THE RED LODGE (continued 2)

However, he shook hands cordially enough, and, escorted by his host as far as the garden gate, started off briskly down the terrace on his return journey.

He had reached the corner and was just turning into Kensington Square when his thoughts suddenly went back to the photograph which he had been examining in the dining-room.

At the same moment a flash of memory darted through his mind, and he pulled up short with a half-stifled exclamation.

He knew now!

It was a portrait of Major Fenton, the man to whom Nancy had introduced him outside her studio.

CHAPTER FOUR

Colin finished his coffee and looked inquiringly across the table.

"Have you any special plans for this afternoon?" he asked. "If not, I thought I'd get on with that new parcel of stuff from Paris. The sooner it's sorted out and classified the better."

The Professor, who was engaged in selecting a cigar, stopped in the middle of the operation.

"Let me see, Gray," he observed, "how long have you been with me?"

Colin reflected for a moment. "I came on a Wednesday," he said. "That will be three weeks to-morrow."

"And I believe," continued the Professor, "that except for a few occasional pauses for sleep and refreshment, you have spent the whole of that period shut up in the laboratory."

Colin gave a protesting laugh. "Well, I wanted to get the hang of things as soon as possible," he replied. "I can stand a lot of work provided it's interesting."

"That appears to be the truth," admitted his employer. "All the same, every piece of machinery has its breaking-point, and, as I am beginning to find you extremely useful, I have no wish that you should suddenly collapse. You will therefore oblige me by going out into the open air and not showing your face inside this house again until bedtime."

"Just as you please, sir," said Colin, pushing back his chair. "I suppose it would be no use my suggesting that you should try a little of the same prescription yourself?"

The Professor shook his head. "I am more favourably situated than you, my young friend," he replied. "In the course of nature I shall soon have all the rest that I need." He chuckled at his own sombre jest, and, coming forward, laid his hand on Colin's shoulder. "You have been of very real assistance, to me, Gray," he added, "but there is no sense in flogging a willing horse. I can quite well spare you to-day, so off you go, whether you like it or not."

Colin, who had been long enough at the Red Lodge to know the futility of arguing, at once rose to his feet.

"I will see if I can rout out Mark Ashton," he said, "that doctor pal of mine I was telling you about the other day. I should think that with any luck we ought to be able to carry on until midnight."

He accepted a cigar which the Professor offered him, and, making his way to the telephone in the hall, rang up the Shadwell surgery.

"Hullo!" came a voice, "Who's that? Colin? Why, good Lord, man, we thought you were dead!"

"Why should I be dead?" retorted Colin. "I'm not one of your patients."

He heard a laugh at the other end of the wire.

"As a matter of fact," he continued, "I'm just starting off to pay you a visit."

"Splendid!" was the answer. "Mary's still away up North, but you'll find me here, and Miss Seymour, too. What more could you want?"

"Nothing," assented Colin. "I was going to suggest that if you can get away this evening I should take you both out to a theatre."

"No chance of that," replied Mark regretfully. "At least, not so far as I'm concerned. I might spare Miss Seymour if you'll do something for me on your way here."

"What is it?"

"I left an umbrella in a taxi last night, a very superior umbrella, with Mark Ashton engraved on the handle. If you're driving down you might look in at the Lost Property Office and see whether it's turned up."

"Right you are," said Colin. "I shall be along in about an hour."

He hung up the receiver, and, putting away the Professor's cigar in an inside pocket, donned his hat and coat and proceeded to leave the house.

A little way down the hill, in a side mews off Vicarage Gardens, he had discovered a new garage, to which he had recently transferred his patronage. The car was ready for him, and a few minutes later he was seated at the driving wheel, skilfully threading his way through the crowded traffic that renders High Street, Kensington, such a stimulating thoroughfare.

Big Ben was in the act of striking three as he arrived at Westminster Bridge. He pulled up outside the entrance to the Lost Property Office, and, pushing open the swing door, advanced to the counter, where a stalwart constable was thoughtfully scratching his head with the stump of a pencil.

