The Mystery of the Peacock’s Eye

by

Brian Flynn

London

John Hamilton Ltd.

First Printed, July, 1928

Contents

CHAPTER I.
The Hunt Ball at Westhampton

The foot-fascinating strains of the Red Ruritanian Band died gently away—to commence again after a short interval just as exquisitely. The Hunt Ball at Westhampton was the outstanding event of the season and this year it had exceeded all past successes and even present anticipations. It was actually honoured, so it was whispered, with the presence of Royalty—which interesting fact although not announced publicly or even hinted at in the Press—was nevertheless an open secret to at least half-a-dozen of the most influential people present. Life in the Midlands is a very different proposition from life in London or in the residential neighbourhoods that are within that great city’s reasonable range. Social distinctions mean very much more—there is the sharply-definite cleavage of class—determined very often by “County” prejudice—a line of division against which there is little or no chance of struggling with any degree of success.

The Westhampton Hunt Ball represented all that was select, some of what was superior, and most of what was supercilious in the county of Westhamptonshire. There had been fears, and recent fears at that, that this year’s Ball might possibly be held under a shadow. But happily for the peace of mind of Westhampton, this shadow had been partially lifted from the town. The affair of the “Mutual Bank” frauds that had at one time seriously threatened to involve more than one of the most exclusive County families in an upheaval that would have resulted in their financial ruin, had been brilliantly handled by those in charge of the case and the final crash triumphantly averted—with the sensational arrest of Sir Felix Warburton, one of the Bank’s most important directors. Whereat the more distinguished portion of Westhampton—albeit shocked and startled—breathed freely again and welcomed its Annual Ball with all its accustomed avidity.

On the February evening in question the Red Ruritanian Band was in its most scintillating form, and beautiful women piloted by bronzed men—sun-tanned and wind-tanned and released for the time-being from the accustomed lilt of the galloping feet of horses—swept round what was unanimously acclaimed as a perfect floor, on twinkling toes and endeavoured with the assurance of the expert dancer, to do it the strictest justice.

Sir Matthew Fullgarney, Lord Lieutenant of the County made his way bustlingly from the refreshment-room specially reserved for the more distinguished guests, and brushed his perfectly-trimmed white moustache with a gesture that betokened complacent satisfaction. Then he courteously waved his hand to the smaller of two men who were at that moment passing him.

“Good evening, Major! Wonderfully fine show this evening—what?”

The man addressed smiled a reply as he walked by with his companion.

“Who’s that Carruthers is trotting round with him to-night, Pauline?” asked Sir Matthew, turning to his charming young wife—“can’t seem to place him at all!”

Lady Fullgarney turned interestedly, and threw a quick glance at the two retreating figures. “I don’t think I know,” she answered—with a slow shake of the head—“the man’s a perfect stranger to me—I feel certain.”

Sir Matthew growled unintelligibly—he always liked a satisfactory reply to any question that it pleased him in his wisdom to ask. He felt that any failure to supply this satisfaction savoured of disrespect to him. But on this occasion he suffered Lady Fullgarney to lead him back again to the ballroom—to be flattering himself very soon that he was cutting as fine a figure as any man present despite the annoying fact that his question remained unanswered. Meanwhile, the Chief Constable—Major Carruthers—was entertaining the subject of Sir Matthew’s curiosity in the refreshment-room that the Lord Lieutenant had so recently, and it must be admitted—regretfully—left. Sir Matthew had a discerning taste in more than one direction.

“Your health, Major Carruthers!” said the tall man—raising his glass. Carruthers bowed and looked across at him with a certain measure of criticism, perhaps—but nevertheless approvingly. “Glad you came to-night?” he questioned.

The man addressed emptied the glass deliberately and took his time before replying. No doubt he was accustomed to have people wait upon his words.

“Yes—and no,” he answered. “These things, of course, make some sort of an appeal—it would be idle to pretend otherwise—yet I can’t help feeling that they are what I may term counterfeit. They represent the shadow rather than the substance of Life. They lie far apart, for instance, from my own destiny and work.” He put down his glass.

Carruthers smiled. “I think I know what you mean. Like you, I am primarily, I suppose, a man of action. The open spaces are to me the places that count most. Yet I find time to appreciate this sort of thing intensely. There is a joyousness about it all that sets something in me going in vivid response—perhaps you don’t experience it.”

His companion shook his head, “Only to a degree,” he admitted.

The Major laughed at the cautiousness of the reply. “I suspect that’s all you feel inclined to admit—your somewhat peculiar position with regard to Society has given you what I’ll call a bias—a warp perhaps would be a better description.” He half turned impetuously in his chair—then gave a sudden exclamation. “Pardon me a moment,” he said, and rising quickly walked to a table that stood some distance away on the other side of the room.

The tall man turned and watched him a little lazily perhaps, as he made his way across. A girl rose to greet him—her hand outstretched impulsively. Then she turned and indicated her escort shyly—yet prettily. The man who had been left behind discarded his indolent mood and saw Major Carruthers bow with an almost studied dignity. Then his eyes—keen and alert by now—swept back to the girl who had first engaged the Chief Constable’s attention. It did not take him long to appreciate her beauty—of a type as unusual as it was outstanding. Wonderful auburn hair—the true Burne-Jones tint—crowned a dainty head that was superbly poised on a pair of trim shoulders. She had also the perfect complexion that almost invariably accompanies that particular shade of hair. The man that was watching her was seated too far away to see the colour of her eyes but he was satisfied that her carriage was charmingly assured and her limbs curvingly supple with the grace and glory of youth. Major Carruthers bowed gallantly over her finger-tips—whispered something that caused her to blush exquisitely—and sauntered back. His companion greeted him immediately.

“Almost am I in a mind now to qualify my last remark.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette. “Who’s the lady?” His eyes eagerly awaited Carruthers’ reply.

“I perceive,” said the Major, “that amongst your other gifts you include an eye for beauty. That’s Sheila Delaney—and by way of being a very great favourite of mine, I may say! You see I have a taste in that respect too.”

“Tell me about her—I’m interested.”

“There’s not a great deal to tell,” rejoined Carruthers, “she’s the only child of the late Colonel Delaney of the Westhampton Regiment. Her father died in 1917—he was drowned—poor chap, whilst home on leave from Gallipoli. When her mother died three years later she was left entirely alone in the world—except for an old nurse-companion who had lived with the Delaneys since Sheila’s birth. She lives a few miles out of Westhampton—at a charming little old-world place called Tranfield. Colonel Delaney left them pretty comfortably off in more ways than one. She’s always been rare ‘pals’ with me—I’m very flattered to think so—I regard it as a very fine type of compliment.” He puffed at his cigar.

“She’s certainly a very beautiful girl, Major! I’m glad now that I came, without any reservations—the beauty of the world always helps me to forget so much of the ugliness.”

Carruthers looked over his companion’s shoulder. “You don’t ask me about her dancing partner,” he ventured. The other man raised his eyes, turned deliberately and looked across to the other table—his eyes seeking the man who was in Sheila Delaney’s company. Apparently he saw little that he found of interest. “Seems to be quite an ordinary young fellow,” he murmured, “what am I expected to find about him that is extraordinary?”

Carruthers shifted in his chair, leaned across the table and spoke in an undertone. “I fancied his name might interest you—that was all.” He paused.

“His name?”

“Yes—that young fellow is Alan Warburton—nephew of Sir Felix Warburton.”

The tall man whistled softly. “Really now—and he’s here to-night, so soon after the scandal—I take it he must have a special interest in Miss Delaney?”

“I haven’t noticed it before,” replied Carruthers—“but of course, it wouldn’t surprise me—Sheila, as you may well imagine has hosts of admirers—so that one more won’t make a lot of difference. I fancy she relies on the safety that comes with numbers. As to his being here to-night—well—the young soon forget—you know.” He smiled across at the tall man.

“And forgive?” questioned the latter.

Before Carruthers could find time to frame a reply, a warning movement from his companion served to check him. The two young people that had been forming the subject of the discussion were on their way and already almost abreast of the Major’s table. Carruthers smiled a greeting which Sheila Delaney was quick to return. As she did so, her eyes caught the frankly admiring glance of the Major’s companion. For a brief space their glances held each other and for the man concerned the world seemed suddenly to stand still. Then the girl’s eyes dropped demurely to her fan and she passed on—her hand on Alan Warburton’s arm and her cheeks aflame with an exquisitely entrancing blush. The tall man turned to the Chief Constable of Westhamptonshire.

