[NOTE] (continued 5)

“By Jove!” he exclaimed in annoyance. “If that is so the man may be trying to protect Mme. Bender instead of defrauding her, in which case I have sent Bernard off on a goose-chase!”

For, although he had not mentioned it to Catherine, he had just instructed the agent to go to Bordeaux, with the idea of making inquiries into the notaire’s visit in that city three months ago. It now began to look as though the mission might lead to nothing.

However, in the main, events were shaping towards the desired end. With Jeanne away, there would be an opportunity for searching the apartment and ascertaining the exact state of affairs. Meanwhile, they would probably be able to frame a definite charge against the two servants and remove them from their posts. Altogether things looked promising.

When he opened the door of his own flat, his father called out to him from the library.

“Come in for a moment, Geoffrey. I’ve something which may interest you.”

Sunlight gilded the book-lined walls, a wood fire burned on the hearth, and a pot of blue hyacinths bore witness to a visit from Elspeth. Macadam Senior, seated in a worn leather chair, was turning over a sheaf of papers, his glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

“It’s this Bender business again. I’ve got hold of Harry Bender’s pass-book and all the details I can assemble regarding his movements prior to his death. There’s no record of a picture-sale, nor any unidentified deposit large enough to correspond with one. If he did dispose of those paintings, he must have received cash, which he failed to pay in to his account.”

“He never sold them,” declared Geoffrey shortly.

“Not so fast. You may be right, but one mustn’t jump to conclusions. Suppose, for example, Bender wanted to make a payment in some quarter in such a way that it could not be traced? In the event, let us say, of such a thing as an entanglement with a woman?”

“Did you ever hear of any entanglement?” demanded his son bluntly.

“I admit not, but my ignorance proves nothing. Mind, I only state a possibility.”

Geoffrey lit a cigarette and threw the match into the fire.

“I don’t believe he would have parted with the Manet. He would have found the money in some other way.”

His father made no comment.

“Well, then, I’ve had a talk with Ellsworth, the manager of Mme. Bender’s bank, to find out if any use has been made of that duplicate key. It was used, only a few days later, by the maid herself.”

“The devil it was!” exclaimed the young man sharply.

“Yes—but everything was quite in order. It seems Ellsworth received a note from Mme Bender saying she wished to exchange her string of pearls, which she felt nervous about keeping in the apartment, for the copy then in the bank, and proposed sending her maid to attend to the matter.”

“Stop a moment—you say the copy was kept at the bank? Surely that’s a bit absurd?”

“She explained that. Apparently no one but herself was aware that the pearls in her possession were the genuine ones, as for safety’s sake she had always pretended they were the copy. She had given up wearing them, because their lustre was suffering from her low state of health, but she wanted the imitations to keep up the deception.”

“I see,” replied Geoffrey rather blankly.

“Foreseeing the chance of a hoax, Ellsworth himself telephoned to Mme. Bender and was assured by her that the maid was completely to be trusted. The next day Laborie appeared, was conducted by one of the clerks into the vaults, made the exchange and went away. The clerk watched her closely and saw nothing amiss. The two strings were identical, the copy having a clasp of real diamonds set in platinum.”

Geoffrey frowned incredulously.

“You say the manager spoke to Mme. Bender herself? He recognized her voice?”

“Certainly—he’s known her for years.”

“I suppose I ought to be satisfied, but it seems odd for all that,” declared Geoffrey, moving about restlessly. For the life of him he could not reconcile Mme. Bender’s action on this occasion with her recent helplessness. His eyes narrowed in thought. “See here,” he said suddenly. “When Miss West asked about that key only last week, her cousin disclaimed all knowledge of it. At least she appeared not to recollect until the maid reminded her. Doesn’t that strike you as queer?”

“And nothing was said about changing the necklace?”

“Not a word.”

The elder man wiped his glasses upon a silk handkerchief, then rubbed the bridge of his nose exasperatedly.

“I give it up,” he said briefly, adding after a moment: “Either her memory is subject to lapses, or she was displaying a sort of cunning in keeping the matter dark. There’s no accounting for the vagaries of neurasthenics.”

Geoffrey was silent. A voice whispered to him that these were the pearls Hermione Cushing considered as hers by right, at least when her friend should die. She had assured him they were safe in the bank.

“Where that woman can’t be tempted by them,” had been her exact words.

For the second time misgivings assailed him. Was the story about the copy a true one? Suppose there was some fraud, with Miss Cushing at the back of it?

“Still, Ellsworth recognized Mme. Bender’s voice, so she evidently approved of the transaction. That much is fairly certain, so why bother?”

At the same time he added to himself that it was a blessing Catherine knew nothing about it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Fontainebleau…

It was evening. Elspeth was bidding her children good night, Clement Baxter, her husband, was rummaging in search of some etchings, in the adjacent studio. Four candles in silver candelabra flickered upon the bare waxed refectory table, their yellow flames casting deep wells of shadow. The curtains were yet undrawn, and through the long windows, square-paned and arched at the top, could be seen the walled garden, fresh and still in the gathering dusk. At the back stood a row of lime-trees with clusters of snowy blossom, whose fragrance stole into the room, penetratingly sweet.

Catherine gave a deep sigh, and nestled further back into the pale cushioned bergère. It was with a little start that she discovered Geoffrey beside her, holding out his cigarette-case.

“Not too tired, I hope?” he inquired in an undertone.

She shook her head, smiling.

“Only blissfully comatose. I don’t want to move so much as a finger. It is heavenly just being here.”

She glanced about the agreeable room with appreciation. Everything about it pleased her. The colours, the space, the very perfection with which the pictures were hung brought balm to her troubled spirit, so that she felt content to lie without thinking and drink in the beauty and tranquillity.

“You’re not sorry you came, then?”

“Sorry?” She shook her head. “I’m glad. It’s good to be away from—all that.”

He hung about anxiously.

“And the drive here wasn’t too much for you? It’s been a bit of a day for anyone just out of bed.”

“I’m all right. I expect to have ten full hours’ sleep to-night. That’s what an idiot requires, isn’t it?” she added, laughing.

She was still very pale, but her attitude showed that her nerves were beginning to relax. To-morrow he meant to keep her outdoors as much as possible so that the air might bring her colour back.

“That’s right, Philomène—put the coffee on the hearth. Madame will be here in a moment.”

The maid set the coffee, foaming in a copper pot, upon a tripod close to the log fire. The tray, bearing majolica cups of blue, green and orange, she placed on an oak stool, then she moved away to close the curtains. When her back was turned Geoffrey laid his brown hand lightly upon Catherine’s white one, where it rested listlessly on the arm of the chair. She let it remain for a second, feeling her own tingle with the warmth of his touch, then as Elspeth’s step approached she drew it gently away.

“Coffee, you two?”

Elspeth bent over the hearth and lifted the copper pot. Her bronze head shone in the firelight, her blue frock made a pleasant splash of colour. She had the fresh complexion of her brother as well as his heavy brows, slightly modified, and her grey eyes, honest and candid, held a sparkle of humour.

“Not for me, thanks,” replied Catherine. “I’ve been sleeping rather badly for the first time in my life, and I don’t want anything to spoil the marvellous rest I mean to have.” Elspeth surveyed her critically as she handed a cup to her brother.

“Then you’d better have a cup of my tilleul. See, I’ve got some here. I always take it after dinner. It’s supposed to be soothing for the nerves.”

As she spoke she took up a little teapot from the tray and held it poised above a cup. Catherine shook her head.

“Tilleul? Oh, no, if you don’t mind, I won’t take any. I’ve only tasted it once—last Monday when I was feeling so rotten—and I’m afraid I rather hated it.”

“Did you? I think it’s good stuff.”

“It seemed to me bitter and—queer,” explained Catherine apologetically.

Her hostess looked surprised.

“Bitter? It couldn’t have been tilleul, then. Why, it’s only lime-flowers, you know. We make our own. Can’t you smell the lime now, from the trees in the garden?”

Catherine hesitated. The taste of the drink Jeanne had given her came disagreeably before her, mingled with memories of racking pain. She could not associate it with the honeyed odour of the blossoms outside.

“Let me try some of yours,” she said. “It may seem different now.”

She took the cup of pale amber liquid, upon whose surface floated a few tiny petals. A pleasant aroma rose as she sipped.

“Why—it’s delicious!” she exclaimed, astonished.

“I think so. Anyhow, it won’t keep you awake.”

Catherine drank it slowly, then leaned back among the cushions, slightly puzzled. This concoction seemed totally unlike the other. She could almost swear it was not the same thing at all. Had her illness made such a difference? It was true that on the wretched morning in question nothing had tasted as it should. Even her coffee had not been quite as usual, though she had supposed the berries to have been scorched.…

Oh, well, that was all over. Nothing mattered now. She was very tired, more so then she wished Geoffrey to know, and the thought of bed was pleasant to her.

The past few days had been rather nerve-racking. She had had the task of re-establishing Mme. Bender and Hermione upon terms of friendship, at the same time avoiding friction with Jeanne, so that she now felt as though she had been steering a frail barque between Scylla and Charybdis. Jeanne, she was forced to admit, had proved unexpectedly amenable, but the strain had proved severe up till the moment of departure.

Jeanne! She still marvelled at the improvement in her. Why, the woman had actually offered to pack her bags, had smiled on her from the doorway this afternoon and called out, “Bon voyage, mademoiselle! Soignez-vous bien!” with the utmost good-nature. A wave of shamed compunction swept over the girl as she thought of what she planned to do on her return to the apartment. If her late enemy even faintly guessed her intentions she could not have borne herself with such cheerful composure.

