[NOTE] (continued 6)

“But at a quarter past one, monsieur! The alarm was given in at one-thirty. At the time I mention the servants must have been either asleep or occupied with the fire—if one is to believe what they say.”

“True. You are sure it was a quarter past one?”

“Absolutely. I looked at my watch.”

“Ah, well, that fact may be of value to us, particularly if it shows up any flaw in the servants’ evidence. We shall see.”

He rang a bell on the desk, the sluggish employé before mentioned appeared.

“Send Inspector Bazin to me,” he commanded, and closing his eyes, lapsed into silence.

Presently a stalwart officer appeared in the doorway. His fresh, sun-burned colouring and small blond moustache suggested a Norman heritage; his pale blue eyes, stolid and honest, gazed forth from beneath a square forehead several shades lighter in tint than his cheeks. But for his alert air and more nervous movements he might have been a representative of the London Police Force. Geoffrey took an instant liking to him.

“This, messieurs, is one of my men to whom I am going to entrust your case. Kindly inform him of the details. He will look after you, I trust satisfactorily. Inspector, conduct these gentlemen to the waiting-room and hear what they have to say. I wish you good day, messieurs,” and with a brief nod the Commissaire resumed his writing.

On the threshold the father and son separated, Macadam to return to the office and Geoffrey to go through his story once again to the inspector.

The past half-hour had been a nightmare. Not only had it consumed valuable time during which anything, everything might be happening, but the Commissaire’s refusal to treat Catherine’s disappearance as serious had seemed to him densely lacking in imagination. Now another ordeal faced him, one more official to try to impress.

However, Inspector Bazin proved human. He showed keen interest, asked many questions, and having written down every salient detail read it aloud briskly, beginning with the description of Catherine.

“American, United States. Age twenty-four. Slender, dark, height one metre sixty-three centimetres. Well dressed, beige coat trimmed with castor fur, small hat of pale green felt, gown to match. Luggage, one fairly large pigskin case, initialed C.W., and one round patent leather hatbox, black.… Is there anything else, monsieur? Jewellery, for instance?”

Geoffrey thought for a moment.

“Only a ring, a ruby, oval-shaped, set in gold, and—but I am not sure about this—a flat gold necklace worn close round the throat.”

“Should you say she had any large amount of money on her?”

“I don’t know. I imagine not.”

“Now, then, monsieur. At what time did she leave Fontainebleau?”

“Ten forty-five, which means she must have arrived at the Gare Fontainebleau-Avron at about eleven-fifty.”

The inspector twisted the waxed ends of his moustache thoughtfully for a second, then spoke with decision.

“As I see it, monsieur, we have three distinct possibilities to consider. First, the young lady may have gone elsewhere of her own accord—either because on reaching the apartment she found herself bolted out, or for some other reason. In this event you will no doubt soon hear from her.”

“We may as well rule that out,” cut in Geoffrey shortly.

“Permit me to say, monsieur, that that is merely your present opinion. To be quite candid, you do not know that it is not the case. Well, then! My second surmise is that some fate may have overtaken her on the way, so that she never arrived home. I suppose I need not explain my meaning?”

Geoffrey’s rigid face showed that he understood. Already his mind had flown to accounts of persons robbed, murdered and thrown from moving trains, as well as to those other familiar occurrences where the victims are taken to the lonely reaches of the Bois, and left there dead or in an unconscious state.

“Go on,” he said briefly.

“In consideration of this second theory, I shall try at once to get in touch with the chauffeur who drove her from the Gare; also find out if any unidentified bodies of young women have been discovered in the vicinity of the city. Bien! Let us look at our third possibility, which I fear is not more pleasing than the last. You permit me, monsieur?” and he looked at Geoffrey with grave hesitancy. “I know what you are going to say. The servants themselves…”

“Exactly. If your assumption of their guilt is correct, and if the young lady chanced to surprise them in the act, they would naturally have to remove her for their own safety. In such a case it is as well to be prepared for the worst.”

The listener’s eyes were bleak. This was the identical thought which had tortured him since the moment he learned of the disappearance.

“I suppose we may obtain a warrant for their arrest on suspicion?” he forced himself to say.

To his astonishment the inspector shook his head.

“That, monsieur, is exactly what I do not wish to do. Examine the situation for a moment. Placed under restraint they will stick to their prepared statement, and we shall be obliged to institute a tedious investigation. Given a sufficient amount of rope, they are certain to betray themselves in some way. My idea is this: granting that it was mademoiselle’s shadow you saw on the blind, whatever happened must have taken place between one-fifteen and one-thirty when the fire engines were summoned—a bare quarter of an hour. In so short a time they could not have taken her far. She must therefore be hidden about the premises or somewhere close at hand. In either case they dare not leave the body for long for fear of its being discovered, and will take the first opportunity of removing it.”

A shudder passed over Geoffrey as he noticed the speaker used the word “body.”

“What I propose to do is to surround the building with a cordon of police in plain clothes, so that if the suspects attempt to go out their movements will be watched. If our third surmise is the right one, then before many hours—probably to-night—one or the other of them will lead us to the missing lady.”

“Remember they have an accomplice—the notaire in the rue d’Amsterdam. The butler was with him at noon to-day.”

“That fact is suggestive. Give me the man’s address, and I will see that he also is shadowed.”

Geoffrey complied, and the inspector wrote it down.

“Am I to understand that you and your father are Mme. Bender’s legal executors?”

Geoffrey nodded.

“That is very useful, as in your position of authority you can issue certain orders. My advice to you is to suggest that these servants remain in the apartment till the inquest is over. In all events they will be required to give evidence. On no account let them imagine that you suspect anything. As soon as I have set my plans in operation I shall question them and conduct a thorough search of the building, but in such a way as not to arouse needless alarm.” He glanced at his watch. “It is now three o’clock. I will meet you at the apartment at a little before four. Meanwhile, monsieur, bear in mind that we have been adopting an extreme view of things, and that at any moment we may find our fears groundless.”

Five minutes after this Geoffrey entered Claridge’s Hotel and hastened through to the central lounge. At his approach a figure in rusty black, as conspicuous as a lone crow in a corn-field, rose from one of the little tables and came to meet him.

“Well?” cried the young man eagerly.

“I am afraid, monsieur, I have not much to report. Twenty minutes after I left you the Portuguese came out, then took a taxi back to his own neighborhood. I trailed him all the way, but instead of returning at once to the apartment, he paid a call on a concierge, apparently a friend, several houses farther along the street. I made a point of dropping into the loge on the pretext of inquiring for an imaginary locataire, and found the two discussing the fire. I did not see anything that looked wrong.”

Geoffrey considered the information, which meant nothing whatever to him. Although disappointed at the result of the agent’s mission, he comforted himself with the reflection that if the butler had any designs he had not been able to carry them out.

“Did you do anything further?” he demanded.

“I hurried back to the notaire’s office, hoping to hit on something in that quarter. I saw him for a moment, representing myself as a life-insurance agent, and tried to get him to talk, but it was no good. He was preoccupied and, I think, a little suspicious—all but shut the door in my face. However, I found out this much—his marriage takes place at the Mairie on Tuesday next—just three days off.”

Well timed, was the listener’s inward comment. If Blom had married the milliner while Mme. Bender was alive there would have been considerable doubt as to whether the latter’s fortune would ever come into his wife’s possession; while if he postponed the wedding until Mme. Baron actually occupied the enviable position of heiress, she might easily throw him over, being then independent and able to pick and choose.…

“Is there anything more you wish me to do, monsieur?” queried Bernard when the silence had lengthened to minutes.

The young man roused himself from his reverie.

“Not at the moment, but I want you to hold yourself in readiness for the next day or so in case I need you,” and in a few words he outlined the theories set forth by the police inspector.

The agent listened with solemn attention.

“Perhaps, monsieur, you will allow me to do a little investigation on my own account. There is half an idea in my head… nothing may come of it of course.… Nevertheless,” he added with an effort at cheerfulness similar in effect to the passing of a hearse, “let us not look too much on the dark side of things. Who knows but the young lady may have had some reason of her own for spending the night away? You tell me she was to meet some friends early this morning. In that case she might easily remain ignorant of the news for a considerable time, since few strangers read the Paris Midi. Even now she may be on her way home.”

The same lingering hope was in Geoffrey’s mind, though he was afraid to bank upon it. At any moment now the agony of the past few hours might dissolve like a hideous dream. He could hardly wait to get back to the Avenue Henri Martin to end his suspense.

He reached the scene of the fire, and the lift being above-floors, started to mount the broad stairway, too keyed up with expectancy to notice a dull shuffle of feet approaching from the entresol. However, rounding the turn he pulled up abruptly, flattening himself against the wall to avoid a descending cortège—nothing less than a company of stretcher-bearers, engaged in removing the body of the deceased.

So, he reflected, the Commissaire had lost no time in carrying out his intention. The remains would now be taken over by the Institut-Medico-Légiste, and the cause of death determined by post-mortem. That much at all events had been accomplished.

From the top step the dapper sergeant superintended the operation. Slowly the sheeted mass went on its way, the men manœuvring the turns cautiously to avoid the balustrade. Geoffrey waited, hat in hand, till the party had crossed the lobby, then cleared the remaining steps at a bound. As he did so, Eduardo came out of the open doorway, started to speak to the police sergeant, then noting Geoffrey, checked himself.

The young man accosted him directly:

“Have you seen anything yet of Mademoiselle West?” he demanded.

The Portuguese looked coolly amazed.

“Certainly not, monsieur. Unless you yourself have communicated with her, I should doubt if she has heard the news.”