“Do me a favour, Major,” he exclaimed with sudden impulse. “Please! As I said I withdraw those early remarks of mine, absolutely and unreservedly. Introduce me to Miss Delaney!”

Major Carruthers appeared to hesitate for a moment—then he looked up at the man that had made the request. “As——” he waited interrogatively for his companion to intervene.

“As Mr. X,” came the reply—immediately. “I prefer to retain my incognito—you know that.”

Carruthers caressed his cheek with his fingers. “I didn’t bargain for this when I brought you along—you know. And Sheila’s a thoroughbred—I shouldn’t like anything——”

His companion squared his shoulders with an unmistakable dignity. “There is more than one attribute of aristocracy, Major,” he murmured quietly. “I—of all people——”

Carruthers rose from his chair. “I know the truth of that,” he declared. “I’ve knocked about too much not to realise that. Come along—let’s find Sheila—time’s getting on.”

The other rose after him—debonair and distinguished—and followed him through the thronging press of the dancers congregated in the vestibule of the ballroom. He looked at his watch. It showed a few minutes past ten.

“She’s dancing,” said the Major.

“Superbly too,” said the other.

The two men waited for the dance to finish. “Come,” said Carruthers, touching the other’s sleeve, “it’s now or never.”

Sheila Delaney saw them coming and did not wait for them to complete the distance of their approach. Instead she made her apologies to her young partner and came forward herself to meet them. Thus it was that the encounter materialised in the middle of the room.

“Sheila,” exclaimed Carruthers, “my friend here is something more than anxious to make your acquaintance. But for important reasons of his own, which must be nameless—he desires you to know him as Mr. X. Strictly speaking you see, he is not supposed to be here at all—therefore I submit to this whim of his.” He effected the introduction. “Talk to him for a few moments, Sheila,” he added, “you will find him as intriguing and as mysterious as the name under which he is temporarily cloaking his identity. I’ll return when I think you’ve been sufficiently entertained.” He waved his hand and slithered away across the dance-floor. Sheila Delaney looked at the man who had sought her out. He indicated two of the lounge seats that were arranged at the side of the ballroom.

“Well!” she said.

“Well!” he replied.

She leant over and tapped him on the arm with her fan. “You hold a distinct initial advantage over me, you know, Mr. X. Anonymity is such a terribly strong position in which to entrench one’s self. To you I am Sheila Delaney—to me you are—an unknown quantity.”

He smiled appreciatively. “Yet one usually concludes by finding the value of X—shall we say.”

“If one is successful,” she replied, “you have to be successful, you know, to discover the true value.”

He smiled again.

“I think I am going to like you,” she went on very frankly and disarmingly, “there is something about you that attracts me—you have a—what shall I call it—a ‘je ne sais quoi’——”

He fingered her fan with a kind of mocking assurance playing round the line of his lips. She lifted her left hand as he did so. “Hark!” she exclaimed, “those violins—I love violins—they croon—don’t they? They’ve got something in their music that no other instrument has—‘silky susurrus of petticoats ravishing—violins crooning above—drowsy exotics their essences lavishing—whispers of Scandal and Love’—I’m afraid I’ve misquoted,” she continued breathlessly, “but a perfectly topping dance always makes me think of that.”

“You like dancing?” he asked simply.

“I adore it,” she answered just as simply—then relapsed into a contemplative silence. Suddenly she looked up at him with mischievous eyes. “Do you dance?” she inquired.

“Very seldom—but I’m sorely tempted to dance to-night.” His eyes held a depth of meaning.

“That’s very charming of you,” she remarked, “and if you’re anything like me—and I’m sure you are in some things—you delight in yielding to temptation.” Her eyes caught his and challenged them. They were—he concluded—in a quite breathless summing up—rather extraordinary eyes. Quickly changing colour, at this precise moment they seemed to be flecked with strange shades of light green. They were challenging his now with an allurement of demure and dainty invitation. She rose and placed her finger-tips on his broad shoulder. “I’m convinced you dance beautifully,” she murmured as they stepped off to the rhythm of the Red Ruritanians, “so don’t attempt to deny it.”

It did not take Sheila Delaney long to realise that her conviction was right. Her companion proved a worthy partner for her. She looked at him provocatively. “Why have you no business to be here, Mr. X?” she queried softly.

He shook his head. Then the Spirit of Audacity and Adventure caught him and held him securely captive. “One day—perhaps, I’ll tell you,” he declared, “till then, you must possess your soul in patience.”

“Supposing I don’t choose to wait?” She summoned all her resources of disdain to her aid and let it tinge her question. Her partner merely shrugged his ample shoulders. “If you continue to surround yourself with this dreadfully mysterious atmosphere,” she went on, “I shall begin to think that I’m dancing with the guest of the evening—His Royal Highness, The Crown Prince of Clorania—one never quite knows.” She looked at him with arch invitation—so much so that Alan Warburton from the end of the room felt suddenly murderous as he watched her laughing face and the broad back of her partner. But her curiosity was to remain unsatisfied. Mr. X was apparently in no mood for the exchange of confidences. He looked at her with a smile that conveyed a mysterious much, yet confessed a negligible nothing. Carruthers threw her silk shawl across her shoulders when she returned to her seat—the dance over; then he turned to the other man a little critically.

“You didn’t tell me you intended to dance,” he exclaimed. “That wasn’t part——”

“Blame Miss Delaney,” came the unruffled reply, before he could complete his sentence. “Actually I had no intention of doing so myself—but Miss Delaney in the rôle of the temptress, I found deucedly hard to resist.”

Carruthers was about to demur when Sheila laid her hand upon his wrist. “I have to thank you, Major, for a most delightful experience. Mr. X”—the green eyes glinted mischievously—“dances beautifully—I should like to carry him round with me as my dancing partner.”

The person complimented bowed his thanks as the Chief Constable turned towards him. “I think I had better be going, Major,” he said gravely. Carruthers looked at his watch—then deliberately at the speaker. “So do I,” he agreed; “we must also make our departure very shortly, Sheila.”

The sweeping eye-lashes covered eyes that flickered and themselves quivered dangerously as she gave the two men her hand. Carruthers gave it an affectionate clasp, but his companion bent over it with a studied gallantry. “Good-bye,” she said with some deliberation in her voice-tone, “Good-bye—Mr. X.” He looked at her with frank admiration in his gaze—then spoke very quietly—yet with infinite meaning, “Au ’voir—Miss Sheila.” He turned on his heels smartly—then followed the Chief Constable down the room—and out.

When Carruthers returned half an hour later, he found that the number of dancers had thinned considerably and that the ballroom was a far more comfortable place than it had been before. Sheila Delaney was one of those that had remained. Her nature was such that it was a physical impossibility for her to be dull for very long, yet Major Carruthers was definitely conscious that a fit of depression had overcome her. He rallied her with cynical generosity. “Give me,” he exclaimed teasingly, “and every time at that—the girl who is content with her lot—who doesn’t sit sighing for what she has not—” he paused and was somewhat startled at something he seemed to see in the expression on her face.

“I’m not sighing, Major,” she spoke with a certain wistfulness, “I’m very far from sighing if you only knew.” She rose and faced him confidently. He caught her by the shoulder with an air of parental proprietorship—looked at her intently—then said abruptly, “where’s young Warburton?”

“I haven’t the least idea,” came the reply—touched with unexpected frigidity, “gone—I expect.”

“Dance this with me, then,” said Carruthers, “before we go.”

“I don’t want to dance a bit,” she responded, “but I will—for you, Major.”

As their finger-tips met he noticed how cold she seemed. “You worry me when you’re down in the dumps, Sheila Delaney,” he remonstrated, “you’re quite cold.”

“If you want to know,” she laughed, making a spirited attempt to throw off her mood, “when you came along just now, I was shivering.”

He swung her adroitly round a vacillating couple who appeared likely to impede their smooth progress. “What’s been happening since I left you?” he inquired. “May an old friend inquire without appearing too inquisitive?”

“Nothing of any consequence,” she rejoined. “I just feel disturbed—that’s the best word I can think of.”