Meantime it was delightful to lie here in the candlelight, to listen to the conversation without taking an active part in it, and watch drowsily the three people in the glow of the fire—Elspeth cool and steady-eyed, Clement Baxter sandy and thin, sucking an old briar and recounting droll incidents of Paris life in a drawling voice, and Geoffrey at her elbow, his face shadowed but turned, she knew, towards her own with a steadiness which soothed her vanity and made her feel as a cat does when its fur is stroked by a firm hand. She was wrapped in a sense of extraordinary peace.

In the morning she was roused by the twitter of children and the voice of their nurse trying vainly to keep them silent. It was not yet time for her breakfast to arrive, but she was rested and refreshed, all the faculties which last evening had lain dormant now vividly alert.

All at once she began to think over her recent illness and to wonder about it. Strange that she had slept peacefully the night before, that nothing had happened till after she had got up. Did that mean the poison from the oysters took all that time to make itself felt, or was it that… Oh, of course, it couldn’t have been the coffee! How impossible! And yet, there certainly had been a bitter tang about it, which curiously enough had some quality in common with the hot drink she had taken later on. Or was she imagining things?

Her mind went back to the young doctor’s insistent questions, his accusing manner, and again it occurred to her that perhaps Jeanne had purposely given him a wrong idea.

But why on earth should she do such a thing? Why should she want him to believe what was not true, that is, unless——

Suddenly it struck her that there was a possible reason. Jeanne might conceivably have taken this attitude if she herself was aware of the real cause of the attack, and was eager to put the doctor off the scent. It sounded wild, but was it altogether out of the range of possibility?

Arrested by this new view of the case, she set herself to recall in detail everything which had occurred on Monday morning, from the time she waked up. Berthe, she remembered, had been very late, had the look of having hurried into her clothes. At the time she had even wondered that the woman had been up in time to make the coffee. Perhaps, for that matter, Berthe had not made it. It might have been Jeanne.

A shiver ran through her. Yes, the pains had come on a little while after she had drunk the coffee, and had increased in violence following the cup of supposed tilleul—which since last night she knew was either not tilleul at all, or else had some strong substance mingled with it to alter its flavour. Could all this mean that Jeanne had deliberately introduced something into the two cups of liquid with the purpose of making her ill? Not poison—no, the doctor had laughed at the suggestion. Medicine, a drug of some sort.…

She shook herself angrily. “What absolute nonsense! What a fool I am to invent such an improbable story!”

Granting it were true, she could not imagine any motive for such an act. Easy to call it pure malevolence, but people did not go about doing things like that for the fun of it.

She pondered deeply, feeling her heart beat as it had done so many times since the attack, whenever she became a little agitated. Slowly and uneasily the conviction stole upon her that she was a pawn in a game, moved about against her will and made to do things she had had no intention of doing. Was it possible that in coming away she had simply been following out a course of action designed by Jeanne herself? Was her illness a preliminary step towards it?

She saw again how the way had been smoothed, her objections removed one by one. Jeanne’s good nature and reasonableness, the armistice between her and Hermione, the whole new air of complaisance which had transformed the household during the last few days—oh, surely it was too good to be true! In fact, during the entire week the maid’s attitude towards her had been altered, beginning with—when exactly did it begin?—yes, from the time when she had found the flowers in Mme. Bender’s room.

She became so nervous that it was all she could do to keep from springing out of bed.

“Yes, I am sure of it! She wanted to get me away from Germaine. She’s afraid of me, that’s what it is! She knows I have made it up with the poor thing, and she’s terrified of the consequences. Is that because she thinks I may expose her? Or because Germaine may get too fond of me? Is it jealousy again?”

It must be partly that, she concluded. Yet it could mean only a petty triumph to the schemer, a small result for so much plotting. A week—there was comfort in the thought. Nothing was likely to go far wrong in so short a time. Besides, Hermione would be there daily, glad to watch over her friend. Not much would escape her suspicious eye.

Her petit déjeuner arrived, deliciously appetizing, with a plate of huge strawberries and a little jug of cream. Philomène, a genial soul, beamed upon her.

“Mademoiselle a une meilleure mine ce matin,” she declared, eyeing Catherine with interest, adding that the air at Fontainebleau was very bracing and would bring her an appetite. Madame had sent a message to say mademoiselle was to rest as long as she liked, that no one expected her to appear before déjeuner. Perhaps she would care to lie in a deck-chair in the garden. The sun was beautiful now, the birds singing.

However, Catherine did not want to rest. The idea had come to her that she would feel more comfortable if she could telephone through to Paris and inquire after Mme. Bender, just to see that everything was as it should be. Foolish, perhaps, but there could be no harm in making sure.

As soon as she had bathed and put on a pale grey jumper-suit with a band of green about the hips—a dress she somehow felt Geoffrey would like—she slipped into the living-room to negotiate a trunk-call, feeling just a trifle guilty, and glad that the room was deserted.

“Elysée zére zéro deux dix.…”

She was lucky in not having to wait long for the connection. In only a few minutes the bell summoned her, and picking up the receiver she heard a man’s gruff voice saying, “Allô, allô!” It was Eduardo.

“Eduardo, this is Miss West speaking. I wanted to know how madame is this morning. Can you tell me?”

She caught an indistinct mumble, then there was silence. He had departed, no doubt to fetch Jeanne. She pressed the receiver to her ear in slight suspense, waiting. Presently a faint, gentle voice spoke over the wire:

“Allô, allô… qui est là?”

Catherine started so that she nearly dropped the receiver. The voice which addressed her was Germaine’s.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

For a single instant her heart almost stopped beating. Germaine at the telephone? But this was impossible! Yet it was unmistakably her voice. Confused ideas rushed headlong upon her, instinctive attempts to supply an explanation for the phenomenon. At the same time she was so paralysed from shock that speech deserted her, and she could only gasp, clutching the receiver in a hard grip. When the pause had become noticeable, the voice at the other end of the line spoke again, this time with impatience:

“Allô! C’est de la part de qui? Est-ce que c’est Mademoiselle West qui parle?”

Mademoiselle West! A second shock neutralized the first, leaving her weak. So it was not Germaine at all, but Jeanne herself. Jeanne—but with a tone, an accent indistinguishable from those of her mistress! What an amazing similarity! Never before had Catherine noticed it, but then never till now had she spoken to the woman over the telephone. People’s voices played strange tricks over the wire.…

All this passed rapidly through her brain as she forced herself to reply calmly:

“Yes, yes, Jeanne. I only want to know if madame passed a good night, and is feeling well this morning?”

The answer came promptly, with reassuring emphasis:

“But certainly, mademoiselle, everything is going marvellously well! Madame is quite cheerful, and looking forward to seeing Mademoiselle Cushing this afternoon. You need have no concern for her.”

Replacing the instrument, Catherine sank on the nearest chair. What a turn that deceptive voice had given her! She had been totally unprepared for it, simply because she had never before spoken to Jeanne over the telephone. She could not get over the startling illusion.

Growing calmer, she recalled that this was not the first time she had noticed a similarity between a maid’s voice and that of her mistress. Indeed, she knew that the conscious or unconscious aping of an employer’s speech is a fairly familiar phenomenon. That in this case it was unintentional she felt almost sure, for why should Jeanne want to deceive her?

A step in the doorway made her jump with a nervous start. Geoffrey, fresh in grey flannels, stood before her.

“What’s this—up already? Why—is anything wrong?”

She sprang up, smiling at him.

“Of course not! I’ve been telephoning to inquire about Mme. Bender, that’s all.”

His keen eyes searched her face.

“You look as though you had seen a ghost.”

Laughing apologetically, she explained what had happened.

“The most amazing likeness—inflection, tone, everything. I could have sworn it was Germaine.”

He stared at her hard as though puzzled.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed under his breath, and then again, “By Jove!”—in a manner betokening a sudden revelation.

“Is anything wrong about it?” she inquired curiously.

He shook his head.

“No, only it struck me as queer.”

She was unconvinced, but said no more till they had wandered out into the garden and seated themselves on a bench beneath the lime-trees. Then, seeing that he was distrait, his brow furrowed in perplexity, she attacked him boldly.

“Geoffrey, you can’t fool me. What is it you’ve got in your mind?”

“Nothing important—I swear it. Hardly worth mentioning.”

“What a bad liar you are! You ought not to be a lawyer if you can’t hide your feelings better than that.”

He laughed.

“Are you praising or condemning me?”

“Never mind which. I’m determined to know what you are thinking.”

“Catherine, you’re incorrigible! If I don’t tell you everything, it’s because you are so quick to worry over trifles.”

“I shall worry ten times more over this trifle if I don’t know what it is.”

Seeing that she was in earnest, he gave in reluctantly and in a few words related what he had learned about Jeanne and the bank manager.

“I should not have given it much thought if you hadn’t mentioned this trick about the voices. Now I am naturally asking myself if Ellsworth didn’t mistake Jeanne’s voice for Mme. Bender’s.”

She leaped up with a feverish light in her eyes.

“You say she took the pearls away with her?”

“Calmly, my dear! Only the copy The actual necklace is in the bank now.”

She quivered with excitement, her brain working rapidly.

“But don’t you see? The whole affair is probably a fraud. I am quite sure Germaine has not spoken on the telephone for many months, and as for the note supposed to have come from her, couldn’t it have been a forgery? By the way, was it written by hand, or typewritten and simply signed?”

“I’m ashamed to say I didn’t inquire, but I will do so.”

It was a searching question. To copy or trace a mere signature presented fewer difficulties than forging an entire letter, yet both he and his father had overlooked the point. He wondered if the note was still on file, as well as the one in which Mme. Bender had applied for the new key.