Geoffrey’s heart took a sickening plunge. Instinctively he put out a hand towards the lintel of the door to steady himself under this fresh blow. For a second his eyes and the hot brown ones of the butler met in an unwavering stare.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Catherine’s letter from the Hardwickes came as a complete surprise. Jim had finished his work at the British Museum sooner than he had expected, and the English weather remaining persistently raw and cold he and Clare had decided to set off at once for Rome and Florence, travelling for economy’s sake, via Newhaven-Dieppe. Crossing by the night boat they were due to reach Paris early Saturday morning, and as they would have only a short time between trains Catherine felt she must snatch this opportunity of seeing them. Hence her sudden decision to return to the city and sleep at the apartment in order to get an early start.

She was now almost fit again, nerves calmer and eyes bright with renewed energy. Yet up till two days ago she had felt languid and unequal to any effort, so much so that there was a physical excuse for her behaviour towards Geoffrey, much as she reproached herself for her apparent coldness. What had he thought of her? She knew he had been puzzled and disappointed, but she had been unable to pretend an emotion she did not feel. Now all that was changed. Perverse though it seemed, she longed to be alone with him, to touch him and respond to his advances, this time freely, with a full realization of all he meant to her.

Geoffrey! The vision of strength filled her mind all the way back in the train. To-morrow she would see him, atone for her tiresome conduct. It pleased her to know from Elspeth that he did not wear his heart on his sleeve, that neither the wealthy young woman in Passy nor the beautiful Irish girl who had tried to ensnare him during the past year had met with the slightest success. That he was beginning to be regarded as a hardened bachelor enhanced his value in her eyes and simultaneously flattered her own self-esteem.

To-morrow! It was not long to wait. She would meet the Hardwickes, and then, perhaps, lunch with him. Her heart swelled with excitement.

It was nearing midnight when she arrived at the Gare Fontainebleau-Avron, secured a taxi, and set off towards her own quarter. The night was mild and soft, with a gusty breeze that held a hint of moisture. A pale moon dodged among floating clouds lit by the glow of the city, the buildings to left and right cast masses of shadow, laced occasionally by a golden ribbon of light where a door stood open. She leaned back, drowsy and content.

What a relief to think things were all going smoothly! Did Jeanne faintly suspect that her power was almost at an end, that when she returned—if she did return—it would be to find herself displaced by capable nurses? Perhaps she did know what was in the air, and was taking this method of withdrawal, hoping to evade the police before her thefts were proven. In that case, Eduardo too would vanish. Only a few days now…

Triumphant reflections—yet it was with a slight feeling of dread that she approached the house. Possibly it would have been wiser to let Jeanne know she was coming to-night, but there had seemed no need, particularly as she planned to slip out early in the morning and get a cup of coffee on the way to the station.

With her key ready, she opened the side door, and directed the driver to set her bags in the hall. Then very quietly she crept up the stairs, listening at every step.

All serene, no reason to fear that anything had gone wrong in her absence. What a fool she had been to worry! She had made herself miserable for weeks past anticipating events not in the least likely to materialize. She must take herself in hand and stop making mountains out of molehills.

She had meant to go straight to bed, but now there was nothing to prevent her doing so she succumbed to the temptation to dally, and consumed considerable time in aimless trifles. She wrote a dozen post-cards of Fontainebleau to friends at home, added a long postscript to her letter to Barbara, and sat before the mirror dreaming of the past week and still pleasanter days to come. More than half an hour had gone by and still she had not bothered to finish unpacking. Boring task! She would leave it till next day.

Finally she opened the cupboard to put away her hat and coat, and as she did so her eye fell on the parcel containing the new hat Honorine had copied for her. Only once had she tried to wear it, on which occasion she had more or less given it up as a failure. Now she took it out of the bag and looked it over, frowning.

What was wrong with the thing? It was all but identical with the one she had just removed, pale green felt and the same model, chosen because it suited her particularly well. Yet the old one, getting shabby now, was still smart, while the copy somehow missed its aim. An experiment in economy which had ended in waste; but then she had ordered it purely as an excuse for trying to secure information about Adolph Blom, so she must not complain.

Humming a tune—it was the Albeniz tango, she recalled with tender reminiscence—she tried the hat on once more, setting it at a different angle and arranging her hair at the sides. A survey in the glass brought agreeable surprise. Why, it was not so bad, after all! Like this, the flat wing at the right hugging her cheek, it looked distinctly possible. The colour, anyhow, was admirable. Geoffrey liked her in green.

As the thought rose to her mind, a tide of red flooded her face, with the result that the hat became positively becoming. Ah, that was it! She had been pale before.

Taking her lipstick from her bag she touched her lips lightly, then stood back to note the improvement. As she did so her sleeve brushed the bag to the floor, and its contents spilled in every direction.

“Damn!” she muttered with annoyance, stooping to retrieve the fallen articles.

Were they all here? Latchkey, powder-compact, diary, cards for a private view of pictures, but no lipstick. She searched for several minutes, then gave it up. It must have rolled far away under some of the furniture. Never mind, she could find it easily in daylight.

As she straightened up she stood still and sniffed the air inquiringly. Some queer odour had crept into the room. What was it? It could not come from outside, for the window was tightly closed. She sniffed again with growing intentness. Smoke… something was burning. But where? Not, surely, in the apartment. It couldn’t be, unless the careless Berthe had left the gas-stove in the kitchen alight with a saucepan upon it.

She opened the door and peered into the passage. Here the smell was distinctly noticeable, acrid, insistent. She went along softly towards the back of the apartment, came to the kitchen door and looked in. No, there was nothing wrong in this quarter. Yet the odour increased, carrying with it a pungent flavour of burning varnish. There was even a faint streaked haze in the air, hovering in her direction from the passage on the court side. At the same moment her ear detected the ominous crackle of flames.

Good heavens, the place was on fire! She could not be mistaken.…

Something must be done, she must rouse Jeanne, give the alarm. She quickened her pace towards the dressing-room, then, as she reached it, drew up abruptly, her heart in her mouth. There, just in front of her, she beheld the source of the conflagration. Smoke, thick, dark grey, oozed in ribbons from beneath her cousin’s door, streamed through the keyhole and round the cracks at the side.

“Oh, my God!”

She choked suddenly as the fumes mounted in her nostrils.

Germaine’s room was on fire. Did the poor creature know? She took drugs to make her sleep. The crackling grew, small popping explosions came from the other side of the door. She seized the knob and turned it, only to meet with an unexpected resistance. She pushed with all her strength, beat upon the panels, then gave up. Cold sweat broke out all over her. God in heaven, the door was locked!

Like lightning she darted into the adjoining room, straight to the couch in the corner, where in the tempered gloom she was just able to make out the dark mass of the maid’s recumbent body, covered to the ears with a thick eiderdown. A smothered snore greeted her. She grasped the huddled shoulders violently, shouting:

“Jeanne, wake up! Madame’s room is on fire. She will be killed!”

Then she dashed to the inner door, tried it, pushed with might and main. To her horror this, too, was securely fastened, nor was there any sign of a key. What could it mean?

In desperation she turned back to the bed, amazed to see that for all her shakings the woman yonder was still wrapped in slumber. How was it possible? The small room was filled with smoke. With a ruthless hand she swept the covers to the floor, and as she did so a double clink of metal tinkled upon the floor. Yet throughout the sleeper had not stirred. There she lay in her stuffy night-gown, her head buried in the pillow. The idea shot into Catherine’s mind that the maid herself was drugged. Once more she attacked her vehemently, screaming in her ear. At last a grunt came, the form moved in the darkness, protestingly, and a voice thick with sleep muttered:

“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a donc? Qui me dérange?” Then as the girl continued her merciless pounding, the eyes opened with a dull vacancy. “Mademoiselle——? Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici? Vous êtes revenue, alors… !”

Without replying, Catherine made a dive for the light, switched it on. The glare shone on the hazy room, revealing the pile of neat garments lying across a chair, the heap of bed-clothes on the floor, the stripped couch with its supine occupant.

“Get up, Jeanne! Don’t you hear me? Madame’s room is in flames and the door is locked! Quick—where is the key?”

“Flames? Impossible! What is all this fuss about?”

Hysterical with despair, Catherine gazed at her helplessly. The situation was like some fantastic dream. Had the keen-witted Jeanne taken leave of her senses? Then all at once she caught a gleam in the brown eyes, and in a flash saw through the whole ruse. This stupidity was assumed—the woman was pretending! No other explanation was possible with the smoke pouring in through every crevice, the fire next door swelling to a roar.…

Suddenly she recalled the metallic clink of a moment ago. She looked down and spied a little distance apart, two keys lying where the cover had swept them from the bedside table. She swooped upon them, even as a hand from the bed shot downward like a bird of prey, striking her own in its descent.

No time to think. She was at the door now, fitting first one key then the other into the lock. The next instant there was a cataclysmic movement behind her, her arms were grasped and she felt herself powerfully dragged away.

“What are you doing? Are you mad?” a harsh voice grated in her ear.

Jeanne, every vestige of sleep or shamming gone, had clutched her in a grip of steel. Catherine fought like a tigress, her brain too distraught to grasp the significance of what was happening. All she knew was that a few feet away the helpless invalid was trapped in a furnace, while this idiot of a woman tried to prevent her going to the rescue.

Terror lent her super-normal strength. She wrenched herself free, turned the knob and threw open the door. A column of smoke billowed through the gap, and even as she recoiled before the suffocating fumes her starting eyes beheld like a vision in a nightmare a picture she was never to forget.