“Telling me that tends to disturb me,” he replied with quiet sympathy, “and I refuse to allow that to happen. Come—dance your very best.”

When it had finished, he thanked her and piloted her back to her seat.

“Daphne has been looking very beautiful to-night,” she said. “Aren’t you proud of your niece?”

He looked at her curiously, “She has an extra special reason to look nice to-night.” Then he changed the subject. “If you come now, I’ll motor you home, being a bachelor has some advantages—there’s nobody else here to-night about whom I need worry.”

“I should love it, Major,”—she accepted his offer of service with genuine enthusiasm—“Pinkie will be waiting up for me.”

“How is Pinkie these days—hale and hearty?”

“Wonderful—for her age—she’s over sixty, you know—nobody could look after me like Pinkie does.”

He drove her home. As they turned the corner of the High Street—where the Grand Hotel stood—the newsboys were calling an extra-special edition—late though the hour was.

“What is it?” she said, clutching at his arm, “it must be something frightfully important.”

He checked the car and listened. Then he turned back to her as the shouts became intelligible to his ears. “Bank Frauds’ Sensation—suicide of Sir Felix Warburton—in his cell.” He accelerated immediately. “Pretty rotten business that,” he declared with anxiety, “and the Chief Constable glad-ragging it at the Hunt Ball. I shall be in the soup properly if I’m not careful.”

But Sheila Delaney’s sympathy was not entirely for him. “Suicide,” she whispered, half to herself, “how awful.”

They drove home quietly—neither saying much. As she ran down the garden path of her bungalow, Carruthers called out to her. “I’ll come round before Easter, Sheila—and take you for a spin—may I—are you on?”

“Of course,” she sang back. “Good night.” But she never rode with him again. On a wet night during the following month of March, Major Carruthers was motoring home, when his car skidded badly and overturned . . . when that happened Sheila Delaney lost a good friend and the public service a very gallant gentleman.

CHAPTER II.
Mr. Bathurst Receives a Distinguished Visitor

Anthony Bathurst propped the letter against the side of the matutinal coffee-pot and read it carefully for the fourth time since he had received it less than half an hour before. As he finished it he grimaced deliberately and removed the brown top of his second egg somewhat absent-mindedly. The letter and envelope were of heavy cream-laid notepaper—extremely strong and stiff. The heading was “Hotel Florizel, W.” The letter read as follows: “There will call upon you to-day—between 11.30 and 12 o’clock—a gentleman who desires to lay before you a matter of urgent and peculiar importance. Besides this importance it possesses an exceedingly delicate significance which will entail your strictest discretion. This gentleman, who is also the writer of this letter, is aware—upon unimpeachable authority—that in this last respect you may be thoroughly relied upon inasmuch as your unique ability is matched by your tact and integrity. Your services in any circumstances, will be handsomely rewarded—particularly so in the event of your bringing the affair in question to a successful conclusion. The writer thoroughly understands that it is not your practice to undertake work of this kind professionally—yet hopes to awaken your interest in his case sufficiently intensely for you to render him the assistance he requires.”

“H’m,” grunted Anthony. “He does, does he?” He pushed his plate on one side, pulled at his top lip and lit a cigarette. “I wonder who’s been singing my praises to this gentleman who writes so enigmatically? I can hardly suppose that he has had any immediate connection with Scotland Yard that has caused him to run across Detective-Inspector Goodall—and I haven’t heard that Baddeley has reached the Metropolis yet—still—after all—it’s a small world and sometimes people link up quite unexpectedly.” He looked at his watch. It showed the time at half-past nine. “Two hours before my unknown caller arrives.” He walked to the bookcase and took down what he always described as his “Encyclopædia of London.” Turning to the section dealing with hotels—he found the “Florizel” and rapidly read through the particulars given. The tariff was extremely high—in every particular—and it quickly became obvious to him that the hotel concerned could only be within the range of the comparatively wealthy. He took the letter from the table again—and gave it yet another close inspection. The paper was not the hotel notepaper, the address “Hotel Florizel, W.” having been written at the top by the writer of the letter. He held the notepaper up to the light—without tangible reward. The writing was firm and bold—somewhat florid in style and letter-formation—yet withal—the writing of an educated man. If it had any special feature it lay in the somewhat ornate formation of the capital letters. The three “T’s” the “B,” and the “Y”—looked un-English somehow. There was an ornamentation about them that gave Anthony much food for consideration. “ ‘German,’ in my opinion,” he murmured to himself after a moment or two, “possibly a German professor who has mislaid his science notebook containing the recipe for diamond-making. That would account for the heavy demands to be made upon my powers of discretion! Still—I’m making a mistake theorising with precious little data to build upon. I’ll go for a stroll till the time comes for me to receive my mysterious client.” He put on his hat and went out. He was a firm believer in as much walking exercise as was humanly possible, as a sure means to physical fitness. In his case physical fitness coincided completely with mental fitness; he was a splendid example of the “Mens sana” doctrine.

At twenty minutes to twelve—or to be absolutely accurate—at eleven-thirty-eight, Bathurst heard a car draw up outside his flat. He quickly walked to the window that commanded the street and looked down. “Rolls-Royce, eh,” he said to himself, “I’m moving in more illustrious circles than ever.” A minute or two later there came a rather peremptory tap upon the door of his room.

“Come in,” he called. His visitor entered at the invitation.

“Have I the pleasure to address Mr. Anthony Bathurst?” he interrogated.

“You have,” replied that gentleman—indicating the arm-chair with a graceful gesture—“won’t you sit down?”

The visitor hesitated for a moment—then accepted the proffered seat. Mr. Bathurst waited imperturbably for him to continue the proceedings. This was a habit of Mr. Bathurst—he generally found it profitable. After a second or two that seemed to suggest a certain amount of uneasiness the caller looked across at Anthony and proceeded.

“Before I state my case, Mr. Bathurst,” he remarked with an air that may be best described as one of dignified arrogance—“I should like to preface it with the information that it is my intention to conceal from you my real identity—it will make no appreciable difference as far as I can see, to your handling of the case—and it will be a precaution that will serve to protect many highly-influential interests. To you, I should prefer to be known as Mr. Lucius,” he paused as he uttered the name, as though to divine if possible the effect of his announcement upon the man who listened. Save for a slight suspicion of the guttural, his English was as faultless as his dress. The lounge-suit he wore, unmistakably betokened the craft of Savile Row—whilst his shoes, socks, tie and collar were in complete harmony and equally irreproachable taste. Mr. Bathurst smiled.

“In that case then,” he said softly, walking again to the window, “I shall be in a position to continue—almost immediately—a most interesting little brochure that I have here, upon the habits of that particular Nematoid worm believed to be the cause of Trichiniasis.”

A bright colour flooded the cheeks of the visitor and the strong line of his jaw set even more strongly and rigidly. He half-rose to his feet from the luxurious depths of Mr. Bathurst’s arm-chair, and a wave of anger took possession of his features. Only momentarily—however. He sat down again; then with a strong effort succeeded in controlling himself. “I am to understand, then,” he declared with considerable hauteur, “that you decline to accept my case?”

“Under those conditions,” replied Mr. Bathurst in honeyed tones, “most certainly!”

“Nothing, I presume, that I could offer you in the shape of an inducement would persuade you to take a different view of the matter?” The suggestion came with an undoubted amount of eagerness.

“I am quite unable to contradict you,” responded Mr. Bathurst.

His visitor allowed an exclamation of impatience to escape his lips—then rose again from his chair and paced the room nervously. For a brief period there was silence.

“You will see, I am sure,” continued Anthony, “that it would be worse than useless for me to undertake a case—with any hope of bringing it to a successful conclusion—if the identity of my principal were to be a secret from me. It is tantamount to asking me to fight somebody with one hand tied behind my back.”

His visitor paused in his pacing—abruptly; then wheeled round upon Anthony with a vehement gesture.

“You are right,” he declared impulsively, “I ask your pardon, it was wrong of me to consider even, such a possibility. Wrong—and equally foolish! I quite understand that in dealing with a case of this kind—complete confidence must exist between principal and agent.” He thought for a moment—then went on. “After all, I have done nothing of which I need be ashamed.” Anthony waved him to the arm-chair again and pulled up the chair opposite for himself.