“Still, if all the woman did was to take out a string of imitation pearls——”

She turned on him with withering scorn.

“You poor innocent! Have you ever seen a really good copy of an actual pearl necklace? You couldn’t tell it was imitation. I couldn’t. Only an expert would know the difference, and a bank clerk is no expert. No, the more I think of it the surer I am that Jeanne put the copy into the box and took away the real ones!”

No good trying to smooth down her ruffled feathers. He could only stand abashed by her ruthless argument.

“She’s stolen them, Geoffrey—I know she has! Even now they are probably disposed of, one by one. Oh! to think what the wretched creature has been up to, while we’ve looked quietly on.”

“We are not sure of this yet, you know,” he reminded her. “Besides, it happened before you arrived in Paris, so you can’t reproach yourself.”

She seemed not to hear him, staring before her unseeingly. A breeze stirred the lime trees, sifting a few petals down upon her dark hair where they rested like snowflakes. Gently he put both hands on her arms and pressed her down upon the seat.

“You may be right. I’ve a suspicion myself that there’s been mischief going on. But as far as the pearls are concerned, we can do nothing without a statement from your cousin. We can’t open her private box and examine its contents. Do you think we ought to tell her what we believe?”

She looked at him dumbly.

“I daren’t risk it,” she murmured after a pause. “The shock might kill her. Later, when Jeanne is away and we have got her into a more normal frame of mind, I might sound her on the subject.”

“I thought you’d say that. It’s a question of which is more important—Mme. Bender’s recovery, or the loss of something she can well afford to part with.”

She nodded, her face filled with painful doubt.

“Those were Hermione’s pearls. What a blow it will mean to her!”

“Never mind Hermione,” he retorted with slight impatience. “What we’ve got to be careful about now is to see that Mme. Bender does not execute some fantastic will, leaving her property to Jeanne.”

Her eyes widened in alarm.

“Then you think that is what she is up to?”

“I do. I’ve come to believe that her pretending other people are after her mistress’s money is merely a blind.”

“But why——? I don’t understand. She seems to be actually trying to prevent her from making her will.”

“So she is—now. That is because she’s afraid the money would go to someone else. But I am pretty certain she pictures herself ultimately as the fortunate legatee.”

“Good heavens!” cried the girl, jumping up in fresh agitation. “Then I’d better hurry back at once!”

He laughed at her look of fright.

“It’s not so bad as all that. Even if the will were drawn up it wouldn’t be irrevocable, and besides I fancy Miss Cushing will act as a restraining influence while you are away.”

“That is so,” she admitted thoughtfully. “What a blessing I managed to make it up between them! No, I suppose there’s no danger at the moment. For that matter, Jeanne’s practically beaten, although she has used every possible weapon against me. Why, I almost believe she…”

She checked herself abruptly, on the verge of relating the notion which had just come to her regarding her illness. If Geoffrey believed it to be true he would certainly try to prevent her going back. His recent conquest over her will made her nervous of a second encounter.

Fortunately he did not notice her sudden pause.

“There’s one thing we can do,” he remarked. “We can submit those letters of Mme. Bender’s to a handwriting expert, and determine if they’re genuine. If they turn out to be forgeries, we can arrest Jeanne on the spot.”

“Oh! I hadn’t thought of that! What a marvellous idea!”

He was not feeling particularly brilliant. Here, obviously, was something he ought to have considered days ago.

“Of course it’s possible the letters have been destroyed, but we’ll hope for the best, I’ll see to it the first thing to-morrow. Come along now,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “We’ve a couple of hours before lunch. Let’s take a drive through the forest. I’ve brought the car round.”

They spent the rest of the morning exploring the leafy fastnesses, winding their way along cloistered roads, where immense trees interlaced overhead. Occasionally they came on patches of warm sand heaped with rugged boulders, amethyst in the shade, then plunged back again into the cool green depths of woodland, silent but for distant bird-calls. Once in a clearing they surprised a group of villagers in Sunday attire, dancing out-of-date steps to the thin strains of a few stringed instruments. The tunes, simple and sugary, like all popular French music, reminded Catherine of an old musical-box, while the entire scene was singularly charming in its total absence of sophistication. Far through the forest sounded the tinkling notes, punctuated by singing and laughter.

It was a relief to Catherine that Geoffrey did not refer to the question he had put to her a little more than a week ago. Sometimes she fancied he was on the brink of doing so, but always the momentary tension passed with the words unspoken. She did not yet know her mind, and conscious of physical languor wanted simply to let herself drift, absorbing the beauty and peace of the spring day. There was ample time to decide, provided her companion’s sentiments did not alter—and she was sure from the look in his eyes that there was little likelihood of that.

It was not until she was alone that evening that she permitted her thoughts to return to Mme. Bender. Then it was that she remembered the letter, written by her cousin in February, just before she planned to leave for Paris. Here was a genuine instance of the invalid’s handwriting which might prove of value to the expert Geoffrey intended to consult. It was still in the back pocket of her bag. She read it over once again, then enclosed it in a note to Geoffrey who was leaving too early in the morning for her to see him.

As she made ready for bed she found herself wondering uneasily what was going on in her absence, and whether Jeanne was using the opportunity to press her impudent claims. What a leech she was! She was doing her utmost to suck her victim dry, always under cover of intense devotion. Nothing more detestable could be conceived.…

Yet was she alone in her infamous designs? Was there some guiding intelligence in the background, thinking for her, actuating her conduct? More than once this idea had occurred to her vaguely, yet except for the definite instances of theft, she could not think of any way in which the woman could have an associate other than the stupid Eduardo. The little notaire might be helping her to dispose of stolen objects, but did he play any other part? According to Geoffrey, the man bore an impeccable reputation.

Thinking this over, she stood by her window gazing out into the dark garden below. Along the wall the inky shapes of the lime-trees stirred and whispered together, while at the far corner, aloof from the rest, a small, malformed hornbeam stood remote. Its stunted trunk and branches like antennæ seemed to her distorted fancy like a gigantic spider watchful in the centre of an invisible web. Almost she could imagine that the other trees were prisoners, spellbound in the evil power of this misshapen creature.…

“It didn’t move—just stayed still and watched me… there were flies tangled in the web.…”

She could hear again the little grisette’s shrill voice uttering the words. Geoffrey had laughed at her, but she had never been able to get the haunting impression out of her mind. Even now, when a black cloud blotted out the moon, she could feel the presence of something coldly insensate and grasping, lying in wait to drain its captives’ blood.

She swept the curtains together with a jerk. What a childish idea! Besides, there was no positive danger, could be none. She had thrashed the whole thing out to her satisfaction.

Yet the face she turned to the mirror was pale, the eyes dilated with speculative dread.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Geoffrey lost no time in getting hold of Mme. Bender’s notes, neither of which had been destroyed. The bank manager expressed some astonishment at being asked for the one in his possession, but produced it readily, remarking as he did so:

“Your father has already mentioned this matter to me, Mr. Macadam. Is it possible you think there’s some hanky-panky about it?”

“I trust not. I will let you know what we find out.”

“I observed the usual formalities. It’s hard to see how there could be any fraud.”

“It’s no fault of yours if there was. But knowing something of Mme. Bender’s state of health, it seems to us unlikely for her to have spoken on the telephone at any recent time.”

The manager started slightly.

“I could swear it was her voice. You believe it may have been someone impersonating her?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Ellsworth, a confident man with a smooth round face and pince-nez, looked decidedly perturbed. He fidgeted with a waistcoat button, letting his gaze stray round the room, then as though struck by a bright idea brought his plump hand down on the desk with a bang.

“Surely, my dear fellow, the simplest course to pursue is to ask Mme. Bender straight out whether she did or did not sanction the transaction.”

“It’s less easy than you think. First, we do not want to agitate her, and second, she happens to be in a state where, to put it crudely, one cannot rely upon her word as conclusive evidence.”

The manager’s pale eyebrows shot up.

“Dear me! You mean she is——” He stopped, touching his forehead significantly.

“At least her condition is such that we have to act without her knowledge or consent.” Geoffrey spoke cautiously, as he examined the sheet of grey note-paper. “Typewritten.” He murmured with disappointment. “Still, the signature is distinctive.”

The sloping, spidery hand had the typical character of most French caligraphy. As soon as he was alone he compared it with the letter received from Catherine, only to find his unpractised eye unable to detect any differences. Enclosing the three specimens in an envelope, he despatched them in Henri’s care to the expert, with a request for a speedy opinion.

On Wednesday he motored again to Fontainebleau, where he found Catherine much improved in strength and spirits. However, he had only a few minutes alone with her, and his ardour was damped by the feeling that she was far more interested in what he had to tell her than in himself. An evasive manner and a touch of unexpected shyness depressed him, causing him to wonder if she were trying to prepare him for a definite refusal. Had she thought things over and come to the conclusion that she could not love him? He was ready to swear at himself for fatuously expecting too much.

When he took his departure, it was Elspeth who followed him out to his car.

“Poor old boy,” she murmured as he put his hand on the starter. “Aren’t things going too well for you?”

“What in heaven’s name do you mean?” he demanded, reddening savagely and brushing off her caressing touch.

She laughed with a touch of feminine malice.

“Never mind—it will do you good,” she replied enigmatically. “You’ve had it all your own way far too long. She’s worth a struggle, and I wish you luck. I can’t say more, can I?”

So they all knew he had been captured at last! No wonder, the truth must be written all over him. Desire had laid hold of him so powerfully that he could scarcely eat or sleep, much less take an interest in anything which did not concern the object of his hopes. Life without Catherine—! It was a prospect of slow starvation.

