The Unfinished Clue

Chapter Fourteen

At a half past ten Inspector Harding got his car out of the garage at the Crown and started to drive to the police station, where he was to pick up the Sergeant. As he emerged from the inn-yard, sounding his horn, a damsel in a severe linen coat and skirt, and a shirt-blouse with a tie, drew hastily back on to the kerbstone. Inspector Harding recognised Miss Fawcett, and promptly put on his brakes.

"Hullo!" said Dinah. "It's you!"

"Hullo!" returned Harding. "Are you escaping from the clutches of the Inquisition, or just shopping?"

"Shopping. If it weren't for a little matter concerning a licence for my wireless I could face you with a limpid conscience."

He laughed. "Wireless licences don't come under my jurisdiction, you'll be relieved to hear."

"I didn't think they would. I expect you're too big a pot," said Miss Fawcett naively.

"How nice of you!" he said, with a twinkle. "I'm glad you're not escaping."

"Couldn't if I wanted to. The dam' car's just died on me," said Dinah gloomily. "She was giving trouble all the way here — its a rotten little runabout Arthur used to let Fay drive — and she finally conked out in the middle of the High Street. Like a fool, I let the engine stop when I was in a shop, and of course, she wouldn't start again. So there she is, complete Wreck of the Hesperus, waiting for the garage people to take her away and burn her, for all I care. Look here, I mustn't stop: I've got to catch a bus to the station."

"Wait a minute, I'll take you to the station, if you promise not to vanish on the first train."

"Thanks awfully," said Dinah. "I call that handsome I'm not doing a bunk, I swear. All I want to do is to catch Peacock with the big car, so that I can get home. He's gone to meet Mr. Tremlowe on the ten-fifty, you know."

Harding leaned across to open the car door for her. "If that's your reason for going to the station, why bother:' he said. "Won't you let me drive you back to the Grange'."

"Would you mind?" asked Dinah doubtfully.

"No," replied Inspector Harding. "I shouldn't mind at all."

"Well, it's frightfully decent of you, but I ought to warn you that I've got one or two parcels to pick up. I don't want to waste your time."

"Where are these parcels?" inquired Harding, letting the clutch out.

"Waiting for me at Dove's, the big linen-draper's in the High Street. Fay feels she must wear mourning, and as she's only got one black day frock, I've had to get her some on approval. I call it rather rotten, myself, but she's hot on the conventions."

"All right, we'll go and collect them, and they can share the dickey with Sergeant Nethersole. We've got to collect him too. Will you direct me to this shop you want?"

"Straight down the High Street. I'll tell you when to stop." Miss Fawcett settled herself at her ease beside the Inspector, and added chattily: "Do you mind if I ask you something?"

"Not at all. What is it?"

"Well, do you really wear a god-forsaken badge under the lapel of your coat, and show it to anybody who wants to know who you are?"

"No, of course I don't. I'm not an American!" protested Harding.

"Oh, is it only American detectives who do? I didn't know, but in films they always have hidden badges, and I was wondering whether it was correct. Whoa, that's the shop, just over there."

Ten minutes later, outside the police station, Harding was resolutely avoiding the Sergeant's eye. The Sergeant surveyed him with mingled pain and disapproval, and clambered in amongst the dress-boxes in the dickey. There was no doubt about it, the Inspector was taking a lot of interest in that Miss Fawcett. It wasn't what the Sergeant had expected of an inspector from Scotland Yard, and while he hadn't got anything against the young lady, at the same time it didn't seem to him the right thing at all.

Such considerations did not appear to weigh with Inspector Harding, and the Sergeant, as he carefully balanced one of the boxes on his knees, was grieved to hear him assure Miss Fawcett that it did not matter if Mr. Tremlowe arrived at the Grange before he did.

Then Harding started the car again, and the Sergeant heard no more. He was able, however, to study Miss Fawcett's charming profile, every time she turned her head to speak to Harding, and from time to time he had a fleeting glimpse of Harding's face as well, as the Inspector glanced down at his lively companion. It seemed to the Sergeant that they were hitting it off a fair treat.