Having listened in silence to Colin's inquiry, the man got down from his seat and disappeared into the back regions, returning almost immediately with the umbrella in his hand.

"You'll have to sign your name here," he announced, pushing forward an official-looking paper.

"And there'll be two and sixpence reward for the driver."

Without entering upon any superfluous explanations, Colin paid over the desired sum, and, after neatly forging Mark's signature, made his way back to the car. He was leaning over the side door, storing away his trophy, when a gruff voice suddenly addressed him from the pavement behind.

"Doctor Gray, unless I'm much mistaken!"

Turning round promptly, he found himself face to face with the burly, shrewd-eyed figure of Inspector Marsden.

"I thought I was right," continued the detective. "It's part of my business to recognize people by their back view."

Colin gripped the large and efficient-looking hand which the speaker extended to him.

"I'm awfully glad to see you again," he said heartily. "I hope you're none the worse for that little dust-up in the King's Road?"

"Still a bit sore in the ribs," was the answer. "I fancy the beauty who got that kick in must have been a footballer at some time or other in his career. I'll give him football if I ever find out which of 'em it was."

"How about our ginger-haired friend?" inquired Colin. "I've been expecting to hear every day that I was wanted as a witness."

"You'll be wanted all right," replied the Inspector. "He's under remand at present, and I don't suppose the case will come on for another month. There are several pretty black marks against Master Dick, and we hope to collect enough evidence to put him out of business for some considerable period." He paused. "By the way," he added, "if you've a few minutes to spare, come along up to our place and let me introduce you to one or two of the boys. I told them what you did for us the other day, and they'd be glad of the chance of shaking hands with you."

Knowing that Mark was unlikely to be free until four o'clock, Colin decided that he might as well accept the invitation. He had never been inside Scotland Yard, and the prospect rather appealed to him.

"What shall I do with the car?" he asked. "Leave it here?"

"Better bring it into the yard," said the Inspector. "No one will try to pinch it then—not unless he's a bit of an optimist."

Getting into his seat, Colin started forward alongside his companion, and turned in through the big iron gates which guard the headquarters of the London Police Force.

There were several other cars standing against the wall, and, leaving his own in company with them, he followed the Inspector through a low doorway and up a long flight of stone stairs.

They emerged into a broad corridor with doors on either side.

"Here we are!" announced his guide, halting in front of the second. "I don't know who's on duty to-day, but we're sure to find somebody about."

He led the way into a large, business-like apartment, the principal furniture of which consisted of a couple of roll-top desks. At one of them was seated an alert-looking man in a well-cut blue suit, who glanced up sharply at their entrance.

"Hullo, Pat!" said the Inspector. "I've got someone here I want to introduce you to. This is Doctor Gray of St. Christopher's Hospital."

The other laid down his pen, and, rising from his chair, shook Colin's hand.

"You're welcome, sir," he said, with a distinctly Irish accent. "We have heard all about you from our friend Marsden. My name is O'Brien—Inspector Patrick O'Brien. I am pleased to have the privilege of making your acquaintance."

"It's very nice of you to put it like that," said Colin. "I don't think I deserve any particular compliments, though. I only did what any one else would have done who had happened to be on the spot."

Both men smiled.

"That may be your impression," was the answer, "but you can take it from me that you're a trifle off the mark. Watching a police officer kicked to death is one of the public's favourite entertainments."

"O'Brien comes from Dublin, you see," put in Marsden, "so you must make allowances for a touch of bitterness." He pulled forward a chair, and, thrusting his hand into his pocket, produced a large rubber pouch. "Make yourself comfortable and try a pipe of this tobacco, doctor," he added. "It was given to me by a ship's captain, and they don't generally go far wrong—not from what I've seen of them."

Colin took the proffered seat, and, drawing out his briar, proceeded to fill it carefully with the fragrant brown flakes.

"I'm rather interested in 'Ginger Dick,'" he remarked. "One would hardly take him for a Napoleon of crime, judging by his appearance."