In the room beyond, lit by a red glare, she saw the bed wreathed in pennants of fire, galloping, racing to the ceiling. The carpet, scorched to a cinder, spouted with jets of orange, while through the blackened draperies gleamed upon the wall the silver crucifix, the candles beneath it melted to dripping streams of wax. On the floor between the bed and the chair, outstretched and motionless, lay Mme. Bender, her night-dress just beginning to ignite. One glance at the still face revealed to Catherine the awful truth. Germaine was already dead.…

She screamed and took a step forward. Then an incredible thing happened. The door was driven back upon the seething holocaust, and she herself was pushed aside by an impact so violent as to knock the breath from her body. Through the choking atmosphere a voice was saying:

“Too late.… You are insane to go in there, mademoiselle. Do you wish to be burned alive?”

Then and only then did the truth rush upon her. The locked doors, the cool deliberation of Jeanne’s speech!

Like a maniac she cast herself upon her assailant, who, with set face and shoulders squared, had braced herself against the closed door. Her heart-beats stifled her, she shrieked in a voice that was not her own the horrible suspicion now hardened into belief.

“Murderess—murderess! It is you who set fire to that room, you who planned this! You have killed her, locked her in so she couldn’t escape! Open the door, beast that you are!”

Out of the saturnine face the dark eyes bored into hers with an expression of venomous hatred. Slowly a dark smile twisted the corners of the mouth.

“En bien—et aprés?” she caught the words, uttered in a curious undertone.

“Murderess! Murderess!”

Her voice made no sound. Her breath was exhausted, yet she continued to rain blows upon the rigid figure which hardly seemed to feel them. Jeanne’s eyes, narrowed with bitter triumph, were fixed now, not upon herself but at a point just over her shoulder. Even in the anguish of the moment the girl noticed an attitude of expectancy, as though the woman were watching for something to occur.

It all took place within a few seconds. She suddenly became aware of a pounding noise, like that of a heavy knocker hammering upon a door. At the same instant she saw the woman’s face alter, the eyes suddenly dilate with a look of terror. Then, behind her a board creaked, and instinctively she turned her head.

There, only a pace removed, stood the Portuguese, swarthy features livid, lips drawn back to disclose yellowed teeth. His right arm was uplifted, there was a glinting object in his hand, probably a heavy candlestick. For a second he poised above her, and she knew from his transfixed gaze that he, too, was listening to that persistent clamour.

That was all she saw. The same instant a crashing blow fell upon her skull and she crumpled to the floor.

Even then she made one final supreme effort to raise herself, groped in a world suddenly grown black. Across her mental vision shot points of dazzling silver, like meteors threading a midnight sky. A roaring as of the sea filled her ears, then that, too, subsided, and consciousness ebbed away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

No words can convey Geoffrey’s agony of mind on receiving the butler’s cool denial. In that moment every shred of delusion was swept away, leaving him face to face with a stark reality nothing could cloak or soften. Catherine was gone. Whether she had fallen victim to the rapacity of an unknown assailant, or was at this moment hidden away in some dark corner, silenced for ever by the mongrel confronting him, he was powerless to fathom; both suppositions were possible, both equally appalling.

As on a former occasion, a savage impulse seized him to drive his fingers into Eduardo’s thick neck and throttle him. His desire must have showed in his face, for with a watchful look the man retreated a step. Noting the movement, Geoffrey took an iron grip on himself, recalling the part he had to play.

“Evidently,” he remarked in even tones, “you did not take in what I said to you this morning. The fact is, Miss West left Fontainebleau last night, meaning to return here. Since that time she has not been seen.”

What might have passed for a glimmer of interest showed in the small wary eyes.

“That’s odd,” he replied insolently. “I am sure I don’t know what to say about it. We’ve not seen her, I promise you that,” and he scratched his ear defiantly.

“In any case,” continued Geoffrey, “I have thought best to report the matter to the Commissariat, and they are sending a man here presently to look into the matter. He will want to take a formal statement from you and Jeanne, in order to make certain she did not come home. Also the apartment has got to be searched.”

“Quite so,” replied the Portuguese imperturbably. “Jeanne has been put to bed. She’s come over a bit queer after all this, but I daresay she is well enough to answer questions.”

He turned to walk away, but Geoffrey stopped him.

“That is not all. You and Jeanne will naturally be required to give evidence at the inquest. Until that is over I wish you both to remain here, occupying the uninjured rooms. Your wages will be paid, and you will assist with the inventory and removal of Mme. Bender’s effects.”

The butler gave this a brief consideration.

“I understand,” he agreed casually. “Anything more?”

“Not at the moment,” answered Geoffrey.

He stood watching the thick-set figure move stolidly away towards the bend of the hall, satisfied that he had said nothing to rouse suspicion. Then he pushed open the salon doors and stepped inside.

Not a soul of all the mixed assembly now remained, only the trampled carpet and a litter of cigarette ashes, bearing evidence to the scene of the morning. From the left wall the mediaeval figures in the tapestry looked down upon him with placid indifference, while opposite, above the mantel-mirror, gay ladies and gallants made frivolous love in a sylvan paradise. A pall-like stillness pervaded the place.

Mechanically he moved towards the window and, pushing aside the curtains, stared into the street below. Then, with sudden interest he fixed his eyes on a roughly-clad labourer, at that moment hoisting a ladder against one of the chestnut trees. On the ground beside him lay a canvas bag of implements. An odd time of the year to clip the trees, reflected the watcher. Then it dawned on him that in all likelihood this inconspicuous workman was one of the persons employed to surround the house. If so, the inspector had been prompt.

A step sounded on the carpet behind him and, turning, he saw the little police sergeant approaching with a confidential air.

“About that matter, monsieur,” whispered the Frenchman with a backward jerk of the head. “I regret to say I was not successful. No sooner was your back turned than the fellow put on his hat and—pszt! Quel trace!” He swept an expressive gesture.

“Never mind, it was just what I expected. I have made a report to the Commissariat, and they are going to take things in hand.”

The black eyes widened with interest.

“Ah, mon Dieu! So you intend to make a charge?” he whispered.

Before Geoffrey could reply a loud knock shattered the silence, causing both men to jump. They reached the hall to find Eduardo in the act of admitting Inspector Bazin and two supernumeraries.

“Any news, monsieur?” inquired the officer expectantly.

“None. She has not come back.”

The blond countenance expressed surprise.

“I confess that astonishes me. Well, then—we will proceed.”

In a few words he despatched his men on their business of searching the premises, having first demanded the keys to the cave, which the butler promptly produced. His manner towards the Portuguese was affable, creating the impression of enlisting assistance.

“One never knows what to expect in these cases,” he remarked to the party at large. “One is obliged to allow for the most unlikely possibilities. As a matter of fact,” and here he addressed Eduardo directly, “although most of this search is a pure formality, I have an idea that the young lady did come home without anyone’s knowing it and went away again soon afterwards. I suppose that has not occurred to you?”

Thus appealed to, the butler was forced to give some sort of reply, which he did in an unresponsive fashion.

“No,” he said shortly. “But I have not thought about it.”

“I see,” assented the inspector, unmoved, and got out his note-book and pencil. “However, as the stairs from the rez de chaussée emerge close to her room, and your room is on the other side of the apartment, would it not be possible for her to come in without your hearing her? Did you, in fact, hear her on the evenings when, for example, she was out late?”

“Not as a rule.”

“Ah!—and now what was your first intimation of last night’s trouble?”

For a second the butler’s glance flickered in the Englishman’s direction. Was there something furtive about it, or had Geoffrey’s imagination become over-acute?

“I waked up with the maid shaking me. She was screaming out that madame’s room was on fire, that she had tried to put it out, but——”

“Never mind the maid’s part. The time is what I want to know.”

“Can’t say exactly. Something after one.”

“And on your way to your mistress’s room did you hear any sort of noise?”

Eduardo hesitated, thought a moment, then to Geoffrey’s surprise said, “A moment later I did.”

In spite of himself the young man leaned forward eagerly, his eyes on the heavy face. The inspector went on calmly:

“Indeed! What did the noise seem to be?”

“There was no seem about it. Someone was beating on this door here, nearly breaking it in. I’ve told all that to M. l’agent here,” he added, motioning towards the little officer. “It was a gentleman from the third floor who was crossing the court, saw the flames through the window, and came up to wake us. While the maid and I tried to get madame out he ran down the avenue and gave the alarm.”

“Ah—so it was he who gave the alarm? I did not know that.”

“Yes—first he had a go at the telephone, but the line was dead.”

“Were the engines quick in getting here?”

“Quick enough, but the fire had made a fair headway. You see, the maid did not wake up till her own room was filled with smoke. She was up with Madame most of the previous night, and slept heavily in consequence.”

“Precisely. Well, that is about all I wanted to know.” The Inspector ran an alert eye over his notes, then added suddenly, “By the way, can you account for a light being seen in the young lady’s room at a quarter-past one this morning? About the time you were attempting the rescue, I should say.”

If this news came as a shock, not a muscle of the swarthy face betrayed the fact. Only the small eyes grew watchful, and it was almost half a minute before their owner answered indifferently.

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it. Maybe one of the women went in the room early in the evening and left the light on.”

“Ah, that seems possible. Still, if mademoiselle took it into her head to go quietly out just then, I take it there was a good chance of her doing so unobserved?”

“I daresay,” returned the man, who was now looking a little puzzled. “A good deal might have happened about then without our knowing.”

“Naturally. That will do, I think. And now if you will conduct us to the maid we will see if she has anything more to suggest.”

For the first time a trace of hesitation appeared in the confident manner.