“You are aware, I know,” he said quietly, “that I am not a professional inquiry agent. Your letter this morning told me as much. At the same time I shall be pleased to hear your story, and if at all possible, to help you in the matter. Consider me at your service.”

His companion inclined his head—then raised it again and looked Bathurst directly in the eyes. “It may interest you to know, Mr. Bathurst,” he commenced, “that you have been addressing The Crown Prince of Clorania.”

Anthony accepted the intimation with becoming reserve. “I am honoured,” he murmured. His Royal Highness went on quickly:

“I am not sure whether you are a close student of European history. That fact, perhaps, is somewhat beside the point. Let it be sufficient for the moment for me to tell you that in December next I am marrying the Princess Imogena of Natalia. This union, it is confidently believed by all who are competent to judge, will bind Clorania and Natalia, in an irrevocable alliance. It is also, I may inform you, a love-match.” He coughed, looked at his hearer, then continued—without stopping to hear any comments that were tolerably certain in his own opinion to be superfluous and beside the point. “The Princess is as charming as she is beautiful and I may tell you that she is considered by many excellent judges to be one of the six most beautiful girls in Europe. In other words she is worthy of me, and I am bound to regard myself as very fortunate to have won the hand of so fair a bride. There are many also who think that the Princess herself has been equally fortunate—and I, for one—ahem—will not contest that opinion.”

Once again he cast a shrewdly-quick glance in Anthony’s direction only to discover thereby that his story was being received with impassive attention. When he chose, Mr. Bathurst’s face could be supremely enigmatic. He chose at this moment! The result was that the Crown Prince seemed less sure of himself than ever.

“What I have to say now is not at all easy for me. In fact I am quite prepared to admit that I find it extremely difficult. The Reigning House of Natalia, I need hardly tell you, would not tolerate for one moment a marriage for their only daughter, with a Prince whose ‘shield was not stainless’—like the Tunstall of your wonderful literature. Her husband must be ‘sans peur et sans reproche’ and his blood of the very purest. They favoured my suit from the first—fulfilling as I did these vitally necessary obligations. Judge of my annoyance then, Mr. Bathurst to find myself the recipient of these most insufferable letters, which I will confess, it was not my original intention to show you.” He took from his breast-pocket a packet of letters. “There are five of them in all and they date from nine weeks ago until now—the latest you will observe according to the post-mark on the envelope is dated June 22nd—a week ago. Perhaps you would read this last one, first of all.”

Anthony extended his hand for the letter in question. “Westhampton post-mark,” he observed—scrutinising the somewhat blurred stamp on the envelope. His visitor nodded in agreement. Anthony took out the letter itself. It was undated and bore no address. He read it. The handwriting spoke of education and culture. “The disinclination of His Royal Highness to reply to the four letters that he has already received is neither to his credit nor will it be to his advantage. At this period of negotiations he should realise that the writer is not penning these communications simply ‘pour passer le temps’. Unless the £50,000 already demanded is forthcoming by the 9th of next month the writer will be reluctantly compelled to add yet another Royal personage to his circle of epistolary acquaintance—the Princess Imogena of Natalia. But he assures His Royal Highness that the course of conduct thus indicated would occasion him extreme regret. His Royal Highness is fully aware that he is still allowed to choose his own method of transmitting the required sum—provided that such method is communicated to the writer through the ‘Agony Column’ of the ‘Times.’ ” Bathurst wrinkled his brows, “This doesn’t tell me all,” he exclaimed. “May I look at the first letter of the series?” He extended his hand. The Crown Prince looked through his packet of envelopes and handed over the required letter. “Tranfield post-mark this time,” declared Anthony. “What date is this?” He looked at the post-mark very carefully. “April twenty-third—‘Tranfield.’ Let me think for a moment—Tranfield is only a few miles from Westhampton, I fancy.”

“You are right,” replied his Royal visitor, “nine—to be precise.”

The opening letter of the batch was much less shadowy—and far more to the point. “My dear Crown Prince,” it ran with cavalier camaraderie, “you are entering the matrimonial state next December. That is to say—perhaps—for ‘there’s many a slip!’ What would the Princess Imogena of Natalia say to a full story of your disgraceful ‘affaire’ of the last year or so with a certain lady, whose identity for the time being need not be disclosed. However, my gay and gallant lover, there is no especial need for uneasiness on your part. £50,000 will seal eternally my rosebud lips.” Similar directions to those in the letter that Anthony had just previously read were laid down concerning the transmission of the money. Bathurst looked at his client with judicial thoughtfulness.

“Far be it from me,” he murmured, “to trespass on Your Highness’s—shall we say—confidence”—he tapped the letter with his forefinger interrogatively . . . waiting quietly—yet with determination. Mr. Bathurst was nothing, if not delicate in affairs of this nature.

A dull red colour suffused the cheeks of the Crown Prince. “I am a man,” he declared with a touch of petulant anger in his tone, “who has always proved a strong and irresistible attraction to the opposite sex. But believe me, I am no Lothario. This incident—for I have no doubt in my mind that I know the ‘affaire’ to which reference is made here—was perhaps unfortunate but certainly cannot with truth be termed ‘disgraceful.’ The lady and I parted upon perfectly agreeable terms some months ago now and upon that happening I imagined that the incident was permanently closed. I trust that you will not find it necessary to ask the lady’s name. I am a man of honour.”

Anthony pulled at his lip. “Are there any—er—documentary indiscretions relative to the affair still in existence?”

The Prince moved uneasily in his chair. “The lady may have kept the letters,” he responded, “women are notoriously careless in these matters.”

“Anything else?” queried Anthony.

“There was a photograph,” replied His Highness, lamely.

“Of you?”

“Of the two of us—taken together—unfortunately.”

“Dear me,” ventured Anthony, “how indiscreet of you—that does complicate matters, to be sure!” He held out his hand for the three remaining letters and read each one through with care. “These three bear the London post-mark, I notice,” he declared, “there’s nothing to help me much there, Your Highness! Westhampton and Tranfield as we agreed, are adjoining. It is quite feasible therefore that the starting-point of our investigation may lie in that district. Have you any reason to believe that this may be so? Possibly, if you are frank, you can help me.”

His visitor hesitated a moment or two before framing his reply. “Mr. Bathurst,” he declared, “I want you to ferret out this dirty blackmailer and put matters right for me. I realise therefore that it is incumbent upon me to be quite frank. In reply to your question then—as to whether I can help you. I have only been to Westhampton once in my life. That was a year ago last February. I attended the Hunt Ball there—but my incognito was strictly maintained. To Tranfield I have never been!”

Anthony went straight to the point. “Did the lady in question accompany you?”

“No,” replied the Crown Prince, “she did not. But I——” he stopped—seemingly at a momentary loss for words.

“Was she there?” asked Anthony, quick to seize the point. The Crown Prince bowed his head in assent. “It would appear then—that, as I foreshadowed—the root of the matter lies at Westhampton? Do you agree?” He eye the Crown Prince with intentness.

“It may—very possibly,” came the answer. “On the other hand it may be merely a coincidence. I visited many more places with the lady than Westhampton—as I stated, I have only been in that particular place once.”

“You may be right, of course,” conceded Anthony. “Where was the photograph taken?”

“At Seabourne—last summer.”

“By——?”

“A gentleman who was staying in the same hotel. With my own camera. He obliged me by taking it. It was a wish of the lady.”

“Can you recollect this gentleman’s name?”

The Crown Prince of Clorania frowned as though he found the questions distasteful and disconcerting. “I think it was a Captain Willoughby. I’m not altogether sure. Naturally I wasn’t taking a prominent part in the social life of the hotel at the time.”

“What was the name of the Hotel?”

“The Cassandra.”

“Your Highness still desires to keep the identity of the lady a secret?”

“I have no option.”

“Very well,” said Anthony. “Leave these letters with me and I will do my best for you. Firstly, however, will you permit me to make a suggestion?”

“Yes, certainly!”

“Set a trap for your unknown correspondent. Lure him into it—then leave him to the tender mercies of Scotland Yard.”

The Crown Prince shook his head. “I’ve thought of that, but I fear the consequences. Some of the story would be certain to become public. I cannot afford it to. I must avoid that at all costs.”

“Pay the sum demanded, then,” ventured Anthony.