"No, his looks aren't anything to shout about," agreed Marsden. "All the same, he's a dangerous little devil if ever there was one. As I told you the other day, he's in with all the lowest scum of the Turf, and, thanks to him and his crowd, there are several of our boys on the retired list, and likely to remain there."

"It never occurred to me before," said Colin, "but I suppose there are healthier occupations than being a detective on a racecourse."

"You can back on that," was O'Brien's rejoinder. "I've had some of it myself, and, though I'm partial to what you may call an active life, I wasn't exactly sorry when they shifted me to another department."

"Tell him some of your experiences, Pat," suggested Inspector Marsden. "It's no use having a distinguished guest if you don't try to entertain him."

The Irishman, who apparently only needed this encouragement, plunged at once into a series of reminiscences, all dealing with that dark underworld of ruffianism which lurks furtively beneath the brilliant surface of racing. He told his stories well, and Colin, who knew little or nothing about the Turf, listened to him with absorbed interest. It was not, indeed, until the hands of the office clock were pointing to the half-hour that he reluctantly knocked out his pipe into the fireplace and rose from his chair.

"I hate to break up this cheerful party," he said truthfully, "but I've promised to be down in Shadwell by four, and I've got an unpleasant sort of feeling that I must be keeping you both from your work."

"Oh, you needn't worry about that," replied Marsden, smiling. "I'm fixed here until midnight anyway, and, no matter how busy Pat is, he can always find time to talk."

"I want to hear some more of his reminiscences," said Colin, "and yours, too. Perhaps if you could both get away together the same evening you would come out and feed with me? We could go to the Cheshire Cheese or somewhere like that. I can't ask you to my place, because at present I'm acting as bottle-washer to Professor Carter."

"The Cheshire Cheese sounds all right to me," said O'Brien approvingly. "You give us a ring when you've got a spare night, and we'll try and fix it up."

"Things are getting altogether too one-sided," objected Marsden. "Can't you think of a little service we could do for you, doctor, just by way of a change?"

Colin was on the point of making some laughing disclaimer, when an idea suddenly occurred to him.

"Would it be a lot of trouble to get me some information about a man I was introduced to the other day?" he asked.

"Not a bit," replied Marsden. "What's his name?"

"Fenton," said Colin. "Major Fenton. He's a chap of about forty-five, tall, clean-shaven, with rather a red face. All I know about him is that he has been a long time abroad, and that at present he is living in London and drives a Daimler car. It's only a matter of personal curiosity, but if you could find out who he is and what sort of reputation he has I should be uncommonly grateful."

Marsden jotted down the particulars and folded up the paper.

"That ought to be simple enough," he replied. "I'll hand this over to Ainsworth, who's in charge of all that kind of thing, and if you look us up in about a week we shall probably be able to give you the gentleman's life history."

Colin expressed his thanks, and, having shaken hands with each of them in turn, made his way back down the staircase and out into the main courtyard.

Resuming his journey eastward, he followed the Embankment as far as Blackfriars Bridge, where he struck off through a maze of side streets, which eventually brought him out close to the grimy and retired tavern presided over by Mr. Higgins.

The yard door was open, and a glance inside revealed the burly outline of the proprietor himself, engaged in the domestic task of washing his bull terrier. On hearing the car he paused in his operations and signalled to Colin to enter.

"Bring 'er along in, mister," he called out. "Bring 'er along in, an' look out for that bleedin' bucket."

Carrying out these instructions successfully, Colin jerked forward over the cobblestones until he came to a halt alongside the seated figure.

"Pleased to see yer," continued Mr. Higgins, in a hospitable tone. "Quite a time since you was 'ere last, ain't it?"

"It's getting on for a month," admitted Colin, as he clambered out of the car. "In fact I've not been since the night I brought Miss Seymour."

At the mention of Nancy's name the landlord's mottled face wreathed itself into a smile.

"Didn't know then that you was goin' to leave 'er be'ind yer," he observed jocularly. "Thought you'd give us a kind of pleasant surprise, eh, guv'nor?"

"That was the idea," replied Colin. "I was just going to ask you if you'd seen anything of her."