He was quite right. Miss Fawcett, never one to be afflicted by shyness, was talking to the Inspector about himself.

"If it weren't for the general grisliness of the whole business," she remarked confidentially, "I think I should rather enjoy seeing a real sleuth at work. It's quite an eye-opener, because till yesterday I'd only met one detective in all my life. He was a man they sent up from the police station when a burglar broke into our flat in town, and pinched a brooch of my mother's, and a couple of plated entree-dishes. He was definitely sub-human. The detective, I mean. I don't mind telling you that I was rather hostile about you before arrived."

"You didn't show it," said Harding. "I thought were very charming, and most efficient."

"Well, of course I saw you weren't in the least noisome as soon as I set eyes on you," replied Dinah candidly. "As a matter of fact, I never should have guessed you were a detective if I hadn't been told."

"I wasn't always," explained Harding.

"I thought perhaps you weren't. If it isn't a rude question — snub me, if it is — why are you now?"

"Partly because of the war, and partly because I've always had rather a liking for criminology."

"How ghoulish!" remarked Miss Fawcett. "What were you going to be?"

"A barrister. I was reading for the Bar up at Oxford when the war broke out."

"Couldn't you have gone on with it afterwards?"

"Not very well. My father died the year the war ended, and there wasn't any too much money. So I thought I'd better be self-supporting as soon as I could."

"Mouldy for you," said Miss Fawcett with real sympathy.

"Oh no!" said Harding cheerfully. "I didn't mind."

"Well, I suppose it's fairly interesting work in a way, and you'll end up by being the head of Scotland Yard or something."

"I can't imagine anything more improbable. In any case I'm thinking of retiring and rearing chickens or pigs instead."

"There's absolutely no money in chicken-farming unless you do it on a colossal scale," said the wordly-wise Miss Fawcett. "I know several people who tried it, and they all went bust."

"Then it'll have to be pigs," said Harding philosophically.

"Awfully mucky," objected Dinah.

"Chickens on a colossal scale then."

She shook her head. "You'd have to sink a frightful lot of capital in it," she said seriously.

"Never mind, I've come into quite a pleasant legacy, most unexpectedly."

"Well, I shouldn't blue it on fowls," said Dinah.

They were still discussing the disposal of Inspector Harding's legacy when the car swept up the Grange drive, and might, Dinah reflected, as she alighted at the front door, have known one another for years. "Now I suppose you want to get on with this impressive ceremony of opening the safe," she remarked. "I don't know if Mr. Tremlowe knows the combination, but if he doesn't he's about the only person in the house doesn't."

Harding looked quickly down at her. "Is that really so?"

"Yes, of course. It's only a potty affair," Dinah answered. "I've seen Arthur work it myself."

"Have you indeed?" murmured Harding, and followed her into the house.

Mr. Tremlowe had already arrived, and was standing in the hall, talking in shocked and lowered tones to Fay who had evidently come out of the drawing-room to meet him. Dinah at once introduced Harding to him.

"I have just been telling Lady Billington-Smith how more than distressed I am that I should have been out of town on Monday, "said the lawyer in a precise voice. "I trust my unavoidable delay in coming down has not in any way hindered you, Inspector?"

"Not at all," replied Harding. He bowed slightly to Geoffrey, who just then came out of the billiard-room.

"Oh — er — good morning!" said Geoffrey. "Hullo, Mr. Tremlowe! The Inspector wants you to open Father's safe. I suppose Fay and I ought to be there, oughtn't we."

"Undoubtedly," said Tremlowe. "I have also your father's Will with me, which presently I will read to you. I should tell you, Lady Billington-Smith, that I thought it proper to advise Captain Billington-Smith of what has occurred, in case you had omitted, in the very natural flurry of the moment, to do so. As no doubt you are aware, Captain Billington-Smith is one of the principal legatees. I am expecting him to join me here for the reading of the Will."

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed Geoffrey. "You don't mean to say Francis is coming back?"