“Fifty thousand pounds?” exclaimed his client in amazement, anger conflicting with incredulity in his voice. “You must be unaware of my very limited resources. Comparatively speaking, Mr. Bathurst, I am a poor man.”

“You will give me ‘carte blanche’ naturally?” said Anthony.

“As long as you maintain the strictest secrecy—you may act in whatever way you choose. Personally, I shall let nothing stand in my way. And if you are successful—rest assured that your services will never be forgotten. I am a Vilnberg—we have long memories for those who serve us well. Only remember—time is getting short. December is not so very far ahead.”

He bowed, turned pompously and Anthony heard his decisive step descending the stairs.

Walking to the window, Bathurst watched the magnificently-liveried chauffeur open the door of the car—usher his master to his seat therein with perfect obsequiousness, then drive off quickly and almost noiselessly. With a semi-humorous shrug of the shoulders Anthony returned to his desk. Then he read through the five threatening letters again—with even more care and attention than before. After a little time thus expended, one fact began to stand out clearly from the correspondence and make a deep impression upon his mind. The threats contained in the letters were all indefinite—limited to the “telling of a story,” to “forwarding information of a most interesting and important nature,” “to acquainting a certain Royal lady with highly-important facts,” “to extending a circle of epistolary acquaintance.” He was unable to find any mention whatever of the possession for instance, of such a definite thing as a photograph—also there was no hint of the existence of compromising letters. “Seems to me,” muttered Anthony to himself, “that the strongest weapon this letter-writing gentleman possesses is the Crown Prince’s conscience—and he probably knows it.” He reached down for his A.B.C. and quickly flicked the pages for Westhampton. Then he turned back to Tranfield, which place he discovered was served at intervals by a local train service from Westhampton. “I can’t run down before next Friday,” he said to himself after consulting his diary, “it’s impossible for me to touch it till then.” He filled the bowl of his pipe and watched the flame of the match curl fiercely round the brown shreds of tobacco, “What happened exactly,” he asked himself, “at the Hunt Ball at Westhampton a year ago last February?”

CHAPTER III.
Chief-Inspector Bannister Gets a “Busman’s Holiday”

Although the “Big Six” of Scotland Yard are invested by an admiring public with superhuman powers, and attributes that border upon the magical, they are for all that, as human as that same circle of admirers. Which fact, doubtless, has brought comfort to the heart of many a hunted criminal when he has brought himself to realise it. In this relation, probably the most human of “the Six” was Chief Detective-Inspector Richard Bannister—known to his colleagues and to a host of friends as “Dandy Dick.” One of the most certain and regular indications of this humanity, to which allusion has just been made, is the desire at intervals, to rest from the exigencies of work and to take a holiday. At any rate, that was the particular trait that usually manifested itself in the case of Chief-Inspector Bannister. Three years of strenuous activities had seen him bring during their passing at least half-a-dozen of the “Yard’s” biggest “cases” to successful and triumphant conclusions. On that account, therefore, he had no compunctions in taking a month’s vacation at Seabourne. The place had always attracted him exceedingly when he had been in a position to enjoy short stays there on previous occasions, and now on a much longer spell it seemed to possess for him an even greater measure of attraction. On the July evening in question he shifted his body to a more comfortable position in the deck-chair which he was occupying and lazily inclined his head to catch more clearly the strains of the Military Band playing in the band-stand on the magnificent promenade of which Seabourne is so justifiably proud. It was a perfect summer evening—the true fulfilment of a perfect summer day. A day of blue sky and majestic sun! The sea was beautifully calm and lapped the beach in a ceaseless creaming succession of lazy, indolent ripples, and now the stars were flashing into the night-sky one by one, as though they were tiny lights turned on by a giant hand. Bannister stretched his long legs from his deck-chair in complete physical enjoyment. As he did so a tall man came down the superbly-kept lawn that fronted the “Cassandra” Hotel and sank comfortably into the deck-chair next to Bannister. He nodded genially. “Glorious evening—I told you last night we were in for a perfect day to-day.”

“I remember,” replied Bannister. “You did.” He went on: “My luck as regards weather is absolutely in. I’ve actually had a week of uninterrupted sunshine—which I should imagine—speaking without the book—approaches a record for a summer holiday in England. Certainly, I’ve rarely been so fortunate in the past.” He removed the horn-rimmed glasses that he had been using as a protection against the glare of the sun and carefully wiped them with a silk handkerchief.

Captain Willoughby’s white teeth flashed in a smile of cordial agreement. “The same here. I’ve spent a good deal of time down here at Seabourne during the last year or two, but I haven’t often had the good luck to get weather like we are experiencing now. It’s almost equal to the Riviera. Been far to-day?”

“No,” answered Bannister, with a shake of the head, “I’ve taken matters very easily to-day. Purposely! I came down here for a thorough rest and I intend to stick to my resolve. I’m a firm believer in the idea of a restful holiday.”

Willoughby grinned. “Mind you keep it up all the time you’re here, then! I always think that those intentions are very similar to ‘New Year’ resolutions. They’re something like keeping a Diary, for instance. You know what I mean. Everything goes swimmingly from the first of January until about Epiphany. We carefully chronicle our petty personalities for just those few days—then our enthusiasm wanes and the remaining days in our Diary calendar are usually quite innocent of ink or even indelible pencil.” He tossed away the end of his cigarette. “But I expect you’ve been guilty of that sort of thing yourself?”

“Perhaps not as much as you think. I’ve a lot of will-power. I can discipline myself to do things that are irksome—as a rule what I mean to do—I do. It’s my way,” Bannister concluded rather abruptly.

As he spoke one of the maids came from the Hotel and crossed the grass to where he was sitting. By his chair she stopped. Bannister turned and looked up at her. “Yes?” he questioned. “Are you wanting me?”

“Pardon me, sir,” came her reply, “but you are Mr. Bannister, aren’t you? There’s somebody here wants to speak to you—I was to tell you it was very important, he said, sir.”

Bannister knitted his brows, as though puzzled at the interruption; the maid waited by his chair, irresolutely.

“Are you sure he asked for me by name?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir—he said it quite distinctly—the name was ‘Bannister’ all right, sir.”

“Who is it?” he asked again. “Do you know him at all?”

The maid hesitated a moment before giving him her answer. Then she spoke rather haltingly. “As a matter-of-fact, sir, I think it’s Sergeant Godfrey from the Seabourne Police Station—I know him you see, sir, through seeing him about the town.”

“Sergeant Godfrey from the Police Station,” frowned Bannister, “what the dickens does he want me for—at this time of the evening?”

He looked at the maid’s face as though he expected to find there the answer to his question.

“I don’t know, sir, only as I told you before he said that it was very important.”

“Oh very well, then,” exclaimed Bannister, with an expression of infinite resignation, “but tell him where I am and ask him to come along out here if he wants me as badly as you suggest.”

She turned quickly and tripped back across the lawn. Bannister grunted to himself something inaudible and noticed that Willoughby was watching him closely.

“Couldn’t help hearing something of what she said,” he volunteered semi-apologetically, “hope it doesn’t spell trouble for you.”

Bannister’s eyes glinted through his glasses but before he could reply a tallish man with a brisk step had crossed the grass-plot and reached his chair.

“Good evening, sir,” he said somewhat deferentially, “may I have just a few words with you in private?”

Bannister glanced at him keenly and detected at once from the grim expression on his face that it was no petty trifle that had prompted this unexpected visit. He rose from his chair quietly. The Sergeant motioned him on one side and they withdrew about a dozen paces.

“I’m Sergeant Godfrey, sir, of the County Police and firstly I must ask you to excuse this disturbance I’m causing you. But the fact is I had the tip that the famous Chief-Inspector Bannister was staying in Seabourne and I’ve come to him for help.” He dropped his voice to a very low tone and almost whispered to the Inspector. The latter started suddenly.

“Murder—are you sure, Godfrey?”