"I done more than that," was the proud rejoinder; "I've 'ad a talk with 'er, I 'ave. I 'appened to be outside when she come by last Thursday, an' she stopped and chatted away as friendly as kiss me 'and. Ah, she's one o' the right sort, she is; no blarsted frills nor nonsense about 'er."

"I suppose she'll be quite safe going about alone?" said Colin. "People know she's working for the doctor?"

"Lor' love yer, yus," ejaculated Mr. Higgins. "No one wouldn't interfere with 'er, not round 'ere. This ain't the West End. We knows 'ow to be'ave ourselves in Shadwell."

"I'm just going along to the surgery now," said Colin. "I'll tell her some of the nice things you've been saying about her."

"You do," was the answer. "An' you can add, with my best respecks, mister, that if ever she'd honour this 'ouse by droppin' in and takin' a cup o' tea, there'd be no prouder man than Bill 'Iggins, not in the 'ole of London."

Five minutes later, with a pleasant tingle of anticipation in his heart, Colin mounted the steps of Mark's residence and jerked briskly at the bell. The door was opened by Martha Jane, the fat, grubby-faced little maid-of-all-work, who welcomed him with the grin of an old acquaintance.

"You'll find 'em hupstairs in the study," she announced, in answer to his inquiry. "I know they're expectin' you, 'cos the doctor told me not to bring tea till you came."

"Well, here I am," said Colin. "Is there anything good to eat?"

"I'm makin' scones," replied Martha Jane. "Some o' them yaller ones, wot you gen'rally seems to fancy."

Colin stepped inside and deposited Mark's umbrella in the hat stand.

"You push off and continue the good work," he remarked. "I'll find my own way up."

Still grinning, Martha Jane closed the front door and shuffled along the passage toward the kitchen. Just as she disappeared there was a sound on the landing above and Mark's spectacled face protruded itself over the banisters.

"You've been a devil of a time coming," he observed. "We were beginning to think you must have had a breakdown."

"I like that!" retorted Colin, struggling out of his overcoat. "Here have I been chasing all round London after your infernal umbrella——"

"Oh, you've got it, have you?" interrupted Mark. "That's topping. You don't know how deeply indebted I am to you."

"Yes, I do," said Colin. "Exactly half-a-crown—what I had to give the cabman as a reward for his honesty."

Nancy's face appeared suddenly beside that of her employer and smiled down at him in friendly welcome.

"Please don't start quarrelling about money," she said pathetically. "I'm simply dying for a cup of tea."

There seemed to be something strangely familiar and attractive to Colin in the mere sound of her voice, and, running lightly up the staircase, he pressed both their hands in a simultaneous greeting.

"I'm so sorry," he exclaimed. "I was forgetting the brutal way in which Mark always treats his staff. I suppose he has been working you to death and half starving you at the same time."

"Of course I have," declared Mark. "Look at her worn and haggard appearance."

"Well, we haven't been exactly idle," admitted Nancy, laughing. "All the same, I think I am bearing up pretty well."

Mark led the way into the study, where a table was already laid, and waved his hand toward the largest of the armchairs.

"You take the seat of honour, Colin," he said. "It's a privilege we always keep for distinguished strangers."

"There's no need to rub it in," objected Colin. "I should have looked you up ages ago if it hadn't been for my devotion to duty. This is the first holiday I've had since I went to the Professor's."

"How are you getting on?" asked Nancy.

"Up to the present," replied Colin modestly, "I think I have given what they call complete satisfaction."

"What's the old man like?" demanded Mark. "Easy to live with?"

Colin hesitated. "It all depends," he answered. "We've managed to hit it off well enough, but then I've rather gone out of my way to humour his little weaknesses. He's one of the sort that you've just got to take or leave. As long as you do exactly what he wants he's kindness itself. If any one tried to oppose him or contradict him I should think he could be distinctly unpleasant."

"There must be a lot of people about like that," said Nancy. "At least, I seem to have run up against a good few."

"And how do you stand with regard to the job?" inquired Mark. "I suppose he doesn't let you into more secrets than he can possibly help?"