“I’ll ask the doctor if you can see her,” he muttered, making off to the left. “He is with her now.”

Feeling sure that the fellow was anxious to have a private word with his associate, Geoffrey shot a questioning look at Bazin, but the latter did not heed him. Already he was striding after the Portuguese with long easy steps.

“That is all right, my man: I will speak to the doctor myself. Is this the room?”

They had reached the door at the corner, giving on the largest bedroom, indeed, the one formerly occupied by Mme. Bender. The butler’s thick hand was already on the knob, but with a firmness not at all discourteous, the inspector pushed it aside.

“Allow me,” he said, and the following instant he and Geoffrey stood within, while by the simplest manœuvre Eduardo had been left alone in the passage. Geoffrey fancied he caught a contraction of annoyance in the murky brown eyes as they watched the door close.

The two men paused for a moment, their eyes accustoming themselves to the semi-twilight, for the curtains of apple-green damask were drawn across the windows, excluding every ray of sunlight. The wide, irregular chamber, furnished with a delicate magnificence, had a general look of abandonment and neglect. The panelled walls showed here and there a faded rectangular patch, where at some time a picture had hung; the dressing-table, formed of a beautiful Venetian console, was bare of ornaments, as was the painted eighteenth-century escritoire opposite. The thick neutral-toned carpet showed streaks of dust.

In an alcove stood a wide decorated Italian bed, with a table beside it on which was a telephone instrument and an open medical case. A black-clad, pompous figure straightened up to take a survey of the intruders through thick glasses.

“Ah, monsieur,” murmured the doctor, coming forward as he recognized Geoffrey. “What a truly shocking affair! Who could have foreseen such an event? That poor woman there”—he motioned to the bed—“is completely prostrated! Would not give up, however, until I threatened her with hospital. She has spirit.”

“Badly injured?” asked the Inspector.

“Not physically. Some painful burns about the hands and arms. It is her nervous system which is suffering most, and no wonder. I have given her a small injection of morphia, and presently she will get some sleep. You wish to speak to her?”

“Only to ask her a few questions. I shall not be long.”

The good man nodded. Watching him closely, Geoffrey was confirmed in his former impression, that here was a well-meaning, somewhat old-fashioned muddler—just the sort of physician Jeanne would be likely to choose for her purpose, accurately sizing him up as a complaisant, unsuspecting tool.

“This will prove a severe blow to the poor Mademoiselle West,” went on the doctor, preparing to depart. “I thank God that she was away when it happened.”

Geoffrey did not attempt to undeceive him. He allowed the other to press his hand with kindly solemnity, then shutting the door upon him, turned towards the alcove with a taut feeling of expectancy, letting his eyes rest upon the still figure lying upon the bed.

There was little light in the shadowed recess, and for a moment he could not tell whether the woman’s eyes were open or closed. All he could make out was the outline of her body beneath the satin coverlet, the dark streaks of disordered hair above the sallow forehead, and her two stiff, white-swathed arms. Intense loathing seized him. The apparent fact that she was suffering from nervous collapse stirred in him no compassion, since her very state argued an abominable scheme to extort sympathy and divert suspicion from herself. She had taken everyone else in, but she had no power over him. He told himself that whether or not she had had any hand in spiriting Catherine away, she had at any rate one crime upon her soul, and that a peculiarly cold-blooded, diabolical one.

The inspector had switched on a reading-lamp beside the bed, and its shaded rays fell now upon the drawn and pinched countenance, revealing the expression of dull apathy Geoffrey had noticed earlier in the day. It was impossible to guess the thoughts that lay behind that indifferent stare, or to tell whether or not its owner could be trapped into any damaging admission.

In a few words the inspector explained his business. The prostrate woman let her opaque eyes rest upon his face for a full minute, then slowly turned them upon Geoffrey, her ragged brows contracted with puzzled incredulity.

“But surely monsieur was not serious in what he said this morning?” she murmured. “Even now I cannot understand. You say that mademoiselle came here last night?”

“That is what we have got to find out,” replied Bazin soothingly. “We cannot tell yet what has happened. You were asleep up till the time your room became filled with smoke?”

“Yes, monsieur, I woke up half-suffocated.”

“And before that—was everything as usual?”

She drew a long breath.

“Not quite, monsieur. Madame had a caller, a lady, who remained with her till seven o’clock. This lady had always an exciting effect on madame, and when she had gone last night I had great difficulty in quieting the patient.”

Geoffrey’s thoughts flew to Miss Cushing.

“What did you do?” inquired the inspector.

“I massaged her for a quarter of an hour, and at nine o’clock administered the usual dose of veronal prescribed by the doctor. At half-past ten I looked in and found her just dropping off to sleep. Then I went to bed.”

“Have you any idea as to how the fire started?”

There was a long pause. Geoffrey listened with strained attention for the reply.

“I have, monsieur,” replied the maid slowly. “Indeed, after what I saw when I first opened the door there can be no doubt as to the cause. The curtains of the bed caught in the flame of the candles on the wall.”

“Candles!”

“Yes, monsieur. Madame must have waked up, got out of bed, and lighted the candles before the prie-dieu. I saw plainly the streams of melted wax.…”

“But surely it was dangerous to have candles so close to the draperies?”

“Most dangerous. Indeed, when I discovered recently that madame had been burning her candles during the night I took them away, fearing she might do herself an injury.”

“You took them away! Then how——?”

Watching closely, Geoffrey saw the still face darken with a look of accusation.

“That is what I am asking myself, monsieur. It is evident that unknown to me madame had obtained others, as well as matches. Someone must have given them to her secretly. That person, whoever it was, is responsible for madame’s death.…”

The cold deliberation of this statement caused both listeners to stiffen. Here was something totally unexpected.

“But is it possible that anyone knowing madame’s condition could have done so foolish a thing?”

There was the faintest perceptible shrug of the supine shoulders.

“Ah, monsieur, you do not know what I have had to fight against with those who refused to recognize madame’s mental state, and set themselves to humour her whims.…”

“You mean to suggest that the caller yesterday brought candles with her and helped madame to hide them?”

Another pause, while Geoffrey hung breathless upon the next words, which came hesitatingly:

“Ah, no, monsieur, I cannot believe it was the friend I mentioned. She is a lady of a certain age, who though sometimes unfortunate in her speech would, I believe, know better than to commit such an indiscretion. No, monsieur, in my opinion it was someone else—someone younger and less responsible.…”

“You mean?”

“The young lady you tell me is missing… Mademoiselle West.…”

Geoffrey made an angry movement forward, the cool infamy of the suggestion acting on him like the prick of a spur. Catherine responsible for the victim’s death! Even as his lips parted to voice a furious protest he caught a warning glance from the Frenchman’s eye, and subsided, breathing hard.

“That statement implies a serious accusation,” Bazin replied somewhat sternly. “You are aware of what you are saying?”

The lined face remained inscrutable.

“I do not think that mademoiselle realized the gravity of her action, consequently I accuse her of nothing but thoughtlessness. But if I am questioned in court as to the cause of my mistress’s death…” She allowed her sentence to end in ominous silence, and with an air of exhaustion closed her eyes.

Geoffrey’s fingers twitched, but the inspector proceeded, unperturbed.

“Listen to me,” he said, referring to his notes. “If the young lady did reach the apartment last night, she must have done so shortly after midnight. Well, then—at a quarter-past one there was a light in her room.”

The eyes opened abruptly. Geoffrey saw that their dullness had vanished, giving place to a sharp attention. For a tense moment they searched the speaker’s face.

“En effet!” The words were muttered under her breath with a mixture of wonderment and cogitation. “Is it true what you are telling me?”

“It is an established fact. This gentleman here was outside in his car, saw the window lit up and a shadow across the blind. Then the light was put out.”

With a jerk Jeanne turned her head and stared at the Englishman in silence. She seemed to be thinking deeply.

“En effet!” she repeated slowly, as though some new light began to break over her. “Now I see why you are asking me all these questions. So she was here! … One might almost suppose, monsieur, that she was hiding in her room waiting for a chance to steal away unobserved.…”

“Why unobserved? Have you anything in your mind?”

She did not answer at once, her dark eyes still narrowed with their look of concentrated thought. When she spoke it was with halting deliberation.

“It is difficult to say, monsieur.… But the idea has this moment occurred to me that perhaps—who knows?—mademoiselle discovered the fire before I was aware of it, realized that it was the consequence of her own folly and—you follow me, monsieur?—took herself off in order to avoid the result of an inquiry. Mind, I know nothing, I. But if the unfortunate young lady saw at a glance that it was impossible to save madame…”

Geoffrey never knew how the interview terminated, nor by what exercise of diplomacy Bazin managed to get him out of the bedroom without making a scene. All he recalled was that somehow or other he was outside in the passage, struggling to throw off a firm grasp which detained him by the shoulder. Through a red haze of anger he heard a voice saying:

“Gently, monsieur! There is nothing to be gained by violence. Do not speak now—follow me to the back of the apartment.”

With an effort at control the young man allowed himself to be led along to the left and into an unused room, the door of which the inspector closed. Then his indignation burst its bonds.

“You heard what that devil said?” he cried in stifled accents. “You heard? She has had the audacity to assert that mademoiselle——”

He broke off, dimly aware of a change in his companion’s manner. The blue eyes level with his held a shade of uncertainty, one rough hand upraised itself to twist the ends of the blond moustache.

“Monsieur,” came the reply, hesitatingly and with a slight hint of embarrassment, “either that woman in there is exceedingly resourceful, or else——” he paused.

“Else what?”