“Not a doubt about it, sir, as far as I can see. Or any of the others for that matter. Let me tell you the facts of the case,” he supplemented eagerly. Scarcely waiting for the Inspector’s assent he embarked impetuously upon his narrative. “At twenty minutes past two this afternoon, we received a ’phone message at the station, asking us to proceed at once to Mr. Ronald Branston’s dental surgery. Mr. Branston, I may tell you, is a dental surgeon who has resided in Seabourne about three years. His place is at the corner of Coolwater Avenue—in the best and most secluded part of the town—quite a ‘posh’ dentist’s—I can assure you—Mr. Branston himself was speaking on the ’phone. All he said was ‘Come at once.’ Constable Stannard went up and what he found when he got there made him immediately send for me. Mr. Branston’s story was as follows. A young lady entered his operating room about two o’clock this afternoon for an extraction. He gave her an ordinary local anæsthetic and according to what he says took out the tooth very smoothly and comfortably. He handed his patient a tumbler of water and left her in the chair for a few moments to recover. His reason for so doing he explains like this. At half-past two another customer of his was calling for a set of artificial teeth that he had promised should be ready at that time. His work-room, you must understand is about 12 yards away from his surgery—just across a landing. He was anxious to make sure, he says, that these teeth were thoroughly satisfactory and he admits that he may have been in the work-room a matter of seven or eight minutes. When he tried to leave—he found he was bolted in! A brass bolt on the outside of the work-room door had been slipped—to imprison him. For a few moments he scarcely realised what had happened—he shook the door thinking the catch or something had gone wrong and that it might perhaps open under pressure. But it was fastened securely. When the truth came home to him, that he was very effectively locked in as it were, he banged on the door with his fists and shouted for assistance.” Godfrey broke off and looked at Bannister. “Interested?” he queried.

“I am that,” replied the Inspector, “get on!”

“After a time, Branston’s cries attracted the attention of his housekeeper, a Mrs. Bertenshaw—she rushed up to the work-room, undid the bolt and let him out. Unable for the moment to fathom the affair—he dashed back to the surgery. To his utter consternation and horror the young lady he had just left there—was dead. She was sitting in the operating chair exactly as he had left her about ten minutes previously, except for the fact that the tumbler was on the stand by the side of the chair. She had been murdered, Inspector! Poisoned! By Prussic Acid!”

CHAPTER IV.
A Case of Identity

“Certain of that?” queried Bannister. “How do you know she didn’t commit suicide?”

The Sergeant nodded vigorously in affirmation of the Inspector’s first question. “It’s murder for certain! All her personal belongings seem to have been taken and all around the poor girl’s mouth hung that unmistakable bitter almonds smell. You couldn’t mistake it. I was sure that’s what it was before Doctor Renfrew, the divisional surgeon, arrived. When he did he quickly confirmed my idea. He says she had a pretty considerable dose of the stuff, too. Enough to kill three people. The murderer, whoever he was, didn’t intend taking any risks. Besides Branston’s story rules out the idea of suicide.”

“H’m,” said Bannister fingering his chin reflectively, “it certainly seems an extraordinary case. At first appearances to all events. It all seems to have been done in so short a time. Still it may turn out quite a simple affair before you’ve done with it.”

A grim smile played round Godfrey’s lips. Albeit he strove hard to conceal his disappointment. “I was hoping you would say ‘before we’ve done with it,’ ” he ventured.

Bannister frowned. “You were—were you?” Then he turned to his companion with a mixture of impatience and ill-temper. “Can’t you leave me alone when I’m on a holiday? For a time at least, that is. As I said it may be quite an easy case to solve when you get all your data!”

Godfrey looked dismayed at the Inspector’s remark. “No chance of that, I’m afraid, sir,” he said. “The fact is I can’t see any light at all. I’m up against it from the very commencement. I don’t even know who the young lady is.”

“What?” interjected Bannister. “Surely she has something on her or with her that will help to identify her—it’s inconceivable to me that she hasn’t.”

Godfrey shook his head. “She may have—some of her clothes may have marks that will lead to her identity. I haven’t examined any of them yet. I considered my best plan was to leave her almost exactly as she was when Stannard sent for me to come to the Surgery. I thought if I did that, sir, better intelligences than mine might read something into the case that was not apparent to me. I was thinking of you, sir. All the same—not knowing who she is means losing valuable time.”

Bannister was temporarily proof against flattery. “Who told you I was here?” he demanded curtly.

“I’ve a cousin at ‘the Yard,’ sir,” explained the Sergeant, “he happened to mention the fact in a letter I had from him a few days ago.”

“Like his damned interference,” interjected Bannister, “why couldn’t he mind his own business and let me finish my holiday in peace?”

“I’m sorry, sir—but if I may make the suggestion—you’re suffering from what I should describe as the penalty of fame, sir.”

Bannister grinned cynically. “Oh—naturally—and all that.” Then he reluctantly resigned himself to his fate—the Sergeant’s last remark had been in the nature of a “coup de grâce.” He submitted himself to the inevitable. “How far away is the place, Godfrey?”

“I’ve a car outside the ‘Cassandra’,” Godfrey answered—relief manifested in every tone of his voice. “It will get us there in ten minutes easily.” The car proved equal to the task.

During the short journey, Bannister remained silent. Two attempts that Godfrey made to re-open discussion of the crime were waved aside unceremoniously. “Let me wait,” he declared. “Otherwise my brain will be full up with other people’s impressions and observations, which is a condition I always try to avoid, if at all possible.”

Ronald Branston’s Dental Surgery lay at the corner of Coolwater Avenue and the Lower Seabourne Road in the direction of Froam, a watering place some eight miles away. The entrance to the Surgery for the use of patients was situated in Coolwater Avenue, the outer door being open. The Inspector and Sergeant Godfrey made their way to the main entrance which was in the Lower Seabourne Road and rang the bell. A woman with a scared face answered their summons and admitted them, with a suggestion of reluctance in her manner. She addressed Godfrey however, with a certain deference.

“Doctor Renfrew has come back,” she announced. “He’s upstairs with Mr. Branston.”

Godfrey turned to the Inspector. “Constables Stannard and Waghorn are on duty up in the room, sir,” he explained, “they had instructions from me to stay till I returned.”

Bannister nodded in understanding. “Take me up,” he ordered, decisively. Godfrey obeyed.

Bannister noticed that the operating room lay nearer to the left-hand side of the house—that is to say, the Coolwater Avenue side. As Godfrey had stated in his first account of the case—Branston’s appointments and furniture-equipment were without exception, of excellent quality. The stair-carpet was luxuriously thick and heavy and everything about the place denoted unmistakably that no expense had been spared in the matter of its furnishing and decoration. Doctor Renfrew came out of the large room—a spacious front room overlooking the Lower Seabourne Road—and glanced inquiringly at Godfrey’s companion.

“This is Chief-Inspector Bannister of Scotland Yard!” Godfrey was quick to introduce them. “The Bannister,” he supplemented rather grandiloquently. The Doctor shook hands.

“Proud to meet you, Inspector.”

“Good evening, Doctor.”

Doctor Renfrew, a tall, thin, nervous man, with watery eyes that blinked repeatedly behind gold-rimmed spectacles motioned to the door of the surgery.

“Will you go in at once?” he asked. Bannister nodded curtly and the three men entered the room. Constables Stannard and Waghorn sprang to their feet and saluted.

“Wait downstairs, you two men,” ordered Godfrey. He turned to the Doctor. “Where’s Mr. Branston?”

“Downstairs—he had dinner very late, I believe. I told him he’d probably be wanted before very long.”

Bannister in the meantime had walked across to the motionless shape that lay huddled in the dentist’s chair. He removed the silk handkerchief that covered the face. As far as he could judge from her appearance she was in her early twenties and in life must have been very beautiful—the face having an exquisite delicacy of line. She was dressed in what is usually termed a “three-piece suit”; of jumper, skirt and sleeveless coat. The coat and skirt were of a fine wool, in colour Cedar brown—the jumper being striped to tone. Her brown shoes were semi-brogue; like her stockings they were of the very best quality. She wore no jewellery and her fingers were ringless. Doctor Renfrew walked out of the room and returned a moment or two later carrying a hat and a pair of gloves.

“She left these in the ladies’ waiting-room,” he explained. “Mr. Branston has a separate room for ladies in which to wait if they so desire—it opens out of the front room, which is used more as a general waiting-room.”

Bannister nodded and looked at the hat. It was a pull-on waterproof felt with a pleated crown and turned-down brim. He glanced inside at the maker’s name. “Moore—Knightsbridge! A lady in very comfortable circumstances, I should say,” he declared. Godfrey nodded in agreement. “I think so too!” “Well, Doctor Renfrew,” continued the Inspector, “what have you got to tell me?”

