them he will know where to find them at short notice, and I want them to-night.”

“I will obtain them, sir,” said Jolly, confidently.

“And Jolly, there is a curious, syrupy, bitter stuff which the Turks and some others call coffee. Have you ever made it?”

“I am afraid not, sir, but I believe that it is obtainable at several small restaurants. Shall I endeavour to obtain some of that also?”

“Yes. Don’t lose time, Jolly, but don’t take chances. She was probably followed here.”

“I have thought of that, sir.”

“If she were followed here it was by a friend; an enemy would not have let her come. So deal lightly with anyone you suspect.”

Rollison went to the telephone and he dialled Grice’s home number again. This time he was unlucky; for Grice was at the Yard. He had him on the wire very soon, and it was a jubilant Grice—a fact which puzzled Rollison, who had forgotten a great deal since the arrival of “the lady”.

“I was going to come round to see you, Rolly,” said Grice. “I’ll take back most of what I’ve said about you.”

“Why?” asked Rollison.

“We’ve got Marcus Shayle,” said Grice. “The Devon police have just telephoned me—he was at the address you gave me.”

“Now you know my value,” said Rollison. “Was anyone else with him?”

“No, he was alone.”

“A pity, but it’s progress,” said Rollison. “Now, a Roland for your Oliver—I have the lady here.”

After a long pause, Grice asked: “What did you say?”

“In the flesh,” said Rollison, “and we’re getting along famously. I hope you won’t interrupt us yet. I’ll see that she is all right, and I’ll get some incurious relative to spend the night here, unless—I say, old chap.”

“Er—yes,” said Grice, still taken aback.

“Have you a good woman detective who can play the part of a maid?”

“Yes,” said Grice, promptly.

“Send her over, will you,” said Rollison, and Grice, still elated by the capture of Marcus Shayle, promised that he would.

Rollison rang off, and looked towards the bedroom door. He did not think that his guest would be much longer, she had been there nearly a quarter of an hour. Jolly had gone, and the flat was very quiet. He lit a cigarette and smiled to himself, letting the mystifying development take second place in his enjoyment of the situation. He took the photograph from his desk and propped it up against the wall. Then, just as he was about to knock at the bedroom door, the ringing of the telephone bell sounded very loud. He answered it and said “Hallo”. A confused murmuring reached his ears, low-pitched and rather breathless voices which, he thought, belonged to women. He expected it to be a call from Phyllis or Janice Armitage, and that they were perhaps in a call-box together.

“Hallo,” he repeated, “this is Mayfair”

“Rolly!” exclaimed a woman, and he knew at once that he was wrong; this was Gwendoline, not one of the Armitage sisters. He frowned as Gwendoline rushed on, as if she had quite forgotten that she had snubbed and evaded him. “Oh, Rolly, can you come here at once?”

“Where?” asked Rollison.

“To the house—our house, Barrington House,” said Gwendoline, and then she broke off and another voice spoke, but Rollison could not catch the words. “Oh, all right,” said Gwendoline, in an aside, and added: “Rolly, mother wants a word with you.”

“Oh, Rolly,” said Hilda, after a moment’s pause. She was more breathless than her daughter, and he could tell that she was in a state of great agitation, “please do come over, David has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” echoed Rollison, sharply.

“Yes, into thin air,” said Hilda. “I’m so terribly worried, please do come.”

CHAPTER TEN

INSULT FOR THE LADY

IT was on the tip of Rollison’s tongue to say that he could not leave the flat and to ask them to visit him, but he changed his mind and said:

“I can’t come for half an hour, Hilda. Have you told the police.”

“No,” said Hilda. “No, of course not. I mean—no, well I don’t want to until I’ve seen you; Rolly, do come earlier if you can.”

“I may bring a friend,” said Rollison.

“Bring anyone you like,” said Hilda, distractedly, “but do come.”

“I’ll come,” promised Rollison. “Stay there and don’t get worked up.” He rang off and stood looking at the telephone, conscious of a deep disappointment because the tete-a-tete seemed over for that night. Then he telephoned Anstey, and found that Jolly was there. He told Jolly to take everything to Barrington House, then had a word with the o!d solicitor; were there any rumours about Barrington-Ley in the City?

“There are vague hints and suggestions,” said Anstey. “They don’t add up to much, but they’re not very reassuring. It would be better if he were in London instead of in the country. I even heard of a rumour that he has left the country, but I can’t believe that of Barrington-Ley. In any case, he has been seen in the City during the last week. I hope you’ve discovered nothing against him.”

“Nothing,” said Rollison, “but I know that his family is worried about his health.”

“Health,” echoed Anstey, sceptically.

“Health,” repeated Rollison, firmly, “and don’t go reading more into that than I mean.” He learned that Anstey was able to supply all the gramophone records that he wanted, and rang off. Grice had not renewed his suggestion that there was something wrong with Barrington-Ley’s affairs, but if the rumours now worried Anstey, Grice would know all about them.

He telephoned Scotland Yard again; Grice was still there.

“Give me a chance,” he protested, when he heard Rollison’s voice, “I’ve sent for your maid, but she’s off duty and won’t be here for half an hour. I’ll brief her myself.”

“Send her to Barrington House, will you,” said Rollison. “She’s to say that I hired her for Lady Lost.”

“Why Barrington House?” demanded Grice.

“Because they have a very fine radiogram,” said Rollison, cryptically. “Good-bye, old chap.”

He was smiling when he rang off—and then his smile changed to one of anticipation, for he saw the spare bedroom door open.

For the second time he watched the Lady of Lost Memory walking towards him.

She was transformed!

Her hair, no longer braided, was dressed Victorian fashion, and looked not brown but burnished copper. Two combs with jewelled backs glinted beneath the light. Her cheeks had a glow, make-up actually improving on nature; her eyes glowed, too; and her lips were enticing.