"Certainly," said Mr. Tremlowe coldly. "It is very right that he should be here. Now, Lady Billington-Srnith, if you are ready I am sure the Inspector would like to see the safe opened without further delay."

"Yes, of course," Fay answered, looking nervously towards Harding, and slipping her hand in Dinah's arm. "Come along, Geoffrey."

There was a constable on duty in the study. Harding dismissed him, and shut the door. Fay clung tightly to Dinah's arm, shivering a little, her eyes on the empty chair by the desk. Dinah pressed her hand reassuringly, and adjured her in a whisper to buck up.

"Do you know the combination, Mr. Tremlowe?" asked Geoffrey. "Because if not I can open it for you."

"Thank you, the General deposited the key with me some time ago," replied Mr. Tremlowe, putting on a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles. He produced a piece of paper from his pocket-book, and advanced towards the safe.

He was checked by Harding's voice. Just one moment, please. Lady Billington-Smith, before Mr. Tremlowe opens the safe, can you tell us what we may expect to find in it?"

Fay withdrew her gaze from the swivel-chair with an effort. "I'm sorry," she said shakily. "What did you say?"

Harding repeated his question. She put up her hand to push the hair off her brow. "I — I don't think I know," she said. "My — my husband never actually showed me. I have an idea he kept certain documents in it, but I'm not really sure."

"Is it likely that there is any money in it, do you think?"

"Yes, quite a wog," replied Miss Fawcett, seeing his sister quite vague on the subject. "Arthur told us he was going to the bank at breakfast on Monday."

"Yes, yes, of course!" Fay said. "It was the first of July wasn't it? I'm sorry to be so stupid, I don't seem to be able to think. My husband invariably paid all the staff and the household books, and any other bills there might be on the first of each month. And there would be money for current expenses too."

"About how much, Lady Billington-Smith? Can you give me any idea?"

She frowned over it, trying to collect her thoughts. "I don't know exactly. About two hundred and fifty pounds. It was usually something like that. Sometimes rather more, sometimes less."

"Thank you. Yes, please open it, Mr. Tremlowe."

The lawyer bent over the lock of the safe; after a few moments the heavy door swung open, revealing a quantity of legal-looking documents, tied up with pink tape, some other papers, and, just inside the safe, abundle of new bank-notes, and some bags of silver. Mr. Tremlowe lifted these up, glancing at the Inspector. "I take it that you would like me to count these before I inspect the rest of the contents of the safe?" he asked.

"I should, please," Harding answered.

"Then I will do so," said Mr. Tremlowe, and walked over to the desk, and sat down in the swivel-chair.

Fay gave a tiny shudder. Geoffrey said in an undertone to Dinah: "This room feels absolutely ghastly . I wish he wouldn't be so beastly slow; I shall be damned glad to get out of here."

It seemed a long while before Mr. Tremlowe looked up from his task. "There are one hundred and ten pounds here, in notes of varying denominations, and ten pounds' worth of silver," he announced, and methodically slipped the rubber band round the bundle again.

Harding looked at Fay, who was frowning. "One hundred and twenty pounds?" she said. "Are you sure, Mr. Tremlowe?"

"Perfectly," said the lawyer placidly.

"There must be more than that," she said. "I mean, there ought to be more. One hundred and twenty pounds couldn't possibly cover all the expenses."

"Your husband paid no bills by cheque?" suggested Harding.

"No, not local ones. He always used to say it was wasting twopence to do that. I can't understand it."

Geoffrey said, stammering slightly: "D-do you mean someone's robbed the safe, Inspector?"

"I have no idea," replied Harding. "But a visit to your lather's bank will tell us what was the exact sum he drew on Monday morning."

"If anyone robbed the safe, why not have taken the lot?" said Dinah practically. "He must have paid bills in Ralton before he came home."

"That we can easily find out," said Harding, and glanced at his wrist-watch. "I'll go along to the bank now, if you will tell me which one it is, Lady Billington-Smith, and if you, Mr. Tremlowe, will let me have the numbers of those notes."