Doctor Renfrew wasted no time in telling him. “When I examined the deceased, it was apparent to me at once that death had been caused by narcotic poisoning—hydrocyanic acid to be precise. It was impossible to mistake the odour round the lips and mouth. She had had a big dose administered.”

Bannister pursed his lips. “How was it administered—any idea? For instance—can’t it be suicide?”

The doctor’s reply came quickly and readily. “In my opinion—judging from the position of the body—the poison was given from a small hand-syringe. After locking Branston in, the murderer entered the room through the door here—she heard him—turned in his direction and he used the syringe immediately. Her face would be right in front of him. Quite an easy matter—he had doubtless worked out all the details beforehand.”

“Cold-blooded business,” muttered Godfrey. “The kind of man I should take a delight in hanging.”

“Any purse or anything with her?” demanded Bannister.

“Nothing,” answered the Sergeant. “Everything seems to have gone except the hat and this pair of gloves.”

A knock sounded on the door and Doctor Renfrew crossed the room to open it. Ronald Branston stood outside. “May I come in?” he queried.

Bannister beckoned to him. “I was just about to send down to you, Mr. Branston,” he commenced, “you must have read my thoughts to arrive so opportunely.”

Branston bowed. “A dreadful affair this,” he declared, “dreadful from whatever point of view you look at it. Pretty rotten for me, you know—in the business sense. It sounds frightfully callous, I know, but self-preservation’s the first law of nature. This job isn’t going to do my business any good and every man has to think of himself.” He flushed under his dark skin.

Bannister eyed him sternly. “I am Chief-Inspector Bannister,” he said, “of ‘Scotland Yard.’ Sergeant Godfrey has requested my assistance. Tell me exactly what happened.”

Branston’s nostrils quivered slightly as he began to tell his story but he rapidly regained control over himself and his words came clearly and without a shade of tremor in his voice. “I can only repeat to you,” he stated, “what I have already told Sergeant Godfrey here. This unhappy lady entered the room in which we are now standing a few minutes before two o’clock this afternoon. I had just attended to a previous patient who was my first of the afternoon. She asked me to perform an extraction. I administered a simple local anæsthetic and extracted a left-hand bicuspid. The lady seemed quite comfortable after the extraction. I gave her the usual glass of water as a mouth-wash—there’s the very tumbler on that stand—just as she must have put it down before she was murdered—and then went along to my work-room. I had a special job on this afternoon as I’ve previously explained to the Sergeant and it’s my customary practice to let a patient alone for a moment or two after an extraction.”

“One minute,” broke in Bannister. “Was the extraction a necessary one?”

“Oh, undoubtedly—the tooth had been filled on a previous occasion and the filling had worn away. The patient had been in considerable pain, she informed me, and I could well understand it. She had probably caught cold in the bad tooth.”

“Thank you,” observed the Inspector. “Please proceed.”

“Well, here comes the extraordinary part of the story.” Here Branston’s nervousness began to show itself again. “The job took me a little longer than I had anticipated—when I turned to open the door of the room in which I was working, I found to my complete astonishment that I was shut in. Somebody had shot the brass bolt on the outside of the work-room door. I called out and banged on the door but there I had to stay until my housekeeper heard me yelling and released me. I rushed back to the operating room and discovered—this.”

“How long were you away—as accurately, now, as you can possibly place it?”

Branston knitted his brows in reflection. “I wouldn’t put it at more than seven minutes,” he answered, calculatingly.

“Did you hear any step at all when you were in the work-room?”

He shook his head decisively. “No! I didn’t! The carpet on the stairs and along the landing to the work-room is very thick, you know.”

Bannister went to the door and looked out. “This back staircase leads to the patients’ entrance in Coolwater Avenue—I suppose?”

“That’s so, Inspector.”

The Inspector closed the door and came back. “The lady of course, was a chance patient—not an appointment case?”

“A complete stranger.”

“Were any other patients waiting, do you know?”

“I had no definite appointment till half-past two. I couldn’t say if there were any other chance cases waiting in either of the waiting-rooms. Certainly I can remember nobody coming out when we discovered what had happened.”

Bannister thought hard for a moment. “Did the expected client arrive at half-past two?”

Branston smiled for the first time. “ ’Pon my soul,” he exclaimed, “I’ve never given him another thought. It was twenty minutes past two when I ’phoned up for the Police—I must have clean forgotten him. If he came—he probably cleared off in the ‘schemozzle.’ ”

“What’s his name?” demanded Bannister.

“He’s a Mr. Jacob Morley—a local gentleman—I rather fancy he styles himself a Turf accountant.” Branston permitted himself the suggestion of a smile.

“Sound man?”

Branston shrugged his shoulders. “I know nothing to the contrary.”

“All right, then, Mr. Branston,” put in Bannister after a slight pause, “I don’t think I need detain you any longer. That is all I want to know for the moment.”

Branston bowed and withdrew, Doctor Renfrew following him.

Sergeant Godfrey caught his superior’s eye and understood the intended meaning. “I’ve told Stannard and Waghorn to watch points in that direction—that will be all right.”

“Very good,” rejoined the Inspector, “let’s hear Mrs. Bertenshaw’s story.”

The housekeeper corroborated Branston in every particular and was allowed to withdraw. Bannister looked at his watch. “It’s so confoundedly late, that it will be extremely difficult to get anything much done to-night. Tell me all you’ve done, so far, Godfrey.”

“I’ve had the body photographed and I’ve sent round to all the hotels and boarding-establishments to try to trace by discreet inquiries any young lady visitor who’s been missing, say, since luncheon time to-day.”

The Inspector showed his approval. “That’s all right as far as it goes. But she may be a new arrival to the town. She may have just come in. Stay—what about luggage?”

“She might have left it somewhere,” responded Godfrey. “At the railway station or at an hotel. The latter, I should be inclined to suggest as the more likely, taking into consideration the class of girl she appears to be.”

“Yes,” conceded Bannister. “I think perhaps you’re right. Now about this work-room Branston has been telling us of—have you taken a look in there—I suppose his story is authentic—eh? I can’t help feeling there’s something ‘fishy’ about it somewhere.”

“I’ve seen the room—you can come along and see it yourself before we go—I’ll say this—I found nothing there that seemed in any way to contradict his story. I’ve also had the brass bolt on the door treated for finger-prints.”

“Good man,” smiled Bannister. “You should certainly find Mrs. Bertenshaw’s there—I suppose you’ve taken hers and Branston’s?”

“You bet I have, sir,” grinned the Sergeant. “I’ve got them tucked away all serene.”

Bannister frowned and walked across to the stand where stood the tumbler of water. It was almost full. He smelt it. “The purest of pure water, Doctor Renfrew says. Seems like it,” said Bannister. “No odour, certainly.”

The Sergeant who was watching him seemed suddenly struck by an idea. “By Jove, sir,” he exclaimed, “I ought to have treated that glass for ‘prints’ as well as the bolt—don’t you agree?”

Bannister held the glass high up to the electric light and carefully examined it. “Perhaps you had,” he replied, “if it isn’t too late now to be effective.”

Godfrey went through the insufflating process in his usual workman-like manner. With a small insufflator or powder-blower, he exhaled a cloud of light yellow powder which settled on the glass in an even coating. Then he blew at it sharply. Most of the yellow powder was blown off, but a number of smeary yellow impressions were left behind, standing out in strong saffron relief against the white glass.

“Something to work on here,” he said. “I’ll have the job completed.” He slipped out but was quickly back. “I suggest we get Mrs. Pearson up here from the station,” he said after a short interval.

“The female searcher?” queried the Inspector.

“Yes—then we can have the body removed in the morning. If the poor girl’s still unidentified by then, perhaps the underclothes——”

“Sergeant Godfrey!” Branston’s voice sounded outside. “You’re wanted on my telephone, downstairs.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Bannister. “It may be news.”

Godfrey took off the receiver, listened and replaced it. “It’s the ‘Lauderdale Hotel’—they think they can identify the lady. At my suggestion they’re sending the reception-clerk along to us immediately. He will be here any moment—the Manager’s coming along with him.”