At her breast was a single diamante star, a paste copy of a famous jewel which had come Rollison’s way when he had been involved in a case where jewel-thieves had turned their hands to murder, and on her fingers two rings, also of paste but, at a quick glance, indistinguishable from the real thing. Nearly as tall as Rollison, not slim but with a figure to make most men’s heartbeats quicken, she stood in front of him.

“Superb!” said Rollison.

“You like it?”

“Like it is not the word. I marvel at it. Who taught you to walk, Lady Lost?”

“Lady Lost?” She looked startled.

“That is a figure of speech,” said Rollison. “How do you feel?”

“Happier than I can remember!”

“Splendid!” He stood back, still looking at her, and added with a twinge of reluctance: “We’re going out for an hour or two, to some friends of yours—the Barrington-Leys.”

She also looked regretful.

“They have been so kind to me, but”

“I think it’s wise to go,” Rollison said, gently, “we might get your memory back.”

She said, very slowly:

“I have been thinking as I looked into the mirror,” she said. “I have not remembered, and yet, somewhere within me there is a feeling that I shall not like it when I know who I am; it is as if some horrid thing happened, something which made me forget things which I always wanted to forget.” She held out her hand. “Please understand me.”

“I think I understand,” said Rollison. “You may be right, but behind that, further back in the years, there will be good things, well worth remembering.”

“Can you be sure?”

Rollison smiled. “You didn’t become what you are to-night by accident. This is the real you!”

While they were waiting for a taxi he helped her on with her coat, wondering whether Grice had sent her dress and the coat to every dressmaker of consequence in London. Molyneau might not have made the gown but could well know whence it had come.

He went out without a coat, and found it surprisingly cold —her mink was not superfluous. As they waited by the kerb he looked about him, but saw no shadowy figures suggesting that they were being watched.

The lost lady said:

“You have asked few questions, Mr. Rollison.”

“Very few,” he said.

“Do you not even want to know where I went from the nursing home?”

It was much better for her to volunteer information than for him to ask for it, and he was sorry that the belated taxi chose that moment to arrive. He gave the address and then sat back in the taxi.

“A man was waiting for me,” she said, suddenly.

“Where?”

“At the corner of the street.”

“A young man or an old one?”

“A young man—younger, yes, younger than you. A good-looking man, who was very amiable. He first took me to a cafe and we had tea. He said very little, only that you were most anxious to see me. We went then to a small house, I do not know where. I rested there while he was out. Then, when he returned, he put me into a taxi and gave the driver your address. That is all:

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“Never. He said that he was a friend of yours.”

“I see,” said Rollison.

He did not see, for the incident of the young man simply made more mystery.

The taxi pulled up outside Barrington House, and as they climbed out the door opened and the footman appeared. He bowed as the woman passed him, and inclined his head to Rollison. In his manner there remained a faint suggestion of insolence.

“Madam is waiting for you, sir,” he said.

Rollison manoeuvred so that he could see into the big drawing-room as his companion entered. She walked as if she were used to such houses and such company. He could not see her face, but he saw Hilda’s and Gwendoline’s. He hoped to see something more than surprise—and he did so, but only a hint of mortification and displeasure on Gwendoline’s.

Hilda recovered from her surprise and held out both hands.

“My dear, how wonderful to see you well again.”

“You are very kind,” said Lady Lost.

“Gwen, isn’t it wonderful?” cried Hilda.

Gwendoline said that it was, and smiled distantly. Although it was evening, she was dressed in light-coloured tweeds, her hair was untidy, and she looked tired and restless. Hilda was in a dark green cocktail dress. The three women presented a remarkable contrast. Gwendoline, as if fresh from the country, sturdy, lacking all the qualities of allurement which were so lavished on Lady Lost, and Hilda, petite and almost bird-like.

“You have come to stay with us, I hope,” said Hilda. “Yes, you must, I will not take no for an answer. Gwendoline will show you your room, you will want to take off your coat.”

Lady Lost hesitated.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “Of course.”

“Gwen!” called Hilda, with a note of command. Reluctantly Gwendoline came forward, as reluctantly the other woman went with her. When the door closed Hilda stopped pretending, and through the social mask Rollison saw the anxiety and the fear that lurked within her. “Rolly,” she said, “did you have to bring her now?”

“Yes,” said Rollison.

“How can we talk in front of her? I sent Gwen out with her but they will not stay for long, there is no time”

“We can make the best of what there is,” said Rollison. “What’s this about David?”

She said: “He has completely disappeared.”

“Since when?”

“Two days ago. He left Sussex, and said that he would return the same evening, and when he did not arrive I telephoned his office, where his secretary was still working— Rolly, he had left to catch the train! I telephoned here, and he had not been seen. I thought perhaps the train was delayed, but no, it was on time. I waited for the next train and the next, and” She broke off, and looked suddenly broken, as if something had been taken away from her. “He’s just— gone, Rolly.”

“What did you do about it yesterday?” asked Rollison.

“Nothing. I—we—kept hoping.”

The door opened abruptly, and Gwendoline strode in, closing it behind her. She was tight-lipped and angry.

“You might have had the decency to warn us if you couldn’t leave her behind.”

“Gwen!” reproved Hilda.

“Well, couldn’t he?” demanded Gwen. “But there isn’t time for recriminations, she’ll be down in five minutes if I know anything about her, she won’t want to miss a word! Have you told Rolly about father?”

“Yes, of course,” said Hilda.

Rollison stepped to the fireplace and stood with his back towards it, paying more attention to Gwendoline.

“Will you help us to find David?” she demanded.

“Yes,” said Rollison. “If you will tell me the whole truth.”

“But Rolly” began Hilda, and then her voice trailed off.

“Why did you do nothing yesterday?” demanded Rollison. “You were worried the night before last, you say, but you didn’t tell me and you don’t appear to have told the police.”