So entirely engrossed was he by his personal problem that the letter received the following day from Bordeaux came as a distinct surprise. He had for the time being forgotten Bernard’s mission, from which, in the light of his recent conclusions, he expected little result.

As he read his face altered. The agent had traced Blom to the Hôtel des Negociants, where he had apparently spent a few days early in February, afterwards moving on successively to several small towns in the district. The quest had been difficult owing to the fact that the notaire had in each case left no address, so that it was only by dint of many inquiries that his movements became known. In each of the towns visited he had passed several days, but it had been impossible to find out how he had filled in his time, except that he appeared to have examined into various local records of births, deaths and marriages—a pursuit legitimately compatible with his profession. So far Bernard had discovered nothing to connect the man with any nefarious dealings, or anything other than a rather aimless pottering about.

“Yet I am not satisfied,” concluded the writer. “I am inclined to think that all this activity among the archives was intended to cover up his real business. If he carried any unframed canvases, he could easily have concealed them in his normal luggage, and my idea is that somewhere in this neighbourhood he has hidden them in a secret cache. I have one or two lines of inquiry to follow up, and will let you know if anything develops.”

Geoffrey lit a cigarette and pondered the matter, reflecting that it seemed impossible to catch the notaire at anything shady. What could be farther removed from picture-thieving than this harmless poking into provincial archives? But for the two known facts testifying against him, one would be tempted to declare him a wholly spotless character. However, those facts stood out like black question marks, demanding an answer. The man had undoubtedly held a violent dispute over the contents of Mme. Bender’s picture-gallery, and he had paid a visit to the Macadam office under an assumed name, inquiring into Mme. Bender’s affairs. Plainly he was up to something he wished to keep secret.

“Decidedly a dark horse,” concluded Geoffrey, with annoyance. “Indeed, we should never have known of his existence at all if Catherine had not seen him that first evening and later recognized him as the milliner’s fiancé. Just accident—that’s all. On the surface he seems nothing more than a money-grubbing notary, with a taste for records,” and he recalled what Ballou had said about running across the Alsatian at the Bureau des Archives. How was it Guy had described him? “I used to think he looked like a white rat nosing about among the files.”

Yes, this record-hunting was probably a blind, at least at Bordeaux. Moreover, for the second time Geoffrey was struck by the man’s pursuit of the widow, Mme. Baron, immediately after his return. Honorine’s reputed savings would furnish the wherewithal for his start in a new field.

“By Jove, I shouldn’t wonder if we’d hit the trail at last. The servants are selling him those pictures, and he is planning to set himself up as a dealer. The thing to do now is to notify the police of Bordeaux, give them a description of Blom, and have all out-going boats carefully watched. I’ll telegraph to Bernard at once.”

It occurred to him that it might be wise to keep both Blom and the milliner under strict surveillance, but that matter could rest until Bernard’s return.

Late Friday afternoon he was hard at work when the office factotum announced M. Bernard. Leaping up in astonishment, Geoffrey beheld the agent, adorned with a bowler hat green with age and a black muffler wrapped round his cavernous neck.

“So you’ve come back! Did you get my telegram?”

“Yes, monsieur. I informed the Bordeaux police, and will forward them a description of our friend, with a photograph, if obtainable. But I regret to state I have not been able to discover anything definite regarding the paintings. He has covered his tracks too well. All I could do was to warn the port authorities.”

Geoffrey was conscious of disappointment.

“Yet you still hold the opinion that he means to take them out of the country?”

“I assume so, monsieur, but I confess there is little to support the theory. All my inquiries led me to was a series of records offices, one after the other. I have spent the past two days interviewing the archives officials in three small towns, trying to ascertain what object Blom had in mind. At last I found it, but I am afraid it will tell you little. It seems that the man was seeking particulars about a family apparently extinct in the district—people by the name of Dieulefit.”

“Dieulefit!”

The young man jumped as though shot.

“You know the name, then?”

“Do I know it!” cried the other excitedly. “Why, it’s the family name of Mme. Bender herself! My God, Bernard, don’t you see what it means? The fellow is searching for an heir to our client’s estate!”

The solemn eyes regarded him with interest.

“Then you think he has not stolen the pictures at all?”

Geoffrey frowned in confusion.

“I can’t say. No—yes.… At any rate, this business has nothing to do with theft. He’s got something quite different up his sleeve.… I’ve got to think this out. I’ll let you know if I shall need you further.”

Indeed, it seemed doubtful whether the agent could supply the missing link in the chain, namely, Blom’s reason for his investigations. There must be some strong motive to take a canny bourgeois on an extensive journey. The notaire was not likely to spend money without hope of an ample return. But in what way could he hope to profit?

Over a solitary meal at a restaurant Geoffrey argued the question out to a tentative conclusion, his legal knowledge providing him with a clue. He knew that when a person of property died intestate it was the custom to look about at once for the next of kin. If the search proved difficult, anyone furnishing information as to the missing heirs invariably received remuneration for his services, based on a percentage system. Where the fortune was a large one, the commission might run to a considerable sum, well worth scheming to obtain.

Undoubtedly, Blom, in his capacity of legal adviser to the Bender servants, was in a position to know certain useful facts. He could easily be aware of Mme. Bender’s former name, of the probability of her dying intestate, and of the precarious state of her health. Armed with his knowledge, he might very naturally wish to locate some remote connections of the ill woman, in order to be first in the field to claim the said commission.

Now at last he began to see daylight. He understood Blom’s anxiety to make sure whether a will had been executed, since if that were the case his hopes vanished automatically. Probably also he suspected Jeanne’s private machinations, and had tried to put a stop to them by the threats Catherine had overheard, knowing they would foil his own scheme. It all fitted in with surprising ease.

Only one point remained obscure. Was Blom acting purely on speculation, or had some rumour of a possible heir reached his ears?

Suddenly Hermione Cushing flashed across his mind. As Mme. Bender’s oldest friend, it was likely that no one better than she would be acquainted with the invalid’s antecedents. Perhaps she had supplied Blom with the necessary facts, meaning to split the commission with him. Or else—and here was a totally new idea—she herself might have French blood in her veins, and unknown to anyone possess some shadowy claim she wished to substantiate. Was she by any remote chance connected with the family of Dieulefit? If so it would explain everything.

Determination seized him. Quitting the restaurant he jumped into a taxi, and in ten minutes was climbing the stairs to the singer’s apartment, bent upon taking the owner unawares and subjecting her to a few blunt questions.

Decidedly brutal, that! His face burned at the thought. Yet he felt he must know once and for all what part Miss Cushing played in the affair, and he was shamelessly taking this course because he believed the lady could not withstand a frontal attack.

The door opening to his ring, he found himself confronting a spectacled grenadier who regarded him severely, a steel thimble on her roughened finger, and a chemise, of dimensions suitable for a baby elephant, draped over one arm.

“Mademoiselle est sortie,” he was informed.

He did not know whether he was disappointed or relieved. Under the bonne’s righteous gaze he reluctantly gave his name, realizing that any hope of catching Miss Cushing unawares was now extinguished. The singer, hearing he had called, would be on her guard.

“Monsieur Macadam?” repeated the domestic, her visage softening.

Clearly she knew who he was. Indeed, there was probably little of her mistress’s affairs she did not know. She warmed, becoming communicative. Mademoiselle was dining in the Faubourg St. Germain, after calling on her friend, Mme. Bender. If Monsieur cared to leave a message.… But Geoffrey was already half-way down the stairs.

He felt curiously at a loose end, his brain revolving the new information and burning to impart it to the person most likely to be interested. A glance at his watch told him it was barely nine o’clock. Why not drive to Fontainebleau and talk the thing over with Catherine? He could be there in little more than an hour.

His waiting taxi bore him swiftly to the garage where his car was kept, and presently he was speeding towards the Porte d’Italie, the wind whistling in his wake. In record time he alighted in the broad, quiet street outside his sister’s dwelling, and a second later burst unceremoniously into a somnolent family group lounging before the wood fire.

Elspeth looked up with surprise.

“Geoff! You did give me a start. What’s up?”

He cast a rapid look round the room.

“Where’s Catherine?” he inquired shortly.

“Gone,” she replied composedly.

His jaw dropped.

“Gone? Where? Why?”

“That’s all. She left us, this evening. On the 10.45, to be exact. What’s the excitement about?”

His eyes blazed at her.

“I don’t understand you. She knew I was coming to fetch her to-morrow afternoon. Why this sudden change of plan?”

“Don’t be silly. It was quite unexpected, of course. On the evening’s post she had a letter from some friends of hers who are crossing to Dieppe to-night and arriving in Paris early to-morrow morning. They are only stopping over a couple of hours, and want to see her. She would go.”

Still he stared at her, visibly annoyed.

“I can’t make it out,” he muttered, frowning. “You mean to say you let her go back there—alone?”

“Yes. Why not? We couldn’t stop her, and she refused to let us ring you up.”

“Do the servants expect her?”

“No; but it doesn’t matter, does it?”

Then he realized that both listeners were eyeing him oddly and with a glint of amusement at his concern.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Geoffrey remained with the Baxters only long enough to smoke a cigarette and swallow a whisky and soda. Even this he consented to do with an unwilling air, elbows on his knees and an expression moodily abstracted. Then with a curt good night he vanished into the darkness.

When the doors had closed his brother-in-law raised humorous eyebrows after his departing figure and rose with a stretch.

“What’s his trouble?” he lazily inquired.

“Catherine, evidently. He’s hurt because she ran off without letting him know.”

“A rift in the lute, I fancy. Looked as though he had something on his mind he didn’t want us to know.”

“That’s what I thought. Did you see how he almost bit my head off when I told him she had gone?”