"Oh, yes, he does," replied Colin. "He lets me into everything. I've soaked up so much knowledge the last three weeks that I'm beginning to wonder whether there's anything left to learn."

Mark gazed at him with a certain amount of incredulity. "Do you mean to say that if he died to-morrow you would be in a position to carry on his work?"

"I'd have a damn good shot at it, anyway," declared Colin. "Of course, I haven't a quarter of his ability, but he's discussed all his ideas with me, and explained them in such detail that if I couldn't make something or other out of them I should be next door to an idiot."

Mark turned to Nancy and nodded his head. "It's panning out just as I prophesied," he said sadly. "We sha'n't see much more of him at Shadwell. Before we can look round he'll be splashing about in a Rolls-Royce and——"

His prediction was cut short by the sudden appearance of Martha Jane, who lurched in through the doorway carrying a large tray and breathing somewhat heavily from her exertions.

"I vote that we adjourn the discussion of my future," suggested Colin, as they pulled up their chairs round the table. "It's your private affairs that interest me, Mark. As the person responsible for the engagement I want to know whether you are pleased with your new assistant."

Nancy, who had seated herself in front of the tray, paused with the teapot in mid-air.

"This is very embarrassing," she observed. "Hadn't I better leave the room for a few moments?"

"You go on pouring out," said Mark firmly. "You can blush just as well here as in the passage." He helped himself to a scone and pushed the plate across the table toward Colin. "When you told us you'd found an angel, my lad," he continued, "you were speaking the literal truth. I had no idea that there was another such woman in the world apart from Mary."

"Don't listen to him," interrupted Nancy hastily. "The truth is that both he and Mrs. Ashton are so ridiculously good-natured that they hadn't the heart to turn me away."

"I know Mary's opinion already," said Colin. "I had a touching little letter from her just before she went North. She seems to regard me as a highly successful understudy of Providence."

"And, by Gad, it's true!" broke in Mark with enthusiasm. "I should have been absolutely in the soup without Miss Seymour. She's simply splendid, Colin. Down here at nine o'clock every morning, and working away like a galley slave until seven or eight in the evening."

"Well, that's what I'm paid for," objected Nancy. "And, besides, I don't look on it as work. I so enjoy the feeling that I'm doing something useful, instead of sitting all day typing out a lot of stories that nobody wants to read."

"What do the patients think of the arrangement?" asked Colin. "I gathered from Mr. Higgins that it's one of the principal topics of local interest."

"It's been the best advertisement I ever had," replied Mark, with a chuckle. "I was a little doubtful at first, so I've told everybody that Miss Seymour and Mary are first cousins. We're rather strong on the conventions in Shadwell, and that put everything on a nice, respectable footing."

"I don't like tampering with the truth," said Colin. "All the same, it has its advantages at times." He glanced mischievously at Nancy. "In future, for instance," he added, "it will be obviously necessary that we should both address you by your Christian name."

Nancy laughed. "I never thought of that," she said. "It shows how unaccustomed I am to anything in the nature of deception."

"You'll soon improve," returned Colin hopefully. "It's wonderful what one can do after a month or two with the medical profession." He leaned forward and selected another scone from the rapidly dwindling pile. "Now what about that theatre idea of mine?" he continued. "Can't you possibly manage it, Mark? I'll do the thing in a really generous way—stand you dinner and seats and drive you both home in the car afterward."

Mark shook his head reluctantly. "I'd come like a shot if I could," he replied, "but I've about twenty prescriptions to make up and a dozen cases to attend to." He paused. "All the same," he added, "there's no earthly reason why you shouldn't take Miss Seymour."

"Oh, that's not fair," protested Nancy. "I can't go off and leave you to do all the work."

Mark folded his arms. "There's only one thing I demand from my staff," he observed sternly, "and that is complete and unquestioning obedience." He turned to Colin. "What you both want," he added, "is some fresh air and a little healthy amusement. Why not have a run out into the country first? It's a fine evening, and you can get back up West in plenty of time for the theatre."