Hilda said: “We kept hoping against hope, because we don’t want a scandal. We must give David every chance to— to” Her voice trailed off again.

“To do what?” demanded Rollison.

“To give the lie to those damned hypocrites who are spreading the story that he is in difficulties,” said Gwendoline, in a low-pitched voice. “He isn’t, he can’t be! And I tell you that this woman whom you thought fit to bring along here to-night is responsible. Oh, I can see that she had duped you; I suppose that isn’t difficult if you’re foreign and a little unusual, but she has no more lost her memory than I have!”

She broke off and coloured furiously, for the door had opened and the Lady Lost stood there, so exquisitely gowned and so lovely, with the smile frozen on her lips and a hopeless expression in her eyes.

“Mr. Rollison,” she said, quietly, “please take me away from here.”

“My dear!” cried Hilda, “you are warmly welcome; my daughter is distraught or she would not have said such a thing.” She looked distractedly at Gwen. “Gwen, please, apologize for the hateful thing you said.”

Gwen looked steadily at the woman in the doorway, and spoke in a low-pitched voice, hardly moving her lips.

“Her memory is as good as yours and mine,” she said.

“Gwen!”

“Ask her to deny it,” sneered Gwendoline.

The woman in the doorway turned slowly and walked into the hall, carrying herself proudly and yet giving an impression that she had become deeply despondent and hurt. Hilda hurried after her. Gwendoline took a cigarette from a box on the table, lit it, and returned Rollison’s steady gaze.

“Do you really believe that?” he demanded.

“Yes, and so will you, unless you’re completely under her domination.”

Rollison said: “I see. And under whose influence did you refuse to tell me or the police about David, until to-night, and why are you still anxious not to let the police know that he has disappeared?”

She backed away, the colour now going from her face.

“Answer me,” said Rollison, roughly. “Who persuaded you to let him be away for two days?” When she did not answer, he went on with a hard note in his voice: “You’ve damned his reputation. Until he’s found, if he’s found, there will be a panic in the City, everything in which he has an interest will go to pieces. If you had wanted to ruin him you couldn’t have chosen a better way.” When she still remained silent, he added bitterly: “But perhaps you do want to ruin him.”

“Rolly!”

“You’re behaving as if you do,” said Rollison.

Hilda was still talking outside, and intermingled with her words was the voice of a man. It was Jolly. Jolly would not let Lady Lost go unaccompanied. Rollison stood looking at Gwendoline.

“Well, who was it?” he demanded.

In a low voice, she said: “Pomeroy.”

“The little fat man?”

“Yes.”

“The firm of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy deny all knowledge of him,” said Rollison. “Who told you that the man’s name was Pomeroy, and what gave him the authority to make you keep silent about David for so long?”

She said: “David—brought him here. He seemed to trust him. He—Pomeroy—telephoned us yesterday. David should have kept an appointment with him yesterday evening, but did not. Pomeroy advised us to say nothing; he felt sure that David would come back before long.”

“You trust Pomeroy and yet distrust the woman?” Then, when he saw the hurt in her eyes, Rollison relented and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry too much, Gwen. We’ll find him—but we must know everything, and the police must be told at once.”

“That’s—impossible.”

“You’ve a wrong idea of the police, too,” said Rollison. “Is there anything else?”

“The rumours,” said Gwen.

“They didn’t start by accident,” said Rollison.

He left her and hurried to the hall. Jolly was standing by a table on which was a pile of gramophone records in cardboard containers, as well as a coffee-pot, looking incongruous against the panelled background of the hall. Dressed again in her furs, Lady Lost was standing by Hilda’s side, and Hilda was saying:

“Of course I understand. I am so very sorry. Please do forgive my daughter.”

“Jolly,” said Rollison, going to his side, “have you a taxi waiting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then take the records, the coffee and Lady Lost back to the flat,” said Rollison. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jolly.

The Lady of Lost Memory looked at Rollison and smiled, a shadow of the smile he had seen at the flat. The footman was standing impassively by the door. Jolly picked up the records, which were heavy for him to carry in one load.

“Help him, please.”

“Very good, sir,” said the footman, and Jolly, relieved of half the records, took the coffee-pot from the table and walked sedately to the porch.

Rollison watched them get into the taxi, and looked up and down, still afraid of some unknown thing to which he could not put a name. Slowly and reluctantly he turned back to the house. The footman walked a pace behind him

Both exclaimed aloud!

From the shadows of the garden a man appeared, a short, thin man who was clearly visible against the light from the hall as he ran up the steps and into the house, then darted out of sight. Hilda screamed. Rollison sprinted. He saw the man turn into the drawing-room, heard an exclamation from Gwendoline—and then he reached the room and saw the knife which was hurtling through the air towards the girl. She stood as if petrified. Rollison shouted:

“Move, Gwen!”

He flung himself forward, but he knew that he would be too late. The knife seemed to miss Gwendoline, but before he reached her he saw blood welling from a cut in her neck. The little man who had thrown the knife turned and made for the door, like a rat at bay. He thought that Rollison was concerned only for Gwen, and did not notice him swing round and put out his foot. The man ran into it and pitched headlong. He fell by the feet of Hilda, in the doorway. Then she rushed towards Gwendoline.

She impeded Rollison, who tried to dodge round her, but she went the same way. He saw the little man pick himself up and rush into the hall. The footman was standing like a man struck dumb. He made no effort to stop the attacker, and when Rollison reached the hall the front door slammed.

Rollison glared at the footman, who still stood petrified.

“What is your name?”

“Farrow, sir.”

“Telephone for a doctor at once, Farrow.”

“Er—yes, sir. A doctor, yes, sir. Who?”