Her husband nodded, yawning.

“Oh, well, he can see her to-morrow and put things right. My God, the agonies these lovers go through! I never pictured the old blighter losing his self-control like that, though,”—and he knocked his pipe against the side of the fireplace.

Meanwhile, with jaw set and a feeling of indignation seething in his breast, the object of these remarks was making full speed along the Paris road. Somehow Catherine’s abrupt departure wounded him like a personal affront. Was she really so anxious to meet these precious friends of hers, or had she taken the sudden decision in order to avoid the drive back with him to-morrow? Unreasonably he inclined towards the latter opinion, recalling how reserved and standoffish she had been when he last saw her.

“Yet she liked me well enough two weeks ago,” he argued resentfully. “No one could fool me on that subject.”

Once again he smelled the fragrance of her skin mingling with the crushed lilies of the valley as she had pressed against him, felt the warmth of her lips upon his. Yes, for a moment at least the same sensation had surged up in them both, binding them together. Yet how little that physical rapprochement must have meant to her if she did not desire to repeat it! He felt strangely humiliated.

Oh, well, she had warned him not to expect too much. If he had been living in a fool’s paradise, it was his own fault. Only he must know exactly how he stood with her and end this maddening suspense. He would ask her to dine with him to-morrow and have the whole thing out.

So absorbed was he in his sense of grievance that he had come to the Porte d’Italie before he thought of the girl at home in the hated apartment. She must have reached there half an hour ago. Was everything all right with her? He could not define the vague uneasiness which prompted him to cross the city and make straight for the Avenue Henri Martin.

A little later he stopped his car in the turning outside the Bender apartment, and peered up towards the darkened entresol. The fourth window along was Catherine’s. His eyes could just detect a faint glow of light through the closed curtains, and a thin line of radiance along the edge. Watching he saw a shadow cross the window, pause an instant, then pass on.

She was there, safe and sound, so close to him, too, only a dozen yards away. Probably she was just about to get into bed, little dreaming who was beneath her window. He longed to throw a stone at the pane, but thought better of it as he realized the lateness of the hour. He struck a match and looked at his watch. A quarter past one. No, he must not disturb her now. When he raised his eyes again the glow was extinguished.

Geoffrey slept but little. His personal chagrin over Catherine’s abrupt departure gave place after a time to uneasy conjectures over Adolph Blom’s mysterious movements, and all during the night he devised first one theory then another, only to reject the lot. Finally, when it was almost time to rise, a new idea struck him, turning him cold all over. He leaped out of bed.

Why in God’s name had he not thought of this before?

As soon as he heard the maid go into his father’s room with coffee he followed to set before the older man his recent information. The senior partner groped for his glasses, put them on, and stared.

“Hunting for Dieulefits? Why the devil should a stranger do that?”

“In case of an heir, to collar the commission,” replied Geoffrey. “What other reason can there be? The point that bothers me is, is he working alone, or in conjunction with another person?”

“What person do you suspect?”

“There are two possibilities. First the maid, and second”—he paused, then brought the name out resolutely—“Miss Cushing.”

“Miss Cushing!”

His father set down his coffee-cup with a jerk.

“Well, what of it?” he remarked dryly. “It is not a criminal offence to make inquiries. At all events it is a waiting game.”

Geoffrey paused before replying.

“Are you sure it is a waiting game?” he inquired pointedly. “Has it occurred to you that in all this there is one feature we have overlooked? I refer to Mme. Bender’s attempts at suicide.”

The old eyes narrowed.

“Exactly what do you mean?”

“What if the person to benefit by her decease is impatient for the event to happen? What if those reputed attempts weren’t suicide at all but something much worse? Remember we have only the maid’s statement for them.”

“Good God!” The solicitor started, all but capsizing his breakfast tray. For the first time the Bender muddle had assumed a grave aspect. “But who would profit? Not these servants, that is unless——”

“Unless they are in collusion with the unknown heir. The notaire may be banking on a fat commission which he proposes to share with them.”

“The commission on the Bender estate will amount to a pretty penny.… Geoffrey, this looks bad!”

“I thought you’d say that. What is our best move?”

The old man was making for the bathroom, but paused and thought for a moment.

“Get hold of that maid at once and put the fear of God into her. Telephone to her now and say that I want to see her at eleven o’clock. Don’t rouse her suspicions—simply tell her to come. She daren’t refuse. I’ll soon put a stop to any nonsense. Once she knows we are on to her schemes she’ll have to clear out.”

The vagaries of the Paris telephone service are perhaps the worst in the world. After repeated attempts to establish a connection, Geoffrey was forced to admit failure.

“Can’t be helped,” grunted his father. “We’ll have another go at the office, and if there’s still no reply I’ll send Henri up there. I don’t mean to delay this a single day.”

A single day! Geoffrey reflected cynically that here they both were, roused at last over something which had happened fully two months ago. At the actual moment the woman they were crediting with villainous intentions was quietly planning to take a holiday. Did that mean someone was going to deputize in her place, or were there suspicions wholly unfounded?

Nothing seemed clear when at the rue Auber he again besieged the telephone, still without success. Finally an angry appeal to the chief operator elicited the information that the line he wanted was out of order.

He slammed down the receiver and rang the bell. After a long wait Ballou stuck his sleek head in at the door.

“Henri’s out, sir—won’t be long. By the way, if you’re not too busy, there’s something I wanted to tell you. You recall that notaire you were inquiring about?”

Geoffrey glanced at him sharply.

“What about him?”

“He’s going to be married within the next few days. I was at the Mairie in the rue de Lisbonne yesterday, and I happened to see the announcement on the affiche board. He’s marrying a widow.”

“I knew that. She’s a Madame Baron.”

“Quite. But it was her other name—what you call in English her maiden name—which caught my eye. I can’t remember it now, but it was rather odd, something beginning with a D.”

When he had gone out Geoffrey sat for some minutes spellbound. An odd name, beginning with a D! But of course it was absurd, it couldn’t be. And yet…

With a sudden movement he crammed his hat upon his head, left the building and hailed a taxi.

“The Mairie, rue de Lisbonne,” he instructed the driver.

He might as well see for himself.

Five minutes later he alighted and strode into the paved courtyard of the Mairie. There, facing him, stood the announcement board, its surface covered by scribbled notices pinned into place and protected by wire netting. Here, according to French custom, the names of every prospective bride and bridegroom resident in the quarter were posted for two weeks previous to the legal ceremony, a formality corresponding to the English banns.

Rapidly his eye ran over the scraps of paper till he hit upon the one he sought. Here it was in crabbed script, for everyone to read:

“Adolph Gustav Blom, notaire, of 359, rue d’Amsterdam, and Marie Honorine Baron, née Dieulefit.…”

There was no mistake.

He had come through a long dark tunnel to find himself on the brink of a precipice.

For a moment he was completely staggered. Then he swore aloud, cursing his lack of imagination. Why in the name of all that was damnable had this possibility never occurred to him? Why had he not at once dreamed of questioning the identity of “Honorine,” instead of passing her by as of no importance? She it was who provided the key to the whole mystery, she alone—and a single inquiry would have secured the desired information!

Now in a flash he saw the notaire’s game. Why, the man was not juggling for a paltry commission, he was marrying the heir to the Bender millions!

What a stroke of genius, superbly daring, amazingly simple! Blom had known the milliner for years, was intimately acquainted with her history, but had paid no attention to her till by accident he learned that her former name was identical with that of the wealthy invalid in the Quartier de l’Étoile. Secretly and systematically he had set out to prove that a tie of blood existed between the two women so widely separated by class and fortune; then, assured of the relationship, had with the same calculation severed his connection with his little grisette and begun paying his addresses in a new quarter, calmly certain that sooner or later the whole of Mme. Bender’s property would pass into his control.

As the details rushed through Geoffrey’s mind one supreme fact stood clear. Blom could not possibly intend to wait for his victim to die a natural death. Every day added to the uncertainty of his future wife’s inheritance, since it needed but the stroke of a pen to ruin his scheme. Jeanne, with her diabolical cleverness, might postpone the making of a will for a time, but she could hardly be relied upon to circumvent it altogether. No, whatever occurred must not be long delayed, and must bear the stamp of accident or suicide. Perhaps at this very moment plans were maturing. The fact that Blom’s marriage was scheduled to take place within a few days suggested an imminent dénouement.

On tenterhooks to acquaint his father with this latest turn of the wheel, Geoffrey arrived breathless at the office and flung open the door. Then he stopped on the threshold, aware that some unusual disturbance had taken hold of the place.

The entire force was gathered in the outer room, heads together, eyes intently studying the front page of the Paris Midi, fresh from the press. All looked up at his approach, while Ballou spoke in a tone of marked excitement.

“Mr. Macadam was asking for you, sir. Have you seen this?”—and he thrust the paper into Geoffrey’s hands.

At that instant the senior solicitor appeared in the opposite doorway, his face an ashen tinge, his eyes narrowed to steel points.

“It’s happened,” he announced in a dry voice. “Accident or not, that poor woman is dead.”

“Dead? You don’t mean——”

“Just that. She was burned to death last night in her bedroom.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Father and son exchanged looks of mute horror.

Through both minds rushed the same thought.

“Read what it says. There’s not much.”

Riveting his attention upon the page before him, Geoffrey forced himself to digest the scant particulars the journal had to offer. In emotionless brevity it stated the following:

“Mme. Henry Belmont Bender, of Numero 44 Avenue Henri Martin, met death in the early hours of this morning as the result of a fire in her apartment. No facts are yet known as to how the conflagration started, or whether the victim’s decease was due to heart failure or to suffocation from the fumes. The maid and butler made a valiant attempt to effect a rescue, themselves sustaining injuries. The fire department was speedily summoned and contrived to save the major portion of the building.”