“Or else she has hit upon what very possibly may be the true explanation of mademoiselle’s absence.”

Geoffrey’s eyes blazed at him.

“My God! You don’t mean to tell me you believe her story!”

“Monsieur, I do not believe anything till we have absolute proof that the young lady returned last night. Remember our first two theories. But if we find that she was here, then what we have just heard suggests the happiest way out of the difficulty.”

“Happiest?”

“Naturally—for in that event she is at this moment perfectly safe, only dreading to come forward.…”

Thunderstruck, Geoffrey stared at him, temporarily deprived of speech.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Geoffrey was still trying to master his outraged feelings when his companion turned his head towards the passage and lifted a warning hand.

“Let us not speak of this here, monsieur. We can discuss it all better at the Commissariat, if you will accompany me there.” Whereupon he led the way briskly towards the front entrance, leaving the Englishman no choice but to bottle up his indignation as best he could and follow submissively.

As they passed the ruined passage one of the two subordinates came forward from his inspection of the debris and spoke a few words to his superior. The latter, in turn, addressed Geoffrey in an undertone, first glancing round to see that they were not overheard.

“It seems there are certain personal effects of the young lady in her bedroom. Our problem is to decide whether any of them were taken by her to Fontainebleau on her visit. Can you help us?”

Geoffrey considered, and shook his head.

“The best person to know about them is my sister, who I believe is in town this afternoon. Shall I try to get in touch with her and ask her to come here?”

“If you please, monsieur. You can telephone from the rue Mesnil.”

Outside, a low-built grey car, strong and efficient-looking, was drawn up close to the kerb. Into it the inspector climbed, taking his place at the wheel, and motioning to Geoffrey to take the seat beside him. As they drove away the young man cast a backward glance at the building and touched his companion on the sleeve. In the window of the room occupied by the maid stood Eduardo, staring into the street below, his gaze directed, not upon the car, but at the blue-clad figure of the workman busy on one of the chestnut-trees.

“Is that one of your men?”

Bazin nodded.

“If you had taken the trouble to look out of the kitchen windows you would have seen a brick-mason, tinkering with the rear wall. Our friend seems interested. If he has anything on his conscience, he will not venture out while the daylight lasts.… You know, of course, that the deceased’s body has been removed to the Palais de Justice? However, I took care not to allow the servants to guess our intention. They believe the body has been taken to a mortuary to await the usual inquest.”

“I wonder if the post-mortem will reveal anything?”

The inspector gave a disparaging shrug.

“Who knows? I warn you, monsieur, that they may find nothing worse than veronal. To employ actual poison would be running a serious risk.”

“Unless the criminals reckoned on the body being too badly burned to discover anything,” retorted Geoffrey. “I have an idea the intervention of that locataire came at an inopportune moment, and that the intention was to let the fire go on for another quarter of an hour before the alarm was given.”

“Possibly. In any case we shall soon know what the Médecin Légiste has to say.”

Geoffrey said nothing. His concern as to Mme. Bender’s mode of death was completely overshadowed by anxiety regarding the missing girl, his feelings at the moment chaotic and contradictory. That the man beside him could have read in the maid’s cool assertion anything other than a fabrication of lies so astounded him that his brain still recoiled from the shock. Catherine—Catherine, to have perpetrated so appalling a stupidity and, having done so, to flee from the consequences of her act without a word of warning to the occupants of the burning flat! The suggestion was so monstrous that his ire rose afresh against any being capable of according it serious consideration.

Still, the Inspector knew nothing of Catherine’s character, nor for that matter of Jeanne’s, and the theory in the abstract was plausible. No stranger could be expected to see in it a quick-witted schemer’s ruse to cast her own weight of guilt on innocent shoulders. At the same time the very fact that the woman had dared to put forward this dastardly explanation argued an inner knowledge of her own safety in so doing. In other words she must know that the person she accused would not be able to contradict her.

At the door of the Commissariat the Inspector left Geoffrey to do his telephoning and went to inquire if any report had come in from the taxi-driver who presumably picked up the missing girl at the Gare Fontainebleau-Avron. Ten minutes later he returned to find the Englishman pacing the floor.

“No news has come in,” he announced. “But it is a little early to look for any. However, I have started a new line of inquiry which I hope may lead to results.” He hesitated, glancing at the young man’s haggard features. “In short, I want to find out if anyone answering to Mademoiselle’s description quitted Paris by a morning train.”

Geoffrey’s eyes flashed.

“If that is what you have in mind, I can assure you your efforts are wasted. Mademoiselle West is not trying to hide from us.”

There was the ghost of a smile in the Frenchman’s practical blue eyes.

“In any case, there is no harm in making sure,” he replied amicably, and dropped the subject. “You have located your sister?”

“She is on her way to meet us at the apartment,” Geoffrey informed him shortly.

The other’s manner made him uncomfortable. It hinted at a secret belief that Catherine’s disappearance was not only voluntary but had something of duplicity in it; that, indeed, the poor girl had some reason of her own for keeping out of the way. Nothing he could say would refute the unspoken charge, he could only chafe inwardly.

“Now, monsieur, I have another little matter to attend to on our way back. The deceased had a car. I obtained the address of the garage from the concierge, and I propose to give instructions that on no account is the car to be taken out.”

Geoffrey looked at him quickly.

“You think the butler may want to use it?”

“Either he or the notaire, Blom—although I cannot say if the latter has a driving-licence. It is only a chance, but we may as well be on our guard.”

As they drove rapidly round the Place Victor Hugo and into the Avenue Malakoff, Geoffrey acquainted his companion with the facts concerning the Portuguese’s sortie that morning.

“It is certain that he held some sort of conference with Blom, though his subsequent movements appeared harmless enough. All he did was to pay a call on one of the concierges lower down the avenue.”

Bazin listened attentively.

“The fact that he took the first opportunity to see his friend is certainly suggestive. I congratulate you, monsieur, on having had him watched. Ah, here we are!”

Turning into a narrow mews, he sounded his horn in front of a large garage. A youngish man with tousled hair and a face streaked with oil came out to meet them, wiping his hands on a piece of cotton-waste. To him the inspector stated his business.

“You understand? This car—a Rolls, is it not?—is in no circumstances to be allowed out of the garage. If anyone calls for it, you are to give a point-blank refusal and communicate at once with the Commissariat.”

The proprietor nodded, but looked slightly surprised.

“Certainly, monsieur, I will carry out your instructions—when the car is returned.”

“Returned! Do you mean it is not here?”

“No, monsieur. It was taken out two days ago. I understood it was going into the country for the week-end.”

The occupants of the grey car exchanged startled glances, and Geoffrey swore under his breath.

“You are sure of this?”

“But yes, monsieur. I know the car you speak of well. For the past few months there has been no regular chauffeur, but it is sometimes used by a manservant—a Spaniard, I think he is. It was he who called for it on Thursday.”

There was nothing to be done. As they backed out of the mews the inspector’s blond face was contracted with annoyance.

“This looks as though they had stolen a march on us,” he muttered. “I don’t like the look of it. I daresay I could find the car, but it might mean searching half the garages of Paris. On the whole I am afraid we must let it go.”

This development deepened Geoffrey’s conviction of a pre-arranged plan. It looked as though Eduardo, foreseeing the chance of things going wrong, had removed the Rolls to some locality where he was unknown, in order to facilitate a quick get-away.

Well, things had gone wrong, although perhaps the servants were as yet unaware of that fact. In the circumstances they would probably sit tight, knowing that any false move would jeopardize the stake for which they had played.

Catherine’s absence was another matter, the most maddening feature of which was the complete uncertainty surrounding it. What if the servants were not involved? As Bazin had pointed out, there were other explanations. But for the tell-tale shadow on the blind Geoffrey would have been ready to picture the poor girl as the victim of robbery and murder, perpetrated either in the train, or in the taxi later on. Perhaps before the day was over her body would be found.

Elspeth came out of the loge to meet them, her fresh colour faded, her whole manner betraying anxiety.

“Have you heard from her?” she demanded, grasping her brother’s arm.

He shook his head. She drew in a dismayed breath.

“If only I could make some suggestion! I have racked my brain. Could something have frightened her so that she was afraid to come here? She disliked the servants, you know.”

“We are absolutely in the dark. All we know is that both the maid and butler deny having seen her. Come along, the police are waiting.”

They overtook the Inspector at the lift, and a few seconds later the three were admitted to the apartment by the little sergeant, who was preparing to depart. The pair who had conducted the search came forward, the taller of the pair, a finely built Auvergnais, acting as spokesman.

“We have gone over the whole building from top to bottom, monsieur,” he announced in a confidential tone, “not omitting the cave and the roof. Nothing has come to light barring a cabin-trunk in the box-room, marked with the lady’s initials. We broke it open, but it is quite empty. There are only those few personal belongings we should like to get an opinion on.”

The party made their way to the distant bedroom Catherine had occupied and, taking a key from his pocket, the Auvergnais unlocked the door.

The afternoon sun flooded the disordered room, revealing a heap of clothing on the bed, empty drawers pulled out to their farthest extent, and cupboard doors gaping wide. Motes danced in the bars of brilliant light which the yellow, toile-covered walls rendered the more dazzling.

“If madame will take a look at these?” suggested Bazin, motioning to the confused mass of apparel.

One by one Elspeth picked up and examined a frock of beige kasha, a tweed skirt and jumper to match, an old cardigan, an afternoon gown of parchment-coloured velvet and two evening-dresses. The onlookers watching tensely, saw her reject the lot, then turn to a smaller collection of underclothing, delicate garments of crêpe de Chine, some primrose yellow, some pale apricot.