“The family doctor, Dr. Renfrew,” said Rollison, and he turned and went back into the room. There Hilda was bending over Gwendoline, who was sitting, ashen-faced, in an upright chair. Blood was welling freely from the wound in her neck, but the cut was not deep enough to cause serious harm. He padded a handkerchief while Hilda dabbed ineffectually with a tiny piece of lace. He pressed the pad against the cut, which was two inches long, then lifted her, so that her neck pressed against his shoulder, keeping the pad in position.

“Will you lead the way?” he said to Hilda.

The walk seemed interminable, but at last they turned into a large, high-ceilinged bedroom, furnished with maple, with a furry, thick-piled carpet and a silk-draped bed. Hilda turned down the bedclothes, and Rollison, managing to keep the pad in position so as to stop the bleeding, laid the girl down.

“A doctor!” exclaimed Hilda. “We must have Andrew!”

“I’ve sent for him,” said Rollison. “Don’t worry, it’s not serious.”

“Not—serious,” echoed Hilda, and from her too-bright eyes Rollison thought that she would faint. “She might”

“I—am—all right,” Gwendoline said. The words were an effort. Rollison wished she had not spoken, for the muscles of her neck moved and another crimson stain appeared on the edge of the handkerchief.

“Don’t talk, Gwen,” he said. “Hilda, hold the pad in position.” He let Hilda take over, and then asked: “Where will we find cotton wool?”

Before she answered a maid appeared, carrying a first-aid box—the first practical thing done at the house that night. Rollison gave her an appreciative smile, opened the box and took out cotton wool, making it into a pad to replace the handkerchief. He applied the new dressing, while the maid went out to get some hot water. He stood by the bed, looking towards the door—and as he stared, a man appeared, a little fat man now dressed in a dinner jacket suit, but unmistakably the man whom “David called Pomeroy”.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

COFFEE AND RECORDS

THE man stared blankly at Rollison, as if he had never seen him before. Rollison could not move from the bedside. Hilda turned, and backed a pace.

“What has happened?” asked the little fat man.

He had a gentle deceptive voice, with no heartiness, and there was now nothing about him to give the impression that he was a sporting gent. He smiled soberly at Hilda and stood looking down at Gwendoline. He did not seem shocked at the sight of blood.

“What has happened?” he repeated. “Who are you, sir?”

Rollison said: “How is your nose?”

“Nose?” asked the fat man, startled.

“You appear to have a bad memory,” said Rollison.

It was an impossible situation, and he was infuriated by his helplessness, but he did not trust Hilda to maintain the right pressure, and he had to stay where he was. There was no glint in the fat man’s eyes, only bewilderment. Even Gwendoline would believe the two men had never met before.

Then came hurried footsteps, and a youngish man entered the room carrying a small attache case. He was tall and well-dressed, and anxiety written clearly upon his countenance. This was Dr. Renfrew, good-looking and surprisingly young, and “Andrew” to Hilda Barrington-Ley. Renfrew recovered himself quickly and advanced to the bed.

The maid came in with a bowl of hot water and towels.

Rollison said: “It’s a knife wound in the neck.”

“Knife!” exclaimed Renfrew. He bent over the patient. The maid stood by. A middle-aged woman who could be relied on to keep her head. The fat man stood near the door, watching the proceedings with a puzzled stare.

Rollison said to Hilda: “We’ll wait downstairs.”

He put a hand on the fat man’s arm and led the way out of the room. The other did not protest, and they went down side by side. Their footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet. Rollison led the way into the drawing-room, where a few spots of blood were congealing on the cream carpet, and closed the door.

Puzzled eyes, but eyes which Rollison was not likely to forget, contemplated him.

“You bewilder me, sir,” said the fat man. “Who are you?”

“My name is Rollison,” said Rollison, heavily. He went across the room, picked up the knife by the blade, and put it on the piano. “And we have met before.”

“Not to my recollection,” said the fat man.

“At the office of Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy,” said Rollison, wondering whether there was any way in which he could make the man admit the truth.

The reaction to his words was curious. The other widened his small eyes to their fullest, opened his lips to a round “O”, and raised his podgy hands with the fingers outstretched, rather as if he had suffered an electric shock. He stood looking at Rollison until Rollison’s annoyance faded and he laughed.

“That infamous den!” exclaimed the fat man, in a voice squeaky with indignation. “I am insulted!” I have not set foot in that place for years and I never shall again. I have parted company with all the people connected with the firm, and

“ He broke off, narrowed his eyes, closed his mouth and

let his arms fall. “Sir,” he said, with dignity, “I demand an explanation.”

“You may keep on demanding,” said Rollison.

“I trust you are now convinced that you are mistaken.”

“I am not convinced one little bit,” said Rollison. “Did you know that Marcus Shayle was under arrest?”

Into the little eyes there sprang a wary glint. It took the man several moments to recover enough to ask who Marcus Shayle was. Rollison gave up trying. He had to, in any case, for the woman detective arrived from Grice. He made sure she knew exactly what to say to Lady Lost, and sent her to Gresham Terrace. The “maid” was a meek-looking, mild-mannered but powerful woman, and Rollison had no doubt that in a struggle she would be able to give a good account of herself. She would watch the Lady of Lost Memory with eagle eye.

Rollison was on edge to return to the flat, but there were other things to do. He went out by the side door, unobserved, and telephoned Scotland Yard. Late though it was, Grice was still there. Rollison told him exactly what had happened, including the reluctance of the Barrington-Leys to inform the police, and he made a special point of mentioning the little fat man.

“Are you formally asking me to come over?” Grice asked.

“No,” said Rollison, “but I’ll persuade Hilda Barrington-Ley to send for you—be patient for an hour or so, will you? There’s nothing that can usefully be done yet.”

“Did you see this man with the knife clearly?”