For a second the words swam before his eyes. Then he made a seemingly trivial observation.

“This explains why I couldn’t get through on the telephone.…”

The clerks looked at him. No one could know that his thoughts had flown in a rush to Catherine, wondering why it was he had had no word from her. The clock was striking twelve. Had anything happened to her? Thank God, her room was on the opposite side of the flat.…

“I must go up there at once,” he muttered.

His father nodded grimly. For all his outward composure he was badly shaken. With a brusque gesture he drew the young man apart from the group, saying in a low voice:

“Find out everything you can and keep your eyes well open. I needn’t remind you how difficult it is going to be, that as far as we know the only persons to give evidence are the suspects themselves. If we could bring to light any suspicions of a motive——”

“Motive?” repeated Geoffrey, suddenly coming to from his brief stupor. “But there is a motive! Something stupendous!”

In a rapid undertone he made known his discovery. His father listened, struck dumb. Several seconds elapsed before he found his voice to gasp.

“An heir… marrying the heir! Good God, how blind we’ve been!”

He seemed paralysed, all at once ten years older. The effort with which he pulled himself together was painfully apparent.

“We’ve been fools, Geoffrey—utter, hopeless fools! We’ve stood by and allowed that wretched woman to be done to death, and even now there may not be a chance of bringing the scoundrels to justice! Do you realize that fact?”

“We can at least order a post-mortem.”

“And what will that prove if, as is probable, she died of heart failure? No, I am afraid even now they may slip through our fingers.… But do your best; get back as quickly as you can and let me know the result.”

Within a few minutes Geoffrey was speeding towards the Étoile, his consciousness harassed by two dominant emotions—futile self-accusation for his failure to avert a dreadful calamity, and a growing apprehension in regard to Catherine. Nothing serious could have happened to her, or there would have been some mention in the newspaper, yet it struck him again as strange that in all these hours he had received no message. In vain he told himself that it was only natural in the shock and confusion of the terrible happening, with the telephone out of commission into the bargain, for her not to have communicated with her friends. His solace lay in the knowledge that soon he would see her and, if she were willing, take her back again to Elspeth’s home.

A knot of curious spectators clustered round the entrance to the apartment building, and as he hastened through the archway several pairs of eyes followed him with morbid interest. At the doorway of the loge the concierge’s wife was discoursing with an air of ghoulish enjoyment to a handful of cronies, for the main part servants, hatless, and laden with string-bags of marketing. Seeing Geoffrey, she darted forward and seized his arm with a horny talon.

“Vous désirez, monsieur?” she demanded sharply, every line of her witch-like face avid with the righteous opportunity of showing her authority.

Impatiently he gave his name, the woman cringing away with a servile shrug to stand looking after him curiously.

Although from the avenue there was no sign of destruction, the damage was now only too apparent. The windows of the entresol and several on the floor immediately above were blackened and smashed to atoms, all visible woodwork charred to a crisp, while the three interior walls ran with rivulets of water, still dripping into pools on the stones below. The lift, however, was unharmed, and the larger part of the building appeared to be little injured.

Above, the broad mahogany doors gaped wide. The pale grey carpet was soaked through and plastered with muddy footprints, the walls on both sides sodden with moisture which had seeped through in streaks of discoloration. No actual indication of the fire showed, but the entire atmosphere was permeated with the acrid odour of burnt and drenched wood.

Geoffrey entered and glanced about. Not a soul was in sight, but from the salon came subdued voices, speaking with that curious deadness and restraint usual on such occasions. Reaching the open door, he perceived a small gathering composed entirely of men, some of them with an official aspect, the rest nondescripts whom he took to be representatives of the press. The first excitement had died away, the prevailing atmosphere now being that of tension and hesitancy.

Rapidly his eyes explored the rooms in search of Catherine, but she was not in sight. He was still staring about with a frown of perplexity when a police sergeant, trim and efficient-looking in his tight uniform, stepped forward with an interrogatory gesture:

“Monsieur?”

Briefly Geoffrey stated his business.

“There is a relative of the dead lady staying here, a young American. Can you tell me where she is?”

“An American lady, monsieur? I have not seen her. You think she had been here?”

“There is no doubt about it. I am anxious to find her.”

The sergeant, a small man with sharp features and black, observant eyes, shook his head, his attention straying back towards the salon.

“You must be misinformed, monsieur. I understand there was no one in the apartment last night except the two servants. You had better inquire of them. There is the butler now,”—and he motioned towards the squat figure of Eduardo.

The Portuguese, his left arm in a sling and his shiny face daubed with smut, was speaking jerkily to one of the reporters, a grubby Frenchman who was busily engaged in taking notes. As he talked his bloodshot eyes glanced in Geoffrey’s direction, then away without a sign of recognition. The young man took a step towards him, then halted as a choking voice from behind uttered his name:

“Monsieur Macadam!”

Wheeling round, he beheld Hermione Cushing tottering towards him, officiously escorted by the concierge. The huge singer, garbed in voluminous black, surged forward and grasped his hands to steady herself. Her large moon-face was drained of colour, her lips quivered pathetically, while every inch of her immense body vibrated with emotion. Whatever his secret thoughts had been Geoffrey could feel nothing but pity for a grief so evidently sincere.

“You have just learned of the accident?” he whispered.

She nodded, closing her red-rimmed eyes. Then with a stupendous effort at control she opened them, fixing her watery gaze upon him.

“Twenty minutes ago.… Yvonne heard it in the fishmonger’s. I cannot yet take it in. I was with her till seven last night.…”

For a second he feared she was going to swoon, and braced himself in anticipation. However, drawing a tremulous breath she drew herself up with commendable resolution and laid a shaking arm on his arm.

“Catherine—?” she murmured interrogatively. “She knows nothing of this, I suppose? Poor child, poor child! What a shock for her, too!”—and before he could disabuse her mind of error she moved away into the salon.

At her approach the group disintegrated, and for the first time Geoffrey caught sight of a still figure at the far end near the windows, huddled in a bergère covered with violet brocade. From a drab countenance, deeply lined, two dull eyes stared up, expressionless, apathetic.

They were the eyes of Jeanne.

The maid was wrapped in a dark dressing-gown buttoned to the chin. Her disordered hair clung in dank wisps to her forehead, her lips were set in a straight line. Immobile as an effigy, she sat with her feet in black pantoufles, and her arms, swathed in bandages, resting stiffly upon the wings of the chair. If she was aware of Geoffrey’s presence she gave no sign, her opaque gaze passing him by and coming to rest upon the singer’s face.

Moving quickly towards her, he bent over and spoke in an undertone.

“Jeanne, where is Mademoiselle West?”

She seemed not to hear him, and only when he had repeated the question insistently did she turn her head slowly in his direction.

“Mademoiselle West? But how should I know, monsieur?” she muttered in a lifeless voice. “I have been through too much to think of mademoiselle.”

“But you must know where she is,” he urged impatiently, trying to fix her attention. “Has she gone out?”

Her gaze wandered away. She appeared utterly absorbed in herself, with the indifference of nervous exhaustion. Again he was forced to repeat his words, this time with noticeable impatience.

“But I do not understand,” she replied at last. “Surely monsieur is aware that I have not seen mademoiselle for a full week.”

“Not seen her?”

The words leaped out. Had the woman turned silly? Irritation laid hold of him so that he longed to catch her by the shoulders and shake her. Several of the men behind him had drawn closer, listening with marked curiosity.

“But you must have seen her! How could you help it? She was here last night.”

One of the bandaged hands made a slight gesture of protest, as much as to say that this was scarcely the moment for idle questions.

“You are mistaken, monsieur. It is this evening she is supposed to return. I should have thought you knew that.”

His face reddened with anger. Leaning nearer, he spoke slowly and emphatically, as if to a stupid child.

“Listen to me, Jeanne! You know as well as I do that mademoiselle came home last night. The point is, where has she got to?”

For answer he received an uncomprehending shrug and a blank shake of the head. Either the maid could not or would not grasp his meaning. Alarm began to creep into his mind. Was it possible she had not seen Catherine? He felt utterly at sea. Then as he rallied himself for a fresh attack, Hermione addressed him in astonishment, her black-gloved hand upon his sleeve.

“What is this you are saying? Catherine here last night?”

He opened his lips to explain, but before he could speak Eduardo, who had been listening, moving quietly to his side.

“Some mistake, Mr. Macadam,” he mumbled. “Miss West did not come home. If you care to look, you’ll see for yourself that her room has not been occupied.”

Speechless with rage, Geoffrey returned the man’s unflinching stare. In spite of the usual covert insolence in the butler’s manner, his statement somehow carried conviction.

“Is this true what you are telling me?” demanded Geoffrey rudely.

“Quite, monsieur; if she had been here, we could not have failed to know it, could we?” came the supercilious retort.

Catherine not here!

The room reeled before his eyes.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

What could it mean?

For the moment every other consideration was submerged in the wave of staggering doubt which swept over him.

He stared hard into the Portuguese’s bloodshot eyes, trying to read the thoughts that lurked behind, then shifted his scrutiny to Jeanne’s sallow countenance. The two faces were like a blank wall. Neither servant treated his agitation seriously, or showed any particular concern. He saw the maid’s eyes close with spent fatigue, as though to shut out wearisome discussion.

He became aware that the onlookers were eyeing him queerly, that Miss Cushing was gathering her forces to bombard him with questions. He strode out of the room, just managing to elude an American reporter who was sidling towards him, pad in hand.

Quickly he gained the corridor and make for the passage leading to Catherine’s bedroom.