Five minutes later his car swept past the window. Fay, who had been staring unseeingly at the safe, raised her eyes and said breathlessly: "If someone did steal the money it means — don't you see, Dinah — it means I was right, and it must have been someone from outside who killed Arthur!"

"Well, we shall see," said Dinah. "Meanwhile, let's go and sit somewhere else."

Mr. Tremlowe rose from his chair. "With permission, Lady Billington-Smith, I will take charge of these notes. And' — he looked over the top of his spectacles at the Sergeant —- "if you care to remain with me, Sergeant, I will go through the papers in the safe while we are waiting for the Inspector to return."

The other three went out into the hall again, and after a moment's indecision Fay said that she supposed they had better join the rest of the party.

Miss de Silva had not, of course, come downstairs , yet, but Guest and the Hallidays were on the terrace. Camilla, who was one of those people who never seened to get any time for reading, had now ample leisure to indulge her declared passion for literature and, in proof of her sincerity, was flicking over the pages of a novel selected at random from Fay's book-shelves. Stephen Guest, whom she had attempted, quite unavailingly, to engage in conversation, was hidden behind The Times and Halliday was sitting in a deep chair with a pipe clenched between his teeth, and his moody gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

When the others came out on to the terrace, Camilla closed her book immediately, and sat up. "Well, have you opened the safe, and was everything all right?" she inquired.

"We don't know until we find out just how much money my husband drew on Monday," answered Fay, apparently feeling that there was no need to admit Camilla further into her confidence. "Geoffrey, did Mr. Tremlowe mention what time we were to expect Francis? I wonder if I had better warn Finch that he may be here for lunch?"

"Oh, is Captain Billington-Smith coming back?" said Camilla, brightening visibly. "He'll cheer us up!"

"Cheer who up?" snapped Geoffrey disagreeably.

"Well, all of us! I mean, somebody from outside will make a sort of break, in a way, don't you think?"

"No, I don't," said Geoffrey.

Camilla bridled, and gave vent to a somewhat metallic laugh. "Well, all I can say is that some of us seem to be in need of cheering up — not to mention any names!"

"Oh, do be quiet, Camilla!" said Basil wearily.

Guest, who had risen when Fay came on to the terrace, drew her a little apart, and was talking to her in a low voice. Camilla said meaningly: "Or perhaps some of us don't happen to need any cheering up. One never knows!"

"Well, I don't," said Dinah. "I think the whole situation's rather funny."

"Well!" gasped Camilla, quite diverted by this skillful red herring. "What a thing to say! Funny, when Sir Arthur's been murdered, and one of us is the person who did it!"

Halliday got up, rasping his chair across the paved floor of the terrace. "For God's sake shut up!" he said roughly. "Do you think we want that thrown at us? Aren't things bad enough as it is? Oh, lord, can't we do something instead of sitting about and looking at each other?"

"That's just it," said Geoffrey gloomily. "What can we do? Personally, I'm ready to do what anyone wants but we can't play tennis, which is the obvious thing least, Fay thinks it would look rather bad, and I suppose she's right, really. I don't know about billiards: it's rather different — I mean, it's a quiet game, and indoors. I don't think we ought to play snooker, but a hundred up billiards surely can't offend anybody."

"Thanks very much," said Camilla. "And I suppose I can mark for you? That will be nice!"

"Why don't you play Bridge?" suggested Dinah. "You can play on the terrace, and Stephen can make a fourth."

"Oh, do you think we ought?" said Camilla. "Would'nt it be rather heartless? I'd give anything for something to do, but I couldn't bear to show disrespect to poor Sir Arthur's memory."

"Well, I don't know about cards," said Geoffrey doubtfully. "Of course, we wouldn't play for money , at any rate, only for something very small. What do you think, Halliday?"

"I don't see why we shouldn't. It's not as though we were proposing to play poker. Lady Billington-Smith, have you any objection to us having a rubber of Bridge"

"Bridge?" said Fay vaguely. "Do you think you ought to? It isn't that I mind, only Geoffrey, what do you feel about it?"