"Now I call that a jolly bright notion!" exclaimed Colin. "What do you say, Cousin Nancy?"

"It sounds most tempting," agreed Nancy. "All the same, I think it would be horribly selfish. I am sure that if any one needs an evening off it's the doctor. The last thing I promised Mrs. Ashton was not to allow him to overwork."

"I am the head of the family," insisted Mark, "and my orders are that you leave this house directly you've finished tea. Take her for a good long spin to start with, Colin, give her a nice dinner, and then get seats for something really frivolous and cheerful. That's my prescription, and I depend on you to see that it's properly administered."

* * * * * * * * *

With her eyes shining, and her cheeks flushed by the wind, Nancy stepped out of the car on to the comparatively deserted pavement of Whitcomb Street.

"Oh!" she said with a faint sigh. "That was simply heavenly!"

Colin, who had jumped down first to open the door, looked at her with an approving twinkle.

"Not bad, was it?" he agreed. "We've only been an hour and a half and we must have done at least forty miles."

He glanced round in the direction of the Motor Club, outside which they had alighted, and at the same moment a broad-shouldered, seedy-looking gentleman in a dilapidated ulster suddenly appeared out of the darkness.

"Oh, there you are, Joe," he continued. "I want you to look after the car for me. We're dining and going to a theatre, so I don't suppose I shall be back until half-past eleven."

"That's all right, sir," replied Joe comfortingly. "You'll find me 'ere, no matter wot time you come."

"Now, where shall we make for?" inquired Colin, turning to Nancy. "Unless you've any particular choice I suggest Romano's and the Vaudeville."

Nancy looked a little doubtful. "I'm thinking of my clothes," she explained. "I'm not fit to go anywhere really smart."

Colin studied her critically. "Don't you believe it," he said. "You could walk straight into Paradise without even tidying up."

He slipped half-a-crown into Joe's hand, and, taking Nancy firmly by the elbow, piloted her across the street in the direction of Leicester Square.

Ten minutes later, escorted by a sympathetic manager, they were making their way toward a small table in the balcony of the famous Strand restaurant.

"You order the dinner," said Nancy, as they took their seats. "I always enjoy things much more if somebody else chooses them."

She leaned forward in her chair and looked down contentedly at the animated scene below, while Colin picked up the menu and studied it with becoming gravity.

"I think we'll have a little clear soup to start with," he began, "followed by sole à la bonne femme, a roast grouse, and iced meringues." He paused. "Do you prefer champagne or sparkling Moselle?"

"I don't know," said Nancy frankly. "I've never tasted either of them."

"We'll have a half bottle of both then," said Colin. "You can try them and see which you like best, and I'll drink the other."

"By the way," he added, as the waiter hurried off with the order, "have you been seeing anything of that friend of yours, Major Fenton—the chap you introduced me to in Jubilee Place?"

For a moment Nancy remained silent.

"Why do you ask me that?" she inquired.

"Oh, I don't know," said Colin casually. "It just happened to come into my head."

She paused again. "He has been round at the studio two or three evenings," she said slowly. "As a matter of fact, he was there last night."

"I suppose he's heard all about your new job?"

She nodded. "Doctor Gray——" she began.

"Make it Colin," he interrupted. "I can't call you Nancy unless you back me up."

"Well, Colin, then——" She hesitated once more. "There's something I think I ought to tell you about Major Fenton, only—only it's horribly difficult for me to know how to put it."

"Wait until you've had some dinner," he suggested. "No one talks comfortably when they're half starving."

She shook her head. "No, now I've started I think I'd better go on and get it over. The first time I saw Major Fenton after we met him together he naturally asked me who you were. I told him what I knew about you and how we'd become acquainted, and, although he didn't say much, he seemed to think that I'd done wrong in asking you back to my studio. I suppose in a way he looks on himself as a sort of guardian of mine."

"Perhaps he does," said Colin gravely. "People who have lived a long time in hot climates often suffer from hallucinations!"