Although the court side of the apartment had been gutted by fire, the exterior portion was untouched. He reached the familiar chamber, threw open the door, and cast a searching glance round.

The bed was smooth beneath its toile de Jouy cover, the dressing-table bare save for a few stray bottles and scattered oddments. There was no sign of luggage, nor anything to indicate the girl’s return. Opening the cupboard he descried Catherine’s grey squirrel coat, an evening wrap, and several frocks, none of which he had seen her wear at Fontainebleau. Most of the hangers pendent from the steel rod were empty. Three or four pairs of shoes were ranged on the floor beneath, while upon the shelf lay a couple of felt hats beside an oval hat-box covered in flowered paper.

He stared blankly, his brain revolving possibilities.

If she had meant to spend the night elsewhere, she would certainly have told Elspeth her intention. Besides, what of the light he had seen in the window, the shadow on the blind? Only a few hours ago the feeling of her presence here had been an overwhelming reality.

As he looked about him a sickening fear crept into his mind. She did come home. Whatever Jeanne and Eduardo might declare to the contrary, she reached here at midnight. Inconceivable for her to have slept through the clamour and excitement. No one, unless heavily drugged, could have done so. Did this mean that for some reason she had removed her belongings and gone quietly away, unnoticed? Such an explanation was manifestly absurd!

Rapidly the suspicion grew upon him that something sinister lurked behind this. Terror clutched at his heart as he made his way back to the front, while the thought hammered in his brain that somewhere, close at hand, Catherine was concealed. He must find her without loss of a moment.

The sight of the police sergeant brought him to his senses. Drawing the man aside, he pinioned him by the arm, and poured forth an incoherent story. His auditor, stolidly inattentive, began at last to realize that the young Englishman was in earnest, whereupon he brought his eyes to bear upon him with a faintly incredulous smile.

“Young lady? Disappeared from here? No, no, monsieur, you must be dreaming! There was no young lady in the apartment, as I told you just now—only two servants, whom you have seen. Look—there is the cook, who slept on the top floor, and was roused by the fire-engines. She will confirm what I say.”

He motioned towards Berthe, who now loomed on the scene, eyes swollen with weeping, her vacuous face full of self-importance. Geoffrey seized her arm.

“Have you seen anything of mademoiselle?” he demanded fiercely. “I know that she returned last night.”

The china-blue eyes opened wide in amazement.

“But no, assuredly not, monsieur! What makes you say that? It is to-day, Saturday, that we expect her, but now, of course, she will not come!”

Geoffrey turned away with an exasperated cry.

“You see,” remarked the sergeant in triumph, and glancing towards the astonished Berthe, raised his brows slightly.

“But I tell you I know what I’m saying. She has been spending the week at my sister’s in Fontainebleau. I was there last evening, and she had just left by the 10.45 train!”

The sergeant drew a toothpick from his pocket and used it discreetly. The smile in his black eyes grew more pronounced.

“Perhaps, monsieur, your sister was having a game with you. No doubt the young lady was there all the time and did not wish you to know. Take my advice, make sure of this before you upset yourself.”

Game? The childish suggestion offered a ray of hope. It was true that Elspeth, long ago, used to indulge in practical jokes.…

“I don’t believe it for a moment,” he rejoined shortly, “but I will put through a trunk call to find out.”

Without pausing for a reply, he took a couple of strides towards the study, throwing wide the door. Instantly the sergeant bounded upon him.

“Not in there, I beg of you, monsieur! No one is allowed in that room!”

No need to ask why. In full view confronting him loomed a long shapeless form shrouded in a sheet. The curtains were drawn, the room in semi-darkness, out of which the stark mass met the eye, placed on stretchers beneath the painting of the race-horse.

Geoffrey drew in his breath sharply.

At his elbow the sergeant spoke, pulling him back.

“In any case, this instrument has been put out of commission by the fire. I would try the one in the loge below.”

Geoffrey waved him aside.

“I want to know first what time the fire started. Can you tell me?”

“I understand the alarm was given in at one-thirty this morning.”

One-thirty! It was a quarter of an hour earlier that he had stopped his car outside.

“And the cause?”

“Candles, before a prie-Dieu, monsieur, or that is the maid’s opinion. The flames caught the bed-draperies. It is said that the poor lady was a bit touched here”—and he tapped his forehead significantly. “She was trapped. The fire spread in a ring, the body was found collapsed beneath the crucifix. The servants dragged her out and wrapped her in blankets, but——” He shrugged.

“She was badly burned?”

“Frightfully, monsieur. Recognizable, of course. If you would care to take a look…”

For a second he drew back a corner of the sheet, disclosing the grisly remains. Geoffrey cast a glance at the body, then averted his eyes. Devoutly he hoped that Catherine had been spared this sight. Tormented by indecision, he asked himself which course of action to follow first—telephone his sister, or go over the apartment on the chance of lighting upon some trace of the missing girl. He resolved upon the latter.

“Sergeant, I want you to accompany me while I make a thorough search of this floor and the one below. I must inspect everything—even the damaged portion.”

The officer appeared somewhat surprised, then a gleam of intelligence showed in his face.

“Willingly, monsieur—but if you have the least fear of the young lady’s having fallen a victim to the fire, let me set your mind at rest. I can assure you positively no other remains were found.”

Geoffrey did not trouble to explain that so far it had not even remotely occurred to him that Catherine, too, had been burned to death. Such an idea was grotesquely unthinkable. No, whatever had happened, he felt positive it was something quite different; but find her he must, without delay. Other investigations could wait.

The puzzled expression in the sergeant’s eyes increased when his companion briefly requested him to fetch all the keys to the apartment.

“The butler will give them to you. I will wait for you here.”

“But, monsieur, this seems somewhat irregular. I do not know by what authority——”

“Never mind the authority, he won’t refuse. If he objects, tell him I intend to make a demand for a search-warrant.”

Impressed at last, the man departed, to return a few minutes later with a bunch of keys which he handed to Geoffrey. Together the two set out on their tour of inspection, the sergeant in the rear, mystified and a trifle bored. What was this mad Englishman getting at? Surely he had a bee in his bonnet.

Beginning with the rez de chaussée, they explored everything—picture-gallery, billiard-room, small salon, guests’ cloak-room, lavatory, cupboards—all empty and thick with dust. Apparently no one had entered them for months. Then proceeding to the entresol they inspected one after another a series of bedrooms, baths, housemaids’ cupboards, linen-rooms, not overlooking a single hiding-place large enough to secrete a cat. The search revealed nothing whatever. The girl was simply not there, nor was there any indication of her return.

In spite of Geoffrey’s previous conviction, doubts began to creep into his mind. Had the servants spoken the truth? He caught the little sergeant’s eyes upon him sharp with inquiry.

“Have you thought to ask the concierge whether or not the lady passed the loge?”

“That would be useless, as mademoiselle came in by the private entrance.”

“Ah, indeed! You are satisfied, however, that you were mistaken?”

Geoffrey shook his head. He was satisfied of nothing beyond the obvious fact that she was not here now. With each step of the way the problem had grown more momentous, his mind more seriously disturbed. For a second he had the wild feeling that he might indeed be going mad.…

They were standing now at the rear end of the passage leading past the ruined portion. In front the way was blocked by wreckage, the floor at their feet an irregular cavern barred across by blackened beams. Over heaps of charred debris and sodden plaster great holes gaped in walls and ceiling, the whole saturated with water. Of the dead woman’s own room little was left, but through a jagged opening at the side one could see the bathroom, the bath itself intact in the midst of a litter of twisted pipes and shattered appliances. Ten hours ago the place must have been a roaring furnace. It spoke well for the fire department that they had managed to check the flames so quickly.

The sergeant pointed at a spot against the outer wall.

“There, monsieur, is where she was found. The bed was to the right, I’m told, but naturally nothing remains of it.”

Geoffrey looked, but the sight told him nothing he wanted to know. Meanwhile precious minutes were slipping away.

“Sergeant,” he said rapidly, but with caution, “I am now going to telephone to Fontainebleau, but if I obtain no news of Mademoiselle I intend to make a report at once to the Commissariat. However, I have one more question to ask. Has any person from outside been here to talk with either of these servants during the morning? I am particularly interested in a small blond man with a thin moustache and eyes which are not mates.”

The sergeant considered, and shook his head.

“No, monsieur, I have seen no one of that description. The doctor of Mme. Bender has come, and one or two officials, but I am positive the servants have seen no one alone.”

“Good. It is private interviews I wish to prevent. Can I look to you to keep an eye on things, report to me anything out of the ordinary, and if possible try to keep the butler from going out?”

“But, monsieur,”—in evident astonishment,—“I have no right to restrain anyone’s movements!”

“I can only beg you to do your best. I may tell this much, that very probably I shall have to place those two under arrest. Until that occurs they must not be allowed to suspect our intentions.”

He had exploded a bombshell.

“Arrest! but this man and woman are regarded as heroes! They have risked their lives to——”

“Never mind that. Do as I say. It is of the utmost importance.”

As he spoke he took a hundred-franc note from his pocket and thrust it into the sergeant’s hand, then without further explanation retraced his steps by way of the uninjured passages to the front door. As he was going out the American reporter’s eagle eye fastened itself upon him.

“Pardon me, Mr. Macadam, but could you oblige me with a few facts about the deceased? That woman in there is too dazed to say much, and I want to prepare my story.”

“Not now,” returned Geoffrey in desperation. “I have urgent business to attend to. Some other time.”

“One moment, please! What about this American lady I heard you mention? Did you say her name is Miss West?”—and with undaunted persistence he linked his arm through the other’s and followed him to the landing.