Rollison gave a description as best he could, then rang off and walked back to the house. No one appeared to have missed him. Pomeroy was still in the drawing-room, and he tried to freeze Rollison with a glance. Then Hilda came into the room with the young doctor.

She now introduced Dr. Renfrew, whom she continued to call Andrew. Rollison liked the look of the man, who smiled faintly as Hilda talked about the shock the attack had given her and how fortunate it was that Rollison had acted so promptly. Renfrew interrupted her when she paused for breath, looking at Rollison as if for support.

“Mrs. Barrington-Ley is reluctant to go to the police, and I have told her that she must do so.”

“You’ll have to report it, won’t you?” said Rollison.

“Yes,” said Renfrew, promptly. “I don’t want to act against your wishes, Mrs. Barrington-Ley, but”

“Andrew, if we hadn’t told you how it happened you would never have known. If it were suicide, you wouldn’t talk such nonsense.”

“That would be a different matter,” said Renfrew.

Rollison said: “Hilda, my sweet, Gwendoline was within a few inches of losing her life.” He picked the knife up from the piano, and Hilda gasped. “Dr. Renfrew knows he must tell the police. If you persuade him not to, it will only make things awkward for him, because I am going to see the police very soon.”

“Rolly!”

“And,” continued Rollison, “I am going to tell them that David is missing.”

“You are not!” cried Pomeroy.

It was the first time he had taken part in the conversation, and he made Renfrew start. The doctor’s dark, sleek hair and rather aquiline face gave him quite a presence, but the way he looked then made him seem very young. He was nearly as tall as Rollison, and he dwarfed Pomeroy, who came strutting forward and put a hand on Hilda’s arm.

“Aren’t we?” murmered Rollison.

“If you consider it your duty to inform the police of this dastardly attack on Gwendoline, then I am in full agreement,” said Pomeroy, “but to acquaint them of the fact that David is missing will be to heap coals upon the fire of rumour now sweeping through the City. Such an action would be a betrayal of friendship, would perhaps do incalculable harm to a great and good man. I have no doubt that there are excellent reasons for David’s protracted absence, and I insist that no such report is made to the police.”

He eyed Rollison, not with anger but with indignation, and his grip on Hilda’s arm tightened. It was easy to see how simple it had been for him to influence the others earlier.

“Mr. Pomeroy, I do not like your advice,” Rollison said mildly.

“Like it or not, as you wish, sir, but it is advice which takes into consideration the reputation of a very fine character and, if that were not enough, it affects the happiness and the domestic joy of a woman whom I admire and esteem so much that I will exert myself in every way, to the very limit of my endurance, to prevent you from committing this cardinal tactical error. I do not know you, sir. I believe that we have some cause to be grateful for your prompt action, when Gwendoline was injured, but I do not see that as justification for such an attitude as you are now adopting. Have you no loyalty towards Hilda?”

“So much that I am advising her for her own good.” He looked at Renfrew. “What do you think?”

“I had no idea that Mr. Barrington-Ley was missing,” said Renfrew, worriedly, “but if no one knows where he is, then it would be wise to tell the police.”

“That is intolerable presumption, Doctor,” said Pomeroy coldly. “I forfeit this story to be placed before the police, to allow it to be handed out to the Press, that it may be blazoned across the headlines of the daily newspapers in the morning, to let it create a panic selling on the Stock Exchange, to undermine the good name and the security of the many companies in which my dear friend David has an interest. Understand, sir—I forbid it!”

Rollison let him finish, then stepped towards Hilda, removed Pomeroy’s hand, drew Hilda towards him, and said:

“Hilda, they tried to kill Gwendoline. They have probably kidnapped David. He is, at this moment, in acute danger. I can’t help to save him unless the police know. Do you understand me—David is in acute danger.”

“I declare” began Pomeroy.

“Be quiet!” snapped Rollison.

The man opened his mouth and closed it again, and then backed away. Hilda stared aghast, into Rollison’s eyes, and then went slowly across the room towards the telephone. She picked up the receiver.

“What is the number?” she asked.

“Whitehall 1212,” said Rollison.

He watched Pomeroy closely. The man was angry and disappointed, and Rollison thought that he was afraid, but he preserved a dignified silence. Rollison went to Hilda’s side, told her to ask for Grice and, when she had spoken to the Superintendent, gave him a summary of what had happened, to make sure that Hilda and the others knew that it would be useless to go back on their word. He rang off, and said:

“The police will be here within twenty minutes. Sit down and rest, Hilda. Gwendoline is all right, isn’t she?”

“She will be,” said Renfrew. “It isn’t serious.”

“Good!” said Rollison, leading Hilda to a chair. “Can you stay here until the police arrive, Renfrew?”

“I intend to do so,” said Renfrew.

“Then I needn’t stay,” said Rollison. “Will you see that the knife is left, untouched, on the piano?”

He went out, opening the front door himself. The footman who had shown such veiled insolence and who had affected to be stupefied instead of stopping the little man with the knife, was nowhere to be seen. As Rollison sauntered along the road, the chimes of a nearby clock struck midnight. He frowned at the lateness of the hour, but he did not go far, walking back towards Barrington House on the opposite side of the road. There was a street lamp near the front gate, and he expected to see Pomeroy come out.

When Grice arrived, the clock was striking the quarter, Rollison walked away; Pomeroy had either used a side entrance or was still inside the house.

Jolly was standing by the radiogram in a corner of the big room at the flat, and Lady Lost was leaning back in an easy chair with her eyes closed and a faint smile at her lips. Rollison entered the room, and Jolly bowed slightly and motioned to the radiogram. Rollison nodded. When the last record was played, a bright and lively waltz by Johann Strauss, Jolly stopped the disc and inquired:

“Is there anything you require, sir?”

“Let’s have some coffee,” said Rollison.