"Well, I can't see why we shouldn't, if we only play for three pence a hundred," declared Geoffrey. "Stephen will you come and make a fourth?"

"Yes, sure," said Guest amiably.

"That's settled them anyway," remarked Dinah, leadng her sister into the house. "Come on, ducky, you've got to try on the raiment I've brought home on approval."

Twenty minutes later, Francis Billington-Smith walked through the drawing-room and stood for a moment framed by the window, somewhat cynically observing the card-players. "What a touching sight!" he drawled. "The bereaved household! Little Geoffrey, too just bearing up, I see."

Camilla jumped, and looked over her shoulder. "Oh, Captain Billington-Smith, how you startled me!"

"Oh, so you've arrived, have you?" said Geoffrey. "I suppose I can play Bridge if I want to without asking your permission? Two down, vulnerable. That's two hundred and fifty to them above. What on earth you put me up for, Stephen, I can't imagine. Cut, please, Camilla."

Camilla's attention, however, was all for Francis, to whom she was already pouring out a garbled version of Sir Arthur's murder and a description of her own psychological reactions to it.

Francis broke in on this. "So interesting!" he said politely. "But as I don't know yet when my uncle was murdered or where, or by whom, these observations are somewhat lost on me. Would somebody not Geoffrey, I think — be kind enough to enlighten me?"

"Your uncle was stabbed in his study between twelve and one o'clock on Monday morning," stated Guest. "We don't know by whom."

"Stabbed?" Francis repeated.

"Yes, with the Chinese dagger he used as a paper knife," said Guest unemotionally.

Francis looked rather white. "My God!" he said. He put his hand into his pocket and mechanically drew out his thin gold cigarette-case and opened it. The fingers that groped for a cigarette were just a trifle unsteady "What an appalling thing!" he said.

Geoffrey eyed him with resentment. "Yes, and it's damned sight more appalling for us than for you, let mo tell you. You weren't here. We were."

Francis shut his case and tapped his cigarette on it.

"Rather appalling for Uncle too — if you should happen to be looking at it in that light," he remarked. "Poor old chap!"

"Naturally we all feel that," said Halliday, shuffling and reshuffling the cards. "It's a terrible tragedy. We're all most upset, and shocked."

Francis's faintly mocking glance lingered for moment on the Bridge-table. "I'm sure you must be," he said. "Quite shattered!"

"Hang it all, you needn't be so pious!" said Geoffrey firing up. "You weren't so damned fond of Father yourself."

Francis raised his brows. "On the contrary," he said." I was probably fonder of him than any of you. You would hardly believe it, but I'm almost distressed to think he's dead."

"Let's hope you won't be more distressed when the Will's read," replied Geoffrey.

"Oh, I hardly think so," said Francis. He struck a match, and lit his cigarette. "Does anybody know who murdered him, by the way?"

"No!" said Halliday, pushing the pack of cards away "It might," said Guest, "have been any one of us."

"You, for instance?"

"Me, for instance."

"But how extremely piquant!" remarked Francis. "Let its all put the name of the person each of us thinks did it into a hat, and see who gets the most votes."

"How can you be so awful?" shuddered Camilla. "How you can joke about it -! When one thinks of poor Sir Arthur, and all these ghastly policemen spying on us, and everything, it's enough to make one go quite mad!"

"You should think of others, Mrs. Halliday. It is very nice for the local police to have something else to do besides having me up for what they call dangerous driving."

"The locals!" ejaculated Geoffrey. "I could put up with them, but when it comes to having a damned nosey inspector down from Scotland Yard, behaving as though the place belonged to him, it's a bit thick!"

Francis regarded the tip of his cigarette. "Dear me!" he said. "So Scotland Yard has been called in has it? How unnerving for you! And where, by the way, is Fay? Prostrate, I suppose. It is too much to hope that Dinah is still here? Perhaps Dinah committed the murder, she is so strong-minded."

"Dinah is in the fortunate position of being perhaps the one person who couldn't possibly have done it," said Guest.