“Yes, Miss West, of Boston, a cousin of the late Mr. Bender. She has been visiting here, but I find she has gone away.”

It seemed the wisest thing to say.

A moment later in the concierge’s abode he assailed the difficulties of establishing a connection with Fontainebleau, and, fuming with impatience, waiting for what seemed an æon of time. Finally to his relief he heard the sound of his sister’s voice.

“Elspeth—this is Geoffrey. Tell me at once—were you joking or is it true that Catherine left you last night? No nonsense, I’ve got to know.”

The reply came fraught with amazement.

“But of course she left. What on earth do you mean?”

His heart sank as he nerved himself to go on.

“Simply this: Mme. Bender is dead—burned to death in her room last night—and the servants swear they have not seen anything of Catherine.”

“Not seen her? Impossible! Why, she must have reached there about midnight.”

“Apparently she didn’t. Is there any other place she might have gone? Any friend’s house, or——”

“Certainly not! There must be some mistake. Geoffrey—this is too frightful! I’ll take the next train up to Paris. I——”

He waited for no more. Staring him in the face was the concierge’s big clock, the hands pointing to one. An hour gone, and nothing accomplished.

Instinct warned him not to lose sight of Jeanne and Eduardo, but whatever happened he must not delay his visit to the police, who should be informed at once of Catherine’s disappearance. Unfortunately he could attend to only one thing at a time.

As he quitted the archway he saw at the corner of the street a man’s figure in the act of diving into an open taxi-cab. A glance was enough. The heavy shoulders, the rakish angle of the hat, to say nothing of the injured arm, revealed the person of the butler. In short, one of his suspects was even now making off, probably on secret business.

Where was he going? Faced with a fresh dilemma, Geoffrey decided that the Commissariat must wait.

Luckily a second cab approached, unoccupied. He flung himself into it, pointing towards the Place du Trocadero and shouting. “You see that red taxi just ahead? A hundred francs if you keep it in sight!”

French chauffeurs are quick-witted. With a comprehending grunt the man jammed down the accelerator, and they were off, even as the quarry turned the corner of the Avenue Kléber heading towards the Étoile. Ten seconds more and they caught sight of it again, one of a score of swiftly moving cars.

Round the vast circle of the Arc de Triomphe sped the red taxi like a crimson streak, the other in hot pursuit. Along the Avenue Wagram, past the Place des Ternes, then with a lightning swerve into the Boulevard de Courcelles. So far no hitch. A glance told Geoffrey that the prey was still within sight, though a hundred yards ahead.

From the Place des Ternes to the Place de Clichy is a straight run, the thoroughfare altering its name midway and becoming the Boulevard des Batignolles. The way ahead was clear.

Pszt! Without warning came a grinding of brakes, and the cab stopped with such violence that Geoffrey was thrown off the seat, his head crashing against the glass. Then he saw what had happened. They had struck the mudguard of a large Mercédès incautiously rounding the entrance to a side-street.

Forseeing the inevitable altercation, Geoffrey got out, paid the driver his hundred francs, and leaving the two infuriated Frenchmen to exchange volleys of profanity gazed up the boulevard. In the open space of the Place de Clichy he could just make out a spot of red negotiating a rapid right-turn to plunge down a narrow street.

No good continuing the chase, the butler was gone. Besides, Geoffrey knew beyond doubt his destination, for the street which had swallowed him up was the rue d’Amsterdam.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Within the next three minutes Geoffrey had found a telephone-booth and was in communication with his father, exasperated to find the old man not greatly impressed by Catherine’s absence.

“Probably gone to stay with some friend,” he suggested. “In which case it’s likely she hasn’t yet heard of this disaster.”

“What, descend on people at twelve o’clock at night?”

“It has been done.”

Geoffrey cast his mind over Catherine’s acquaintances. Only two families did she know at all well, some Americans named Barton, in the rue Freycinet, and a young married couple, artists both, in the rue Léopold-Robert. He mentioned their names, giving the addresses.

“Get in touch with them at once and see if they have heard anything of her,” he ordered briefly. “You’ll have to send a message up to the O’Briens, as they are not on the telephone. I am going to see Bernard and get his help, but I would like you to meet me at two o’clock at the Commissariat. There are three divisions in the district—the one we want is in the Rue Mesnil.”

“You think there’s been foul play?”

“I am sure of it—but the important matter now is to find Catherine.”

From the Place de Clichy to the rue Blanche is but a step. By great good luck the agent was in his office, and listened attentively to the story Geoffrey poured out. He ruminated a moment, then gave his opinion.

“I agree, monsieur, that in the light of this man Blom’s approaching marriage last night’s affair was deliberate murder. But your friend’s failure to appear may be easily explained. I should think she would probably turn up during the day.”

He coughed discreetly, as though he could if he wished disclose a vast amount of information regarding feminine vagaries.

“But I tell you I saw the light in her room last night! The servants may swear what they choose, I don’t believe them. Something tells me they know where she is. My God, man, don’t you see what that means?”

“Certainly, if they do know. But I am inclined to believe there is nothing in this beyond a change of plan on her part.”

“However that may be, the Portuguese I mentioned is at this moment with Blom, at his office. I am sure of it. I want you to shadow him and find out what he has up his sleeve. Come at once, before he has time to get away.”

The agent reached for his rusty hat. Geoffrey arranged to meet him at two-thirty in the foyer of the Hotel Claridge, and hailing a taxi drove quickly to the Commissariat. It was now half past one.

The narrow rue Mesnil leads out of the Place Victor Hugo, the small building of the Commissariat being situated at the farther end, its unimposing façade marked with a faded tricolour. Passing the agent on duty at the entrance, Geoffrey found his father waiting within, and eagerly inquired news.

“There’s none, I’m afraid,” Macadam made reluctant answer. “Neither of those families even knew she’d been out of Paris. But there may be other possibilities.”

Geoffrey could see none. Badly shaken by the report, he motioned to his father to precede him up the wooden staircase to a door on which was written, “Entrez Sans Frapper.”

Entering they found a bare room divided by a desk behind which lounged an employé diligently engaged in paring his nails with a pocket-knife. This individual listened vacantly to Geoffrey’s urgent request to see the Chief, and after clicking his knife-blade into its warty case, blowing his nose thoroughly on a soiled handkerchief and staring the two Englishmen up and down in a wooden manner announced that it would be necessary for them to state their case first to the Secretaire du Commissaire.

They were caught in the toils of officialdom. Geoffrey ground his teeth as he watched the underling amble out and heard him in an adjoining room exchanging feeble jests with an unseen company for fully five minutes before there was any sign of activity. Eventually there emerged from the doorway a pink-faced official, dapperly-built, with hair freely plastered with pomade.

“Vous desirez, messieurs?”

Macadam made a concise statement in excellent French, while the secretary’s eyes wandered dreamily this way and that, finally coming to rest on the speaker’s waistcoat, which they appeared to find mildly interesting. In the end without betraying the slightest degree of concern or hurry, the man motioned languidly towards a couple of hard chairs against the wall, and remarked that if the Commissaire was not engaged he would perhaps hear the complaint himself.

Another maddening wait, and the two solicitors found themselves in a second office, facing a dry-as-dust little person with a stubble of grey beard and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. This was the Commissaire.

Bent over his desk steadily covering a sheet of foolscap with angular writing, he did not look up when the secretary retailed to him a garbled account of the visitors’ mission, continuing for endless minutes to dip his fine pen into the ink-pot and pursue his labours unmoved by rumours of murder and arson. Long after Geoffrey’s patience was frayed to breaking-point he pushed aside his document and cleared his throat.

“And now, messieurs, what is your business?” he calmly inquired.

No expression crossed his face till he caught the words, “double affair, relating to the death last night of Mme. Belmont Bender,” when a gleam came into his eyes.

“Ah, the victim of the fire in the Avenue Henri Martin. But—double affair, you say? Kindly explain.”

This time it was Geoffrey who set forth the circumstances and his suspicions of foul play. Several times the Commissaire indulged in a meditative shrug, and now and then raised a hand for the benefit of the secretary, who made a note in a little book.

At last the little chief removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyelids with a reflective finger, and summed up the case with bloodless precision.

“You wish to suggest, monsieur, first of all an affair of sequestration supplemented by undue influence, object pecuniary gain. As to the possibility of murder, from what you tell me there seems little actual evidence. Failing witnesses, the charge may be difficult to prove, unless, of course, the examination of the corpse reveals some trace of poison. That, naturally, remains to be seen. Since you have managed to hit upon a plausible motive for a crime, it will be my duty to order a post-mortem, though I understand you are not certain that this Mme.—what is the woman’s name?—Mme. Baron, is a blood relation of the deceased. You only assume that she is. However, we will waive that point. The aggregate of circumstances will provide us sufficient excuse to go on.”

He wiped his lenses carefully and set the spectacles again upon his nose.

“Now for the other matter, the supposed disappearance of Mademoiselle—how does she call herself?—ah yes, Mademoiselle West. It seems to me rather early, monsieur, to conclude that she is actually missing. Several solutions suggest themselves. On your own statement she was not on the best of terms with Mme. Bender’s servants. Is it not possible that on her way home last night she felt a sudden reluctance to descend upon them unawares, and in consequence spent the night at an hotel? I am thinking also of your mention of the fact that she intended an early start in the morning, to meet her friends.”

Geoffrey admitted this might have happened, but declared it to be unlikely. What, he demanded, was one to do about the light in mademoiselle’s bedroom and the shadow on the blind?

The Commissaire shook his head disparagingly.

“One cannot rely upon that as proof that she was there. The shadow may have been that of some other person.”