“Very good, sir.” Jolly went out and Rollison stood looking at Lady Lost. She had opened her eyes and was looking at him. The smile had died, and something of the hurt she had suffered at Barrington House showed on her face; it was as if she were keeping her eyes half-closed to prevent him from seeing the hurt in them.

He could not understand the turmoil in his mind.

This woman might be a fraud; Gwendoline might be right; but he desired above all else to prove that Lady Lost was innocent of all chicanery; he wanted to believe her memory gone, and longed to restore it.

At last she broke the silence.

“Please do not talk of what happened. It is—forgotten.”

“Is it?” asked Rollison, slowly.

“Yes, and it does not matter. The girl dislikes me. Once she came to see me at the hospital, and then it was clear—she dislikes and distrusts me, and who can be blamed for talking as she did of a person whom one does not trust?”

“There’s something in that,” said Rollison. He offered cigarettes, but she refused. He lit one, slowly. “She says that you know her father, and that you saw him several times before you appeared at Barrington House.”

The woman sat up, her eyes ablaze.

“Then where is he? Where is he? If he saw me then he can name me!”

“He has gone away,” said Rollison, gently.

“To where? How long must I wait?”

“No one knows where,” said Rollison.

She looked acutely disappointed; he could not bring himself to believe it was feigned. She stared at him with her eyes wide open and her lips parted.

“Has he—been hurt?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Rollison.

“You would tell me if that were so,” she said.

“Yes. Listen to me. Bar-ring-ton-Ley.” He uttered each syllable carefully. “Had you heard it before you went to their home?”

“I do not know,” she said. “I just do not know.”

He smiled.

“I shouldn’t have worried you with that, just now.”

Jolly came in with the coffee and some biscuits.

“Pour out, Jolly, please,” said Rollison, and stepped towards the radiogram. Four records were spread out on top—the National Anthems of Yugo-Slavia, Greece, Rumania and Bulgaria. The coffee in that tiny pot was of a kind popular in the Balkans and the Middle East.

“Please, I do not like coffee,” said the lady.

“Try this,” said Rollison, “just to please me.”

At the first sip, her expression altered; she looked almost startled, and she stared at the cup, then at Rollison, while Jolly stood hopefully by the door, and Rollison, without turning his head, put the needle in position and switched on the radiogram. The first strains of the Yugo-Slav National Anthem came softly from the record, while the visitor sipped the coffee again and said:

“This is remarkable! It is”

She stopped abruptly.

The tune was clearer now, after the opening bars. Played in slow time by a massed band, the volume swelled and filled the room—but Rollison was not listening. He was oblivious of everything but Lady Lost, who was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes shining, the cup and saucer trembling in her hand. She did not speak, but she put the coffee down and rose slowly to her feet, moving towards him as if in a dream.

She reached his side, and they stood together while the music came like a magic which had touched some hidden chord and brought to her eyes ineffable delight.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MEMORY AT BAY

THE anthem ended

The Lady of Lost Memory stood looking at Rollison. Rollison switched off, and silence fell.

The radiance in her eyes lasted for a long time, and then began to fade, so slowly that at first he thought it was a trick of the light. He had never wanted anything more deeply than to hear her say that she could remember.

The radiance became a glow, and in her eyes there was a tinge of anxiety. The smile also faded, and abruptly she turned away.

She said: “That is my National Anthem, I am a Serb. I can recall incidents of my childhood, little, inconsequential incidents; they came to me as I stood there and I have them with me now—but that is all.”

“It’s a beginning,” said Rollison, forcing himself to be brisk. He looked at the records and sorted several out, then motioned to Jolly to attend to the radiogram while he stepped out to the woman’s side, smiling as if they had cause to congratulate each other. “And a good beginning,” he said. “Sit down and listen for a while.”

He had selected Serbian tunes. They followed one upon another, bringing into the flat an atmosphere of rugged land and gypsy music, the plucking of strings and the thin tone of flutes, all with a quality of its own, whether gay or sad.

All the time Rollison watched her, but she was sitting with her eyes closed and her face quite expressionless. When all were finished, Rollison waited hopefully. Jolly began to pack up the records, but he also was watching Lady Lost. She looked as if she had fallen asleep, but when Rollison stirred she opened her eyes, smiled, and said:

“I am very tired.”

“And you must get to bed!” said Rollison, promptly. “The maid will get you anything you want.”

“Whatever I remember,” said the lady, “I shall not forget you, Mr. Rollison! Good-night.” She held out her hand, and Rollison pressed it, then she turned away towards the spare room, and Jolly stood waiting.

“No Watson to my Holmes to-night,” said Rollison, “Holmes was never as empty-headed as I am now.”

“You are tired, sir,” murmured Jolly. “You have succeeded in touching familiar chords, sir, which no one else contrived.”

Rollison smiled. “They didn’t have the opportunity,” he said. “There are limits to what one can do in a nursing home.”

“I question very much whether the people at the nursing home did all they could to help to restore madame’s memory.”

“They were under medical supervision,” Rollison reminded him.

“You will remember, sir,” said Jolly, “that Dr. Renfrew is the family physician of the Barrington-Leys.”

“And Dr. Cray is a hard-bitten police-surgeon,” said Rollison.

“Of course, sir. We do not know, however, what instructions Dr. Cray gave to the matron, and we don’t know whether they were carried out. You will forgive me for saying so, sir, but anyone who wished to revive a lost memory might attempt to do so with music—it is, I believe, an elementary process in the practice of a psychologist. Why has it not been tried?”

“She’s been ill.” Rollison said. Out of talks with Jolly much that was obscure often came to light.

“Our inquiries at the nursing home elicited the information that Lady Lost was still suffering from the effects of the poison,” said Jolly, “but she came straight from there to here and we cannot say that she is in poor health at the moment. Obviously she made an excellent recovery, but we were not given that impression when we last inquired, four days ago.”