"Oh no, she is not!" said Camilla hotly. "I daresay you'd all of you like to put it on to me or Basil, and you needn't think I haven't eyes, because I have! Your precious Dinah hasn't got any better alibi than I have. And why anyone should want her to be here still is more than I can imagine. Bossing everybody, and trying to monopolise the Inspector, and going on as though she was the person capable of doing anything!"

"From what I know of Dinah, and from what I can see of the rest of you , always excepting Stephen, of course , I should imagine that she is," replied Francis. "Perhaps she will be able to tell me whether I condole with Fay or just tactfully say nothing. It is so awkward, isn't it? I'll go and find her." With which affable speech he walked into the house leaving Camilla to exclaim that thought his manner quite odd, and Geoffrey to break forth into a bitterly expressed opinion of his persona, impudence, and conceit.

Miss Fawcett was not far to seek. As Francis strolled into the hall she was standing at the foot of the staircase conferring with Finch.

"Well, beloved?" said Francis. "I hear you have a perfect alibi. I should have guessed it anyway, from your face of conscious rectitude."

"Hullo, Francis!" said Dinah casually. "But, Fin. I'm what sort of a person?"

"A Hebrew person, miss, to my way of thinking. He states that Miss de Silva asked him to call."

"It sounds to me like a reporter," said Dinah. "Where have you put him?"

"In the morning-room, miss. Shall I take his card to Miss de Silva's room, or would you wish to see him yourself?"

"I don't know. What do you think, Francis? Finch says a man has turned up asking for Lola. Only we're having such a god-forsaken time keeping the press out that I feel a bit suspicious."

"Who is he?" asked Francis, picking the visiting-card up from the tray Finch held. "Mr. Samuel Lewis. Unknown to me, I fear."

"Permit me to introduce myself!" said a rich and cheerful voice. "Samuel Lewis, always at your service!"

They looked quickly round. A stout gentleman in a navy blue suit and a satin tie had come out of the morning-room, and was advancing upon them. He had a somewhat Jewish cast of countenance, several gold sloppings in his teeth, which made his wide smile quite dazzling, a handsome ring on his finger, and a pearl pin in his tie. He held out his hand to Dinah, and clasped hers with reverent fervour. "Lady Billington-Smith, I presume. Allow a stranger to offer you his deepest sympathy, madam! And Mr. Billington-Smith! A sad loss, sir: believe me, I feel for you."

"Thank you so much," said Francis. "But I'm not the man you think me. Nor, to be strictly accurate, is this Lady Billington-Smith. We are, alas, quite insignificant persons."

"I'm happy to meet you, sir," said Mr. Lewis. "This is a terrible business. When I got Lola's letter I said to myself at once: This won't do. Definitely No. That is my view, and I don't fancy I shall change it. So you need have no fear of me at all. You'll set your minds at rest right now. Your interests are mine." He turned, and laid a hand on the outraged Finch's shoulder. "Now, you'll trot straight up to Miss de Silva's room, my man, and you'll say to her that Sam Lewis is right here."

"I think perhaps you'd better, Finch," said Dinah chokingly.

Mr. Lewis regarded her with sympathy. "On your nerves a little? I understand. A loving husband and a fond father done to death under his own roof while at hand the light-hearted guests, all unthinking of the great tragedy being enacted, pursue their innocent amusments. What a story! Double columns, I give you my word, and pictures on the front page. But it must not be. That is my verdict. Now I'll tell you something, and believe me what Sam Lewis doesn't know about the publicity racket you can-put into a match-box and throw into the incinerator." He drew closer to Francis, and tapped him on the chest with one stubby forefinger. "Get a hold on this," he said impressively. "What will make you a top-liner in France, with your name in electric signs six foot high, may land you into the first turn in a third-rate music-hall show in England, with people getting into their seats, and fumbling for sixpence for the programme while you're doing your stuff. Take it from me, sir, that's the solid truth. I know what you're going to say. And I tell you, me, Sam Lewis, that you're wrong. Definitely wrong. Glamour's O.K. I'm not saying it isn't. But the public's a ticklish thing. You want to get your fingers on its pulse. That's where mine is, and that's where I'm keeping it. Right on the Public Pulse. And this is what I'm telling you: what the English Public wants is, Sentiment. It sees La Lola in her Apache Dance with Greg Lamley. It's a riot. But God bless you, do you suppose the Public wants to think of Lola as the Girl in the last Murder Case? No, sir! Wash that right out. You've got the Public wrong. It wants to think of Lola being a Wife and Mother off the stage, just the same ar you or I might be."