“Good,” said Bannister. “We are moving at last.” He offered his cigarette-case with a gesture of satisfaction to Sergeant Godfrey.

And judging from the manner in which he selected a cigarette—Sergeant Godfrey thought so too!

CHAPTER V.
John Martin’s Evidence

For a few moments the two men smoked in silence, grateful doubtless for the short respite. The silence was soon disturbed by the ringing of the front door bell. Godfrey rose with an alert expectancy that he took no trouble to conceal. Bannister carefully shook his left trouser in an attempt to stabilise an immaculate crease. Mrs. Bertenshaw’s steps were heard hurrying to the front door to admit the two people whose visit had been so recently heralded by the telephone. Godfrey went to the door of the room and called down the hall.

“Bring the two gentlemen in here, Mrs. Bertenshaw.”

It was easy to see that the Manager of the “Lauderdale Hotel” was the man who entered first. A short, broad-shouldered, florid-faced man, he wore his dress-suit with that air of aggressive opulence that can only be captured with complete success by hotel managers, Sheikhs of the Box-office, and the gentlemen who hold undisputed sway in those cinemas usually designated as “super”—whatever that may mean. The reception-clerk was tall and thin and to all appearances, worried by the singular turn that events had taken.

“Sergeant Godfrey?” questioned the first of the newcomers. Godfrey came forward to meet and to greet him.

“I’m your man—Mr. Maynard—isn’t it?”

“That’s right—and I’m pretty certain I’ve some news for you. Very likely the information you’re wanting. After your men had been round making those inquiries for you, I guessed it was something pretty serious that was engaging your attention. So I put a few feelers round my staff, off my own bat, so to speak and I reckon that Martin here has got something important to tell you. Of course, it may be a mare’s nest that I’m bringing you—but somehow I don’t think so.” He shifted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other with an adroitness that could only have been cultivated by assiduous practice. “Now, Martin,” he ordered rather imperiously, “spill your bib-ful.”

Martin fidgeted uneasily on the chair that he had immediately sought upon his arrival and got even nearer to its edge. He twisted his shabby hat in his hands with a circular movement and seemed at a loss to begin. His eyes sought those of Maynard—then wandered away until they encountered those of Chief-Inspector Bannister. Bannister’s glance afforded little encouragement however, so they travelled on again, waveringly and uncertainly until they reached those of the Sergeant.

“Come,” said the last-named, “don’t waste any time—tell us what you know.”

Martin licked his lips, cleared his throat, gulped once or twice and commenced his story. “Well, sir,” he started, “it isn’t very much that I’ve got to tell you, but I’ve the glimmering of an idea that the young lady you’re inquiring about came into the ‘Lauderdale’ about half-past one this afternoon. You see it was like this. About ten-fifty on Wednesday evening a ’phone message came through booking a room for a Miss Daphne Carruthers who was arriving the next day. About the time that I’ve just mentioned—half-past one of an afternoon—things are pretty quiet as a rule. A car drew up outside the hotel and a young lady alighted and walked into the vestibule. She came straight up to me and said, ‘I want a room please, for a fortnight—I believe it was booked last night for me—by ’phone. I’ll leave my luggage here now, although I’ve an important call to make. You might send out for my case—it’s in my car. Put it up in my room, will you please? I shall be back in about an hour.’ ‘Certainly, miss,’ I answered, ‘your room number will be sixty-six.’ I sent the porter out for her suit-case and sent him up to the room with it, confirming the name from the labels on it. ‘Thank you,’ she replies, trips out of the hotel, jumps into her car and drives off.”

“In what direction?” snapped Bannister.

“Towards Froam, sir.”

“Go on.”

“Well—a lot of other people came in and some went away and the young lady that was to come back in the hour went clean out of my mind. When your man came round this evening making those inquiries it all came back to me. Gentlemen—that young lady has never come back. Her suit-case is in Room Sixty-six just where I told the porter to put it.” He stopped and wiped his lips with his handkerchief and the perspiration from his brow.

Bannister interposed again—authoritatively. “Would you be able to remember this young lady, if you saw her again?”

Martin answered the question very readily. “Why, yes, sir, I stood talking to her face to face for quite a matter of a minute or two. She was a real beauty, I can tell you, sir. I haven’t forgotten her and no mistake.”

Bannister motioned to Godfrey to lead the way upstairs. Then he turned to the clerk. “Come with us, then—and prepare yourself for a shock.”

Martin’s white face went whiter as they ascended the stairs, Bannister leading and the Hotel Manager, Maynard, bringing up the rear. The Inspector waited to close the door of the surgery behind them.

“Let him have a look at her, Godfrey,” he said, turning to the Sergeant.

Godfrey uncovered the face again for Martin to see. The latter gave a low gasp of horror. Then he uttered an exclamation. “I was right, sir! It’s her right enough—as I was afraid it was when I came along. That’s the identical young lady that came to the ‘Lauderdale’ about half-past one this afternoon that I’ve been telling you about. Just fancy—to think of her as she was then in the best of health, as you might say—and now——”

Bannister abruptly put a stoppage upon his sentimental reminiscences. “You’re certain—absolutely certain—of what you say?”

“Positive, sir—you don’t see two like her every day of the week.”

The Inspector turned to Sergeant Godfrey. “You hear what he says? We’ll get along up to the ‘Lauderdale’ at once. What name did she give, Martin?”

“I’ve copied the name from the reception-book just as I entered it when she arrived. I thought I’d better do that in case it should turn out as I feared.”

He fumbled in his breast pocket for a moment—produced a slip of paper which was far from being clean and handed it to Bannister. The latter read it aloud, “ ‘Miss Daphne Carruthers.’ This will save you a lot of trouble, Godfrey. Here’s your identification! No need now to broadcast the news or publish a photograph or anything—it’s a great help, this evidence of yours, Martin. It will save the police very valuable time at the most important stage of the case—the very beginning. Just where we looked uncommonly like losing it.”

Maynard was obviously pleased at the Inspector’s tribute to a member of his staff. “Are you coming to the ‘Lauderdale’ now?” he inquired.

“This very minute—lock the door, Godfrey, put the key in your pocket and station your two men outside.”

A matter of a few minutes saw the journey accomplished. “Show these gentlemen the entry you made in the admission register, Martin,” said Maynard with a show of authority. The reception clerk ran his finger along the particular line. The name was as he had given it. Bannister glanced over his shoulder—then turned away—seemingly satisfied. The next step was an inspection of Room Sixty-six. The suit-case that had figured in Martin’s story lay on the floor between the wardrobe and the dressing-table. Bannister lifted it on to the bed. It was of good quality although of common type. There were, in all probability, hundreds similar to it in various places in Seabourne, on that very night. Two labels of the “tie-on” variety were attached to the handle. The handwriting on each of them was the same—suggestive certainly of a girl’s hand—“Daphne Carruthers, 11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington.” He tried the catches.

“It’s locked. Where are your keys, Godfrey?” Godfrey produced several bunches of keys—unavailingly.

Then the manager came to the rescue. He slipped from the room quickly—to return almost immediately with a large key-ring bearing keys of all shapes and sizes. Bannister’s attempts to open the case were eventually successful. He gave a grunt of satisfaction. Its contents were almost entirely clothes and toilet requisites. Clothes that one would reasonably anticipate finding in the suit-case of a young lady upon holiday in the summer. There was no letter, no card—nothing more personal than hair-brushes and face powder. The Inspector tossed the stuff back into the case.

“Your job, Godfrey, will be to get into touch with the place from where this girl’s come. Send a ’phone message through to Kensington as soon as you can and use the Press for all your worth. Get the London papers humming to-morrow morning like flies. We shall soon get information about Daphne Carruthers, you mark my words, even if we can’t get it from the place where she lived.” He turned to Maynard. “I’ll take charge of this”—he patted the suit-case—“you Godfrey—get those strings to work at once. By the way, Martin—the motor-car that the young lady was driving—did you notice what it was?”

Martin scratched his chin—then shook his head. “I didn’t sir, and that’s a fact. I was too much taken up with the young lady herself.”

“H’m,” muttered Bannister, “that’s a pity—we must see what we can do in that direction to-morrow morning. That car must be traced, Godfrey. I expect we shall have a pretty ticklish day to-morrow—with one thing and another.”