"That didn't matter," continued Nancy, "but last night when he came round he spoke about you again, and this time he said something that made me really angry—something that I'm perfectly sure isn't true."

Colin was leaning toward her, his gray eyes alight with interest.

"What was it?" he demanded briefly.

"He—well, he didn't put it quite definitely, but he hinted that you were not the sort of man to make a friend of; that you were leaving the hospital on account of some dreadful scandal about one of the nurses."

For a second Colin stared at her in blank amazement. Then he suddenly broke into a peal of laughter.

"Good heavens, Nancy!" he exclaimed. "If you'd only seen 'em!"

"I didn't believe it, of course," she went on hurriedly. "I was certain he must be making some stupid mistake."

Colin's lips tightened. "I object to people making mistakes of that sort about me," he observed rather grimly.

Before Nancy could reply the waiter arrived with the soup, followed a moment later by another, who proceeded to uncork and pour out the wine.

"You mustn't take it too seriously," she continued, as soon as they were alone again. "It was a detestable thing of Major Fenton to say, but I don't think he meant any real harm by it. He explained that he'd heard the story from somebody at his club, and that he'd only repeated it to me because he felt that it was his duty. As I told you before, just because he once knew my father, he seems to have some ridiculous notion that he ought to look after me."

Colin, who had been sprinkling a little pepper into his soup, looked up with a smile.

"Well, don't let's waste our time discussing it any more," he said cheerfully. "It's just a silly lie, and, anyway, there are lots of much pleasanter things to talk about." He raised his glass. "I'm going to propose the health of our old pal 'Ginger Dick.' He may have his faults, but, after all, if it wasn't for him we shouldn't be sitting here now."

"That's true," agreed Nancy. "Here's to 'Ginger Dick." She took a long sip and then set down her glass. "If that's sparkling Moselle," she added thoughtfully, "I don't think I'll bother about tasting the champagne."

* * * * * * * * *

At about twenty minutes before midnight, faithful to his pledged word, the reliable Joe slouched forward out of the shadows and greeted them with a friendly salute.

"'Ere we are, guv'nor," he announced. "All ready an' waitin' for yer, as the grave-digger said."

He opened the door of the car for Nancy, and, making his way round to the front, succeeded after two or three abortive efforts in starting up the engine.

"She's a bit cold, like meself," he continued. "It's bin freezin' crool 'ard all the evenin', an' I reckon we both got a touch of it in our innards."

"You must follow it up with something hot," said Colin, handing him another half-crown. "Rum's the best as long as you don't put too much water into it."

"I ain't likely to," replied Joe, with a grin. "There's quite enough o' that done before we gets the blarsted stuff."

He pocketed the coin, and, closing the door after them, stepped back on to the pavement.

"Good-night, sir, an' thank yer kindly. Good-night, miss, an' Gawd bless yer both."

"I like Joe," said Nancy, as they slid out into the glare and tumult of Piccadilly Circus. "Is that his profession—standing there all night looking after cars?"

"That's his present profession," replied Colin, "but he's what you might call come down in the world. Before he took to drink he used to be one of the best middle-weight boxers in England."

Nancy opened her blue eyes to their fullest extent.

"A prize-fighter?" she exclaimed.

Colin nodded. "Joe Bates of Wapping. One of the gamest men who ever stepped into a ring."

"What made him take to drink?" inquired Nancy.

"I think it was chiefly the death of his wife," said Colin. "Anyhow, he went all to pieces about two years ago, and ended up by getting run over in the Fulham Road. They brought him along to St. Christopher's, where we managed to patch him up. I felt sorry for the poor chap, and when he came out I got him that job at the Motor Club. As people go, I think he's by way of being rather grateful."

He swung clear of the traffic outside the Ritz, and with a warning bark from the horn the little car leaped forward down the long, brilliantly lit slope.

Turning up her coat collar with one hand, Nancy settled herself contentedly in her seat.

"It's been a most exciting evening," she said. "I've enjoyed every single minute of it."

"So have I," agreed Colin with enthusiasm. "What do you say to repeating the experiment next week?"