“No,” she said decidedly, “she had none of these with her. I am certain, because I helped her pack.”

“And the toilet articles?”

There were not many of these, merely a few bottles, an almost empty powder-box, and a small pot of cream for chapped hands. Again Elspeth shook her head, instinct telling her that here was the unimportant flotsam one leaves behind. Then she turned towards the open cupboard, where the squirrel coat hung lonely from the rod, let her eye wander over the shoes at the bottom and the two last winter’s hats on the shelf.

“Do you recognize this, madame?”

It was the tall Auvergnais who addressed her, extending his broad palm, in the centre of which lay a tiny red cylinder.

“Une tube à rouge, madame—we found it lying against the wall under the bed.”

Elspeth gave a sharp exclamation.

“Catherine’s lipstick!” she cried, her eyes meeting Geoffrey’s. “I saw her use it when she was changing her dress to go.”

Geoffrey’s hand shook as he reached for the lipstick and examined it. Crimson morocco, outlined in gold.

“I know it, too,” he muttered. “I was with her the day she bought it, in the Trois Quartiers.…”

The three men were eyeing him eagerly. He repeated his remark in French, his manner betraying excitement.

“But are you sure it is the same?” inquired Bazin. “Sometimes ladies possess more than one of these things.”

Elspeth took it again and removed the cap. The dark red composition within appeared scarcely used.

“I can’t be absolutely positive,” she faltered. “She may have had two alike.…”

Brother and sister continued to gaze as though fascinated. The little object seemed to both a silent witness of its owner’s presence in the room: yet, as the inspector had suggested, it was not conclusive proof, since it was possible Catherine had owned an extra one of the same make. There was a moment of tantalizing suspense.

Once more exploring the room, Elspeth’s eyes came to rest on the despoiled cupboard.

“What is in that?” she asked suddenly, indicating the flowered hat-box.

“Encore un chapeau, madame. Je vous le montrerai——” and the Auvergnais removed the carton, setting it upon the bed.

The next instant Elspeth uttered a cry.

“Geoff! Look, look!”

Inside the box, resting upon smooth layers of tissue-paper, was a small green felt hat. She snatched it forth tremblingly, turned it round on her hand.

“Don’t you see? It’s hers, the one she was wearing. Oh, there’s not the least doubt of it! I can prove it to you. See here,”—and displaying the lining, she pointed to a black silk tag sewn inside, on which were embroidered the words “Jane-Mary, Boston.”

Geoffrey stared transfixed. He, too, knew this hat, had noticed it on many occasions. The memory of its narrow brim hugging the oval cheek on one side and upturned on the other, brought a choking sensation to his throat. Instantly he turned to the inspector, his entire manner charged with electricity.

“Monsieur, we need look no longer, here is the proof! This is the hat mademoiselle wore when she left Fontainebleau!”

For a second there was no sound in the room save the quickened breathing of the startled hearers.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Bazin was the first to break the silence, his eyes ablaze in his sunburned face.

“Madame—there can be no mistake about this?”

“None whatever. I tell you this is the hat she was wearing when my husband put her into the train last night. It is one she brought from America.”

“She was here, then. She came home and went away again soon afterwards, leaving nothing behind her but her hat and this.” He indicated the lipstick. His tone was one of puzzled reflection. “Why her hat?”

“She could have worn another one,” suggested Elspeth impatiently. “I do not know what other hats she has.”

“Then let us say she changed her hat. But does that help us to a solution?”

On the contrary it deepened the mystery. Blank looks met the question, and it was some seconds before Elspeth spoke, with a trace of eagerness.

“If she took the trouble to put on a different hat, don’t you see what it may mean? That for some reason she changed her mind about spending the night here, carried her bags down again just as they were, and went somewhere else.”

“And the tube à rouge, madame?”

“That must have fallen out of her bag, and she did not bother to search for it.”

“It suggests she was anxious to get away.”

“Exactly my opinion,” agreed Elspeth quickly. “Don’t you see, Geoffrey? She must have gone of her own accord, else why should she take off one hat and put on another?”

Her brother continued to stare at the tell-tale head-gear. Its presence did not argue haste, but a certain deliberation, yet he was unconvinced.

“We don’t know that she did do that. Besides, if all this is true, why don’t we hear from her?” he objected stubbornly.

“But think, my dear—if she met those friends of hers this morning she may have spent the day sight-seeing with them, and even now may not know about Mme. Bender. Depend upon it, we’ll soon have news.”

“She knew I was going to drive out to Fontainebleau this afternoon and bring her back.”

He glanced at his watch, the hands of which marked a quarter to five. By now he would have been on his way.

“It looks damned odd,” he remarked stonily. “It must have taken some strong motive to make her quit the place with her luggage at past one in the morning.”

“Ah, ça!” the inspector waved an expressive hand round the disarranged room. “I agree there must have been some unforeseen happening to account for so sudden a departure. Does madame know the explanation offered by the maid?” he inquired, sinking his voice.

“The maid? What does she think?” demanded Elspeth, searching the four faces.

Before Geoffrey had conquered his obvious reluctance to divulge what was so distasteful to him, the inspector threw open the door and scanned the passage in both directions. No one was in sight.

“Now then, monsieur,” he said with a slight nod.

“It’s simply this, if you must know: Jeanne suggests that perhaps Catherine found out about the fire and Mme. Bender’s death before anyone else was aware of it, that she got into a panic and took herself off because”—here he hesitated painfully—“because she was terrified lest blame should attach to her.”

His sister gasped in bewilderment.

“Blame! Why, what on earth——”

“You see, she insinuates that it was Catherine who supplied the poor woman with the candles which caused the fire.”

“Oh!” She stifled a horrified cry. “Do you believe that?”

“Not for a moment,” replied Geoffrey between set teeth. “It is not in the least like Catherine to do either one thing or the other.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. He could see Elspeth grappling with this new idea, her eyes narrowed in thought.

“I wonder?” she whispered slowly. “Geoff—you don’t know. She might have done it, in utter innocence. Remember, she did not believe Mme. Bender was insane. And supposing she did discover what was happening, mightn’t she have been so overwhelmed by the shock that she lost her head completely? Her one idea may have been to rush away and hide, pretend she had not been here at all. One can’t say how one would behave if faced with such a crisis.”

He did not reply. Put into words, the thing sounded remarkably plausible. The inspector made a sign to show his agreement.

“Precisely, madame. One still does not altogether grasp the meaning of this”—and he indicated the hat—“but it is fairly clear to me that the young lady is well and safe, only does not wish her presence here last night to become known. It would not astonish me, monsieur, if before many hours you had some news of her. Probably she has gone to an hotel and will communicate with you later on. If she should care to assume total ignorance of this affair”—he paused with a tolerant shrug—“then the less said about our discoveries the better.”

A steely light had come into the young man’s eyes.

“Does it not occur to you,” he said slowly, “that if what you suggest is the case, she may not turn up at all?”

His sister stared at him frowning, then exclaimed in sudden dismay:

“You don’t mean she might… oh, no, Geoffrey! She wouldn’t do anything so mad!”

“Why not? If she believed herself responsible for her cousin’s death?”

Bazin’s quick intelligence took in the implication.

“Ah, hardly, monsieur! It takes a great deal to bring one to suicide. No need to exaggerate matters at this stage of the game.”

However, the horrible idea had taken hold of Geoffrey so that he could not throw it off. No one but himself knew to what extent Catherine had brooded over her relative’s situation, and had striven to put it right. If, after all her planning and contriving, she had suddenly been faced with last night’s horrible revelation, who could say what the result might be? All these apparently contradictory evidences of hasty departure might point to one dreadful conclusion. Yet, even as his distraught mind grappled with its new obsession, the vision of Jeanne’s enigmatic eyes came before him, and he asked himself if, against his will, he were not being made the dupe of some cleverly conceived infamy.…

He watched the inspector place the lipstick in an envelope, seal it up and consign it to an inside pocket. Then, rousing himself, he inquired what arrangements had been made for guarding the apartment after nightfall.

“Ah, yes, monsieur! I shall have two of my men posted in the buildings at the back and side, and I myself intend to pass the night in the apartment directly opposite, across the avenue.”

“May I share watches with you?”

“Willingly, monsieur. Shall we meet at the Commissariat at eight o’clock? That is to say, if nothing is heard from mademoiselle in the meantime.”

“But you may hear, Geoffrey,” put in Elspeth quickly. “I can’t help thinking there is some foolish mistake about all this which may be cleared up at any moment. Those friends of hers she was to meet—she may be with them now, sight-seeing somewhere. Had you thought of that?”

There was nothing he had not considered, but in spite of all a leaden pall lay upon his heart, crushing out hope. A voice whispered that he would never hear from Catherine again.

They quitted the room, which was again locked behind them, and retraced their steps through the silent passage to the front entrance, where Elspeth and Geoffrey took leave of the police officers.

“Leave everything to me, monsieur,” murmured Bazin reassuringly. “By this evening I hope to have something cheerful to report.”

At the glass doors of the loge they came upon a familiar figure, no less a person than the office factotum, Henri, at that moment shuffling forward to meet them. His wrinkled face held a trace of unusual excitement.

“Ah, Monsieur Geoffrey, you have not gone! Here is a telegram just come for you at the rue Auber. Your father has sent it on.”

Geoffrey snatched the blue paper, the seal of which had already been broken, glanced at the contents, then uttered a sharp cry.

“My God!” he exclaimed. “Elspeth, you were right! It’s from Catherine!” and he thrust the flimsy slip into her hand.