“No, we weren’t,” agreed Rollison.

“If we were to find out what instructions Dr. Cray gave, we could then find out from the lady whether they were carried out,” said Jolly.

“It’ll be my first job in the morning,” said Rollison.

“I am glad that the suggestion finds favour, sir,” said Jolly.

“There are one of two other matters of which you have doubtless thought. If we were to take the coat and the dress to a furrier and dressmaker, we might learn more.”

“I had made a note of that one,” said Rollison, “but Grice has probably tried it.”

“I doubt it, sir. There were no name tags or maker’s tags, and I think it likely that the police will have been satisfied with that, especially since the lingerie was of American manufacture. That is another interesting point, sir; I think we might make inquiries in America. A photograph would reach there in a very short time if sent by air, and your friends in New York would undoubtedly be only too glad to help.”

“You’re getting better, better and better,” said Rollison.

“Thank you,” murmured Jolly. “Then there is yet another matter, one which you can hardly be expected to have discovered, sir. In the last few weeks I have taken the liberty of making certain inquiries, and while none of them appear to have any great importance, there is a factor which I am sure will interest you. I made the acquaintance of the butler at Barrington House, and several others of the staff. Two things emerged, sir. First, that Farrow the footman whom we saw to-night was engaged only recently with the approval of the plump Mr. Pomeroy.”

“Was he, by George!”

“He was, sir, and the staff dislike him very much indeed,” said Jolly. “In fact they have the impression that Farrow was engaged by Mrs. Barrington-Ley because Mr. Pomeroy—er —requested it.”

“Or ordered it,” said Rollison.

Jolly smiled. “The butler has a very neat turn of phrase, sir. The subject of the footman was not discussed until last evening. The other matter I have known for some time, but I did not at that juncture see what useful purpose would be served by advising you.”

“Out with it,” urged Rollison.

“The butler believes that Dr. Renfrew has an understanding with Miss Gwendoline. In fact he is a friend of the family, which doubtless explains why so youthful a doctor is employed. I have tried to get details as to Dr. Renfrew’s reputation, and I must say that in the profession he has the reputation of being a brilliant young doctor, and he is very well-liked by the staff at Barrington House.”

“I see,” said Rollison, a trifle heavily. “I’ll have a shot at Renfrew, too. Farrow seemed reluctant to send for him I remember—that’s worth keeping in mind.” He stifled a yawn. “I think we’ll get to bed. Where have you put the maid?”

“In my room, sir,” said Jolly, getting up at once.

“And what about you?”

“I shall put two chairs together in the hall, and be perfectly comfortable, I assure you.”

“I see, said Rollison. “You’re a good chap, Jolly.”

He was getting into bed when the telephone rang.

He had an extension on a bedside table, and settled himself on the pillows before he answered. He saw Jolly’s shadow near the door.

“Hallo,” he said.

“Rolly,” said Grice, and Rollison sat up. “I’m sorry it’s so late,” went on Grice, “but there are one of two things I must know now.”

“Fire away,” said Rollison.

“What do you make of the footman at Barrington House?”

“Precious little, except that I wouldn’t trust him an inch,” said Rollison. “He could have caught the little man with the knife.”

“I see,” said Grice. “It doesn’t much matter about that— we’ve caught the little man.”

“What?” exclaimed Rollison, and Grice laughed in triumph.

“I thought that would shake you. There was a man answering your description whom we knew lived in London and who has been known to use a knife, so we pulled him in and he talked.”

“This is progress!” exclaimed Rollison. “Has he talked much?”

“He says that he was hired to kill Gwendoline Barrington-Ley, but he can’t or won’t give us the name or description of the man who hired him. The order seems to have passed thorough several channels. You know how these things work.”

“East End channels?” demanded Rollison.

“Yes.”

“Well, well.” said Rollison, “I’ll slip down there in the morning—that’s what you want me to do, isn’t it?”

“It might be helpful.” said Grice. “As for the footman—one of my men thinks he has seen him before. We’ve got his prints and they’re not in the records, so he hasn’t passed through our hands. You haven’t seem him before, have you?”

“No,” said Rollison.

“We’ll have to do what we can,” said Grice, and broke off, making a curious noise into the telephone. “Sorry,” he apologized, “that was a yawn. Have you learned anything from the lady?”

“She is a Serb,” said Rollison. “I thought she was going to regain her memory to-night, but it faded out again.”

“H’m, yes,” said Grice sceptically.

“Now what’s the matter?” demanded Rollison, sharply.

“Has she ever lost it?” asked Grice.

“What makes you think she might be foxing?” demanded Rollison, stretching his hand out for his cigarette case. As he fumbled with it, Jolly came into the room, took out a cigarette, lit it in a holder, and handed it to Rollison.

“Cray doubts very much whether her mind’s as blank as she says it is,” said Grice. “He told the matron to try her out with music, and we had a shot at Yugo-Slav national music as well as other from the Balkans. Reaction, nil. There isn’t much doubt that you’re right, and she’s a Serb—I had an expert have a look at her, quite early, and he said Serb or anyway Slav without any doubt. There are also other indications.”

“Oh,” said Rollison. “What about Renfrew’s opinion?”

Grice chuckled again.

“He’s a very bright young man, most impressionable, and rather like you—if a handsome woman says she’s lost her memory he’s too much of a gentleman to doubt it.”

“I see,” said Rollison, heavily. “One for and one against. Did it ever occur to you to make sure that the test was carried out?”

“Now, come,” said Grice, “that’s a reputable nursing home, and in this case the matron would obviously be so eager to make up for the slip that was made.”

“You’re more trusting than I am,” said Rollison, “but then, you’re a policeman!”

Grice laughed.

“As a matter of fact, Rolly, I’m very pleased with the day’s work. We’ve Shayle, as you know, and this little man with the knife. Also—we know one name under which your lost lady is known.”