"Hardly, I feel," murmured Francis.

"And that," said Mr. Lewis, paying no heed to this interruption, "is why I say we've got to hush this up. If it had happened in any other country I could have used it. But it's gone and happened in England, and it's no use crying over spilt milk: we can't use it."

At this moment Finch came downstairs, and said rigidly: "Miss de Silva desires you to go up to her room, sir. This way, if you please."

"I'll be right with you," said Mr. Lewis. He beamed upon Dinah, besought her to rely on him, and followed Finch up the stairs.

Inspector Harding, entering the house three minutes later, found Miss Fawcett clinging to the banisters in a hopeless fit of giggles, while a slim and handsome young man, who was propping his shoulders against the wall, regarded her with a world-weary but tolerant eye.

"You've g-got the Public wrong, F-Francis!" gasped Miss Fawcett.

"Possibly, but I have hidden potentialities of a domestic nature, may I remind you?" He became aware of Inspector Harding, and turned his head. "How do you do? I regret that I don't know who you are, but pray come in."

Dinah looked up. "Oh, hullo!" she said. "I'm not having hysterics: it's only Lola's manager, or whatever he is. He says we've got to hush it up."

"I should think you'll have some difficulty in doing that," replied Harding. "If someone has arrived to see Miss de Silva, he's her press-agent, I imagine. She told me she had sent for him." He looked in his grave, considering way at Francis. "Captain Billington-Smith?"

"The correct answer is, I believe, that you have the advantage of me," said Francis.

Dinah pulled herself together. "This is Mr. Harding, Francis."

"How nice!" said Francis, shaking hands. "Ought that to enlighten me?"

"Inspector Harding of Scotland Yard," explained Dinah.

"Really?" Francis's brows rose in surprise. "That certainly didn't occur to me."

There was a light footfall on the stairs; Fay cane round the bend, and stood looking down into the hall. For the first time since the discovery of her husband's murder there was a tinge of colour in her face, some shadow of eagerness in her wide eyes. "Is that the Inspector? You've been to the bank? I — I was right wasn't I? Please tell me what they said!"

"Of course I'll tell you, Lady Billington-Smith." Harding replied gently. "Will you come into the study for a moment?"

She came down at once, and passed without hesitation into the study, where Mr. Tremlowe was packing the contents of the safe into a leather satchel. She hardy seemed to notice Francis; her attention was all for Harding. Almost before he had shut the door she repeated: "Wasn't I right?"

"You were exactly right," answered Harding. "Your husband drew two hundred and fifty pounds out of thc bank on Monday morning."

Mr. Tremlowe removed his spectacles, and carefully wiped them. "That is very interesting, Inspector," he said. "Two hundred and fifty pounds, you say. H'm!"

Fay said quickly: "It proves it was robbery, doesn't it — if my husband didn't pay any bills that morning? Don't you think it does, Inspector?"

"Not quite, I'm afraid. I am having the numbers of the missing notes circulated, but until they are traced -"

"Forgive me," said Francis, "but do you think I might be told what has happened?"

"Arthur drew two hundred and fifty pounds out on Monday, and there was only one hundred and twenty pounds found in the safe when Mr. Tremlowe opened it today," explained Dinah tersely.

"Arithmetic is not my strongest point," said Francis. "Would somebody work it out for me?"

"The difference," said Harding, "is one hundred and thirty pounds."

"I thought it was." Francis strolled over to the desk, and stubbed out the end of his cigarette in the brass ash-tray there. "I don't think you need bother to circulate the numbers, Inspector. I rather imagine I have the missing notes."