She devoured it with eager eyes. Upon the form was scrawled the following words:

“Overcome by frightful news unable go out but will telephone you to-morrow and explain my absence do not trouble yourself all goes well with me Catherine.”

The wave of relief that swept over Geoffrey engulfed all reason. Voiceless, he could only stare stupidly at the jumbled sentences, reading in them a reprieve from utter despair. Catherine was safe, he would soon see her again. The knowledge overwhelmed him.

Elspeth’s hand on his arm brought him to his senses.

“Geoffrey! It’s too marvellous! I can hardly believe it!” There was an hysterical tremor in her voice. “Oh! to think nothing is wrong, after all!”

“Are you so astonished?” he demanded suspiciously. “A moment ago you were positive we should hear from her.”

“I know I said that,” she replied a little guiltily. “But—well, I wasn’t so sure as I sounded. Uncertainty is so awful—one thinks of such appalling things.”

He nodded. What use now to admit that since noon to-day he had been haunted by the fear that Catherine had met a violent death? As his strained nerves relaxed he felt a foolish desire to laugh, to shout aloud, and at the same time realized that he was extraordinarily tired. He had had nothing to eat all day since his morning coffee, but the fact had altogether escaped his notice.

“Where is she now? Does she give an address?”

Together they examined the form, but beyond the message it bore nothing beyond the hour when it was handed in—three o’clock—and the words. “Hôtel des Postes.”

“That’s queer,” Geoffrey muttered. “Why doesn’t she tell us where she is?”

“Too upset to think of it, I suppose. It’s not really strange. I should say she went to some small hotel last night, one where there are no room-telephones, that she is simply prostrated by the shock, and only able to collect her thoughts sufficiently to realize we may be worried about her. She’s got the concierge to send this wire.”

“I daresay you’re right.” He continued to stare at the blue slip as though striving to force some additional information out of it. “Oh, well, the important thing is that she’s found. Here’s the inspector now.”

He turned back to announce the welcome tidings, translating the telegram into French for the other’s benefit. Bazin’s blue eyes widened with relief.

“Well, well, monsieur! I felicitate you. The young lady has given you a bad quarter of an hour, but, voilà! the mystery is cleared up, as I hoped it would be.”

“I am not so sure of that. I can’t help feeling there is something odd behind it.”

From the tactful avoidance of his eye it was plain that his opinion was shared by his two companions. During the uncomfortable pause which followed, the inspector studied the message and made a few notes in his book.

“I will look into this, monsieur, and see what I can find out, since you are no doubt still somewhat anxious, though, as mademoiselle promises to communicate with you to-morrow, you will not have long to remain in suspense. As for the other affair——” He left the sentence unfinished, and with one accord the three moved through the archway and into the street before resuming the conversation.

Geoffrey detected a note of uncertainty in the other’s voice, and thought he could guess the reason. Bazin was thinking that since Catherine’s disappearance had turned out a false alarm, the rest of their suspicions might prove equally groundless. He spoke decidedly:

“Whatever may be the truth about this,” he said, motioning to the slip of paper, “nothing is altered in regard to what happened last night. We had ample reason for starting an investigation, and I should think it extremely likely those servants are going to be indicted for murdering their mistress. Meanwhile, they are still at liberty. You see what I mean?”

“Perfectly, monsieur. You need have no fear; I shall not abandon watch of the house. However, there is now no need for you to sacrifice your night’s rest. You will do as you think best, naturally, but if you decide not to come this evening I shall proceed without you.”

“One thing more: do you think we ought to let the servants know we have heard from mademoiselle?”

“I shall inform them now. Undoubtedly our best purpose is served by setting their minds at rest.”

They separated, Bazin returning to carry out the intention just stated, the brother and sister setting out aimlessly in the direction of the Avenue Kléber, both wrapped in thought.

Now that Geoffrey had grown accustomed to the shock of joy, he found himself grappling with doubts and questions. The problem was only partly solved, his mind still in utter confusion. A mad impulse seized him to begin at once a tour of all the hotels in the district surrounding the Hôtel des Postes, but such a proceeding was manifestly stupid. It would be like hunting for a needle in a haystack. Presently he pulled himself together sufficiently to inquire of Elspeth where she wished to go.

“Home,” she replied. “I would have stayed the night, but now there is no need to, is there?”

“I’ll take you to the station,” he murmured mechanically, and raised his hand to stop an approaching taxi.

A little later, seated beside his sister, he leaned forward with a moody expression, chin in hands.

“I am not satisfied about this,” he declared morosely. “It has a deuced queer look.… It is not like Catherine to funk anything, yet that appears to be what she’s done. I wish to God I could go and see her now.…”

Elspeth eyed him shrewdly and with kindly impatience.

“Geoff, Geoff! Why can’t you wipe the whole thing out? If the poor child made some fearful mistake and doesn’t want us to find out——”

“You keep harping on that!” he cried, as though stung. “How do you know she did? You have only the word of a woman who’s proved herself a thief and a liar, and may be something far worse. There is only one fact we can be sure about, which is that Catherine came home and went away again.”

She sighed tolerantly.

“At any rate, Geoff, Clement didn’t take her disappearance very seriously, nor did father. Both of them thought there was some mistake about it, that she would turn up after a bit, and it seems they were right. Not that I blame you for getting frightened.”

There was nothing to say. Perhaps it was true that his infatuation had played havoc with his commonsense.

“You’re worn out,” she said suddenly. “You look absolutely finished. Promise me you’ll go straight home and get a bath and some dinner. You need both.”

Following her glance, he saw for the first time the streaks of smut upon his hands, and realized that his collar was wilted.

“You will do as I say?” she urged.

“I suppose I may as well.”

“Let me know what happens,” she added as the taxi swerved into the open space before the Gare. “And whatever you do don’t bother Catherine about this affair. Let her alone.”

She waved her hand and was gone. He remained staring after her in a daze from which the driver’s gruff voice presently roused him. Then he drew a deep breath, and with a sense of flatness and lethargy, got back into the taxi and gave his own address.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Geoffrey’s father had read Catherine’s message before sending it on, consequently at dinner there was little to discuss. The meal passed in strained silence, Geoffrey consuming food mechanically, while the other scanned with a gloomy frown the evening papers’ accounts of the fire.

Through the open windows a breath of sun-drenched air stole in from across the Luxembourg Gardens; the tall candles flickering on the table filled the young man’s mind with an uneasy suggestion, driving home the fact that while his worst fears were allayed, he was still restless and dissatisfied.

If only Catherine had told him where she was! For the life of him he could not regard the omission as accidental. At one moment he imagined sensitively that she shrank from seeing him for some personal reason, at another attributed her motive to a desire for concealment. The occasional probing glances directed at him by his father goaded him to irritability, for it was not difficult to read their cause.

The coffee arriving, Macadam pushed back his chair and thrust a cigar into his mouth at an irascible angle.

“Whatever Miss West’s reasons may be for her behaviour,” he pronounced gratingly, “she has given us a deuced deal of trouble and made us look a couple of fools as well. If you enjoy this sort of thing, it’s more than I do.”

The sarcasm flicked Geoffrey on the raw.

“We may as well reserve comment till we know the facts,” he retorted curtly.

With a shrug the old man wadded the newspapers into a ball and strode from the room, reappearing for a moment to toss an envelope in his son’s direction.

“There’s your report about the handwriting. The notes were forgeries right enough—though much good it does to know it now! The next thing will be the discovery that the pearls are missing, so we can arrest that woman for theft, whether or not there’s any foundation for a more serious charge.”

It was with feelings bordering on complete indifference that Geoffrey read the enclosure. Indeed, so absorbed was he in his own contradictory emotions, he did not realize to what extent his father’s ill temper was occasioned by a sense of failure in averting a calamity.

Much as he wished to ignore Jeanne’s detestable theory, he could not deny that Catherine’s present conduct was strange. The idea that a cloud of doubt might for ever hang over the past twenty-four hours was loathsome to him. Then the thought of her fearless eyes and frank honesty rushed before him as a reproach, and he tried resolutely to postpone all conjecture till to-morrow.

To-morrow——!

All at once, with a pang, he understood why he was so disturbed. Was he really going to see her? The vagueness of her message held something elusive, a quality summed up in a repetition of the phrase, “not like Catherine.” That was it—it was not like her. What was it she had said?

Taking the telegram from his pocket, he studied it closely, once more trying to discover some hidden meaning.

“Overcome by frightful news unable to go out but will telephone you to-morrow to explain my absence do not trouble yourself all goes well with me…”

Awkwardly put, that. He wondered now why she had employed the expression, “do not trouble yourself.” Much more natural to have said “Don’t worry.” The reflexive verb sounded oddly un-English. He pondered it, then passed on to the following sentence.

Suddenly he frowned, staring hard. Here was a combination of words he would not have expected an American to use. Surely the obvious thing to say was, “Don’t worry, I’m all right.”

“All goes well with me.” He repeated the stilted form, annoyed and exasperated. What did it suggest? At first the significance escaped him, then in a flash he knew. Why—it was pure French construction! Of course! Its equivalent was the phrase “tout va bien.”

For a few seconds he remained stupefied, his brain in confusion. Then out of chaos emerged an awful, crashing truth. This telegram was not composed by Catherine at all. It was the concoction of some foreigner—someone with an imperfect knowledge of English idioms. It bore two glaring marks of falsity.

The revelation stunned him. How had he been such an unmitigated ass? Catherine would not, could not, construct sentences like those, the thing was impossible.