Rollison shot a glance at Jolly, and said:

“More guesswork?”

“No,” said Grice. “We had her clothes examined. The dress didn’t help us much, but a leading London furrier said that he was sure that the coat came from Loudens, of New York. Loudens have a kind of trade mark in their work, one which only a few people know. So we radioed a photograph to Loudens and another to the New York police—what’s that?”

“I groaned,” said Rollison, glumly. “All right, she bought the coat in New York. What’s her name?”

“Lila Hollern,” said Grice. “At least, she called herself the Countess Hollern and signed her cheques Lila. She was in America for six months, raising money—she said—for the Yugo-Slav earthquake Relief Fund.”

Rollison interrupted: “Countess Hollern isn’t a Serbian name.”

“She said she was married to an Austrian count,” said Grice, “and that her husband was a political prisoner for some years. He is now supposed to be in Belgrade. Everyone in New York thought her wonderful, she raised nearly half a mill inn dollars —and disappeared with it!”

“Are these facts?” demanded Rollison, sharply.

“The money was in her name at the New York bank,” said Grice, “and was transferred to an account in England a month ago. We haven’t yet tackled the English bank; they’re touchy on inquiries, you know, and I doubt whether I shall be able to get a Court Order for an examination of her account just yet —but I hope to, soon.”

“What about the Relief Fund?” asked Rollison, with sinking heart.

“The London people only knew about her from New York,” said Grice, who was remarkably cheerful, “and she certainly convinced them in New York. I shall have a full report by cable soon. The money disappeared, there’s no doubt about that.”

“So did the countess,” murmured Rollison.

Grice said gently:

“I hate to disillusion you, Rolly, but she did turn up in remarkable circumstances at Mrs. B-L.”s first big effort for a Relief Fund, didn’t she? Had she not been poisoned, she might by now have been an active member of that fund, raking in more money.”

“Oh, yes,” said Rollison, “but it might not have been quite so simple. If you can stand an awkward question—why was she poisoned?”

“Do you have to ask?” demanded Grice. “Obviously because she is one of several people involved in the swindle. The other members did not like to think that she was to be questioned by the police. They much preferred to see her dead. That is a strong enough motive even for you.”

“It’s very ingenious,” murmured Rollison.

“I don’t think there’s much the matter with it,” said Grice, complacently. “Nor will you, when you know that Messrs. Pomeroy, Ward & Pomeroy are handling the accounts of the London Branch of the Relief Fund, as well as Barrington-Ley’s accounts. It all ties up very nicely, doesn’t it?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EAST END

ROLLISON agreed that it did appear to tie up very nicely, said good-bye, replaced the receiver, and stared blankly into Jolly’s face. After a while he gave the gist of the conversation, whereupon Jolly’s hopefulness faded and was replaced by his habitual expression of gloom.

“The only bright spot,” said Rollison, “is that he doesn’t propose to make an arrest, yet.”

“Could he arrest the lady, sir?”

“He could detain her for questioning,” said Rollison. “The truth is that he thinks he can get her whenever he wants, and prefers to have an unanswerable case before doing so. He’ll probably get some kind of story from Marcus Shayle. So, Jolly, more cause for gloom! Deep gloom, because Grice has done practically everything we hoped we would be able to do ourselves—my mind hasn’t been working lately, or we would have got this information first.”

“Perhaps so, sir,” said Jolly, unconvinced. “What do you propose to do?”

“We are going to prove him wrong,” said Rollison. “The little man with the knife and the footman at Barrington House are two people on whom we can check, and Grice gave me some consolation; he’s not very hopeful about East End contacts. I’ll go there in the morning.”

“What about the—ah—countess, sir?”

“You have not failed to notice,” said Rollison, “that at our suggestion a policewoman is acting as her bodyguard. So the police are responsible for her. I’m not at all sure that Grice isn’t holding his hand because of that. If anyone tries to get in touch with her, he’ll learn at once. If she tried to slip away, the maid would stop her. On the other hand,” Rollison went on, stifling a yawn, “there has been no crime in England of which she could have been guilty—as far as we know.”

“That is so,” said Jolly. “Is there anything more, sir?” Rollison shook his head. “What time shall I call you in the morning?”

“Nine o’clock should be about right,” said Rollison.

He was still asleep when Jolly came in next morning, with the ornate silver tray, the post and the newspapers. It was half-past nine.

“The newspapers are not very informative this morning, and there is no report of Miss Barrington-Ley’s accident,” Jolly said.

“Pleasure for Pomeroy,” said Rollison.

He looked through the post; there was nothing of particular interest, and he put it aside. Then he looked through The Times financial pages, and frowned when he saw the closing prices. Many of the companies in which Barrington-Ley had an interest were showing a fall.

As he looked over the headlines of The Record, he wondered why that enterprising newspaper had not followed up the story of the Lady of Lost Memory. Then he saw a single column headline which Jolly had missed. It read:

CITY MYSTERY WELL-KNOWN BANKER MISSING

Rollison read the story carefully. There was nothing in it that he did not know, but it talked of rumours on the Stock Exchange and pointed to the fall in price of Barrington-Ley stock, hinted that Barrington-Ley had been acting in an unusual manner and finally said that he had not been seen nor heard of for at least forty-eight hours.

Rollison put the paper aside, shaved and breakfasted in a hurry, and was soon on the way to Fleet Street.

Lila, Countess Hollern, if that was in fact her name, had not put in an appearance. In calmer mood, he could consider with more equanimity the possibility that she had succeeded in deceiving him completely. He remained unconvinced. He went over the events of the previous evening in his mind, and, remembering her face when she had heard the National Anthem of her country, came to the firm conclusion that no one could have acted quite as well as that. Consequently he was in better spirits than he expected to be, but he knew that the tempo of the case was quickening.