His fatuous security tumbled about him like a house of cards. Catherine might or might not be alive, but instinct warned him that all hope of recovering her was lost unless immediate action were taken. His chair clattered to the parquet behind him as, leaping to his feet, he made a bolt for the door.

He was still cursing his blindness when, at the rue Mesnil, he met the inspector just setting forth for his night’s vigil.

“So you are coming with me after all, monsieur? I promise you it may prove a boring affair. Why—has anything new occurred?” he ended in surprise as he took in the Englishman’s distraught bearing.

“Look at this again!” cried Geoffrey, thrusting the telegram under his eyes. “It is worded in such a way that it could not possibly have been written by Mademoiselle West. I don’t know how I was such a fool as not to spot it at once,” and he hastily attempted to explain the two paradoxes contained in the message.

Bazin listened with an altered face.

“You are sure of this? The English language is a sealed book to me. Perhaps you had better compare that paper with the original, which I obtained an hour ago from the Hôtel des Postes,” he added, producing a pencil-written form. “None of the employés could recall who handed it in, but you will probably know if it is in the young lady’s hand.”

Eagerly Geoffrey seized the form, only to see what at first glance appeared to be Catherine’s writing. He stared nonplussed, then hunting through his pockets, found the note sent him several days ago from Fontainebleau. Examining the two specimens, he decided that one was a creditable but faulty imitation of the other.

“They are not the same,” he pronounced positively. “See, all her own o’s are separated from the other letters, while in the telegram they are joined on. Besides, there is an angularity about this writing which is distinctively Continental.”

Bazin’s blue eyes had a hard brightness.

“I agree. They were never written by the same person.” He fingered the slip with manifest excitement. “You are right, monsieur. This telegram is the work of someone anxious to put us off the scent, and for to-night, mind—since the deception would surely have been revealed when you failed to hear anything further.”

“Then you think that whatever is planned will take place before morning?”

“I do. I was wiser than I knew when I arranged to have that house watched.”

His face was grave as he got into the waiting car and motioned to Geoffrey to take the seat beside him. In another second they were circling the Place Victor Hugo.

“I have some more news for you, monsieur. I have now heard from the taxi-driver who brought mademoiselle home from the Gare. He declares that he set her down at the private entrance at about ten minutes past twelve last night, and as he is able to furnish a satisfactory account of himself for several hours afterwards, we can safely eliminate him from the inquiry. So far no other driver has come forward, which leads us to assume that while your friend arrived at the apartment, she did not leave again in the way that has been suggested.”

As Geoffrey listened to this confirmation of his worst fears, dread lay like a leaden weight at the pit of his stomach.

“Furthermore, I have instituted a search at some thirty hotels in the rue de Rivoli district, and while there may still remain some small place we have overlooked, it begins to appear a useless quest.”

“Who do you suppose sent the telegram? Was it Blom?”

“Not in person, certainly, for he has been under strict surveillance all the afternoon, and I have my man’s word for the fact that he has gone nowhere, except across the court to his fiancée’s apartment.”

“He may have sent it by one of Honorine’s work-girls.”

“A risk, in case of embarrassing inquiries. Your name is sufficiently unusual to impress itself on a French person’s memory. I am inclined to believe he employed a public messenger.”

Geoffrey considered this.

“He would be bound to take some risk in order to telegraph at all, but from his point of view it would be a small one. Remember, he has not the slightest reason up till now to think that any of us is aware of his existence.”

“Ah, in that case he may well consider himself safe. Certainly, if you had not had the good fortune to discover his connection with the affair, last night’s happening would have been regarded as a tragic accident, with blame attaching to no one, least of all to him. As things stand, what with mademoiselle’s disappearance and this deliberate attempt to make it appear a voluntary withdrawal, I now see that the situation looks distinctly serious.”

Geoffrey forced himself to utter the question which was gnawing into him like a canker.

“You believe, then, that mademoiselle may be dead?”

The inspector bit his lip.

“It may be as well to accustom oneself to the idea, monsieur,” he said in a low voice. “It seems extremely probable that she has been murdered because she is a dangerous witness, and that the criminals are merely waiting till a suitable moment to dispose of her body.”

They had slowed down in turning off the Avenue Henri Martin. The rays of an arc-light shone full on the young man’s face, revealing its ghastly pallor.

“I suppose we can doing nothing but watch?” he suggested, his tone deadened with repression.

“Not for to-night. If nothing occurs, then to-morrow we shall have to take definite action, but so long as a bare hope remains of the young lady’s being alive we must tread warily.”

Leading the way, he turned into a narrow passage squeezed between the rows of buildings, passed through a doorway and began to ascend a winding stair, lit by a dim wall-bracket.

“This is the rear entrance to the house we want, monsieur. It is better not to use the front way, for fear of being seen.”

On the first floor he tapped upon a door, which was opened by a middle-aged femme de chambre.

“Will you kindly inform M. le Commandant that Inspector Bazin is here?”

The woman nodded.

“If you will come this way, messieurs, I will conduct you to the room monsieur has placed at your disposal.”

Following her along a passage, they found themselves in a small study, the walls of which, above compactly filled bookshelves, were ornamented by a collection of arms arranged in a coruscating pattern—spears, poniards and scimitars of an interesting variety. Brown velvet curtains covered the window, while deep chairs and a sofa were grouped about a low table bearing smoking materials, among which were a narghileh and a Turkish chibouk.

When the servant withdrew, Bazin informed his companion that they were the guests of M. le Commandant Jules Heller, well known as an authority on modern warfare. Geoffrey recognized the name, one frequently seen signed to articles in le Gaulois and similar journals. As he looked restlessly round at the weapon-hung walls a clock somewhere in the flat struck a single metallic ping. A glance at his watch told him it was half-past eight.

The door opened to admit their host, a small, bald-headed man, one-armed and with a glass eye. His spare body was attired in a velvet jacket, the lapel of which bore the tiny red ribbon of the Légion d’Honneur.

“Good evening, messieurs!” The Commandant bowed with exquisite courtesy, his lone eye beaming with welcome. “I trust this study is suitable for your purpose? It is near the corner and commands a view of both entrances opposite, although unfortunately the trees are in full leaf and may obstruct the vision.”

The inspector declared the position excellent, adding that he trusted they were not causing inconvenience.

“Not in the least! I confess I would like nothing better than to share your watch, but alas, I am suffering from migraine, and my wife insists on an early retirement. However, I have given orders for refreshments to be brought you, and if you require anything further you have only to ring.”

He seated himself, offered them liqueurs and cigars, and for a short time discoursed with a charm and fluency which, at another time, would have delighted both listeners. As matters were, it was a relief to Geoffrey’s nerves when at the stroke of nine he rose to bid them good night. In the doorway he paused, his manner suddenly altering.

“That maid across the way,” he remarked with serious thoughtfulness, “I have watched her going about her duties for eleven years—respectful, efficient, but, messieurs, hard—as hard as those,”—and he pointed a finger at the polished blades on the wall. “I know her accent; she is from the Vosges. The butler I cannot place, he is probably of no nationality, but I know what I am saying when I tell you that there is bad blood chez lui. If you wish to trap those two, messieurs, you will need to be like our friend the fly—all eyes, below, above and in the backs of your heads! Bon soir, messieurs—et bonne chance!”

The door closed. The two men exchanged glances.

“He is right,” muttered the inspector shortly.

He turned off the lights, then cautiously drew aside the curtains. The room was saved from complete darkness by the street lights and the silver radiance of the moon, just risen above the house-tops.

“Too much illumination. We must be careful not to show ourselves.”

Yet it was a point in their favour that no one could possibly issue from either of the entrances over the way without being plainly seen. The avenue was quiet except for an occasional car whizzing past, but from all around came the staccato honking of motor-horns pitched in various keys. On a level with the eyes stretched the double row of chestnuts, their waxen blossoms stiffly upright like candles on a Christmas tree, while above the odour of warm asphalt and petrol rose the fragrance of the spring night, fresh and thrilling. To Geoffrey it was like a knife turned in a wound.

Opposite, the wide doors gaped open, with a thin blade of light from the loge lying athwart the pavement. On the entresol floor all was gloom save for a slender thread of radiance round the edge of the corner window.

A woman’s figure, flamboyantly dressed and with a scarlet hat perched on her blond hair, emerged from the gates and stood looking up and down the street. As she turned her rouged face towards the light Geoffrey recognized Berthe. Presently she was joined by a coarse, thickset man, and the two went off arm-in-arm, discoursing volubly.

“The cook, setting out with her friend,” whispered Bazin. “That is good; the others will feel freer.”

Seating himself in the shadow of the curtains, he offered a packet of Marylands to his companion, masking the lighted match with his hands.

During an interminable interval the two puffed in silence. Ever and again Geoffrey’s cigarette went out and had to be re-lit. His muscles twitched, his features in the tempered gloom showed blanched and drawn. He chafed helplessly at the tediousness of the vigil, haunted by the fear that while they sat here idle, elsewhere events might be moving forward with fatal rapidity.

The unseen clock struck ten. A groan escaped him. The night had barely begun!

A moment afterwards he stiffened and laid a hand on the inspector’s arm.

On the narrow balcony of the corner room Eduardo had appeared, his squat shoulders silhouetted against the glow within. He stood with his right hand resting against the railing, and Geoffrey saw that the sling had been abandoned. Slowly, indifferently, it seemed, his bullet head turned, surveying the avenue in both directions, then, throwing back his chin, he stared up at the night sky. A cloud of pale smoke wafted out over the chestnuts from the cigarette between his lips.

For several minutes he remained thus, then withdrew, closing the casement. All was quiet once more, though the light inside the room was still visible.