"Only on one condition," replied Nancy. "I've got to take my turn in paying for dinner."

"But that's absurd!" protested Colin. "I'm a great deal richer than you are."

"No, you're not," was the indignant answer. "Why, I'm simply rolling in money. I've no expenses now except the rent of my studio, and Doctor Ashton pays me at least twice what I'm worth."

"I don't believe that," said Colin. "Still, if you're determined to be proud and ostentatious I suppose you must have your way."

He swerved to the left behind St. George's Hospital, and, cutting through the select precincts of Belgrave Square, came out within a few yards of the King's Road. In another minute they were turning the corner into Jubilee Place.

"Next week's a bargain, then," said Colin, as they stood facing each other on the empty pavement. "It's no good trying to fix a day at present; I'll just ring up one morning and we'll arrange it over the 'phone."

Nancy nodded. "That will be best," she said. "You mustn't desert the Professor—not unless he can manage all right without you."

She gave him her hand, which Colin squeezed in a friendly grip.

"Good-night, Nancy," he said. "Sleep well, and when you see Mark, tell him that for once in his life he actually prescribed the right treatment."

He waited until the front door had closed behind her, and then, having lit himself a cigarette, climbed back into the car, and started off again in the direction of Campden Hill.

It was a few minutes after midnight when he let himself in at the outer gate of the Red Lodge. The light was still burning in the hall, and, knowing from experience that the Professor frequently continued his work until the early hours of the morning, he walked straight through to the laboratory and tapped lightly on the door.

As he half expected, there was a creak of footsteps inside, and the Professor himself, wearing an old Jaeger dressing gown, appeared on the threshold. At the same moment a peculiarly acrid and unpleasant smell drifted past him into the passage.

"So you've come back, eh?" he said in his queer, high-pitched voice. "I hope you enjoyed your evening?"

"I didn't do badly," replied Colin. "I went to Shadwell, saw my friends, had a forty-mile run in the car, and finished up with a dinner and a theatre."

The old man nodded grimly. "It sounds rather an exhausting form of recreation. I should imagine that after all that you must be quite ready for your bed."

"Oh, I'm not tired," said Colin, "not in the slightest. If you've got anything on hand I should like to come in and make myself useful."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," returned the Professor. "You will help yourself to a whisky and soda, and then you will go straight upstairs to your room."

Colin hesitated. "And how about you, sir? Surely you've done enough work for to-day?"

"I shall be following you shortly," was the answer. "I am only waiting to see the result of a small experiment."

He nodded a curt good-night, and, stepping back again into the laboratory, closed the door behind him.

Dismissed in this unceremonious fashion, Colin made his way into the dining room, where he found a plate of sandwiches and a siphon set out ready for him on a tray. It was unthinkable that such an idea could have occurred to the unaided intelligence of Mrs. Ramsay, and, rather surprised at the Professor's consideration, he proceeded to mix a drink, which he carried with him up the staircase.

His room was situated on the first floor—a large, comfortable apartment looking out toward the back. It had been fitted up since his arrival with a gas stove, and, having lighted this and placed his tumbler upon the dressing table, he began in a leisurely fashion to get ready for bed.

The chief subject that occupied his thoughts was the revelation which Nancy had made to him at dinner. What on earth had induced Major Fenton to concoct that ridiculous story about a scandal at St. Christopher's Hospital? That it was an invention of his own Colin felt certain, and no man would take the responsibility of fathering such a lie unless he had some particularly strong object in view.

Could he have fallen in love with Nancy himself? If that were the case it would certainly supply a possible motive. Passion has a queer effect upon some characters, and the mere thought of her making friends with any one else might have filled him with such furious resentment that he had clutched at the first conceivable chance of breaking off their acquaintance.

It was a likely enough solution; and yet, somehow or other, it left Colin unconvinced. He had carried away a very unfavourable impression of Nancy's self-adopted guardian, but it was an impression that declined to fit in with this otherwise plausible theory. Unless his judgment were badly at fault, there was a hard, calculating selfishness stamped upon every line of the man's face. People of that sort are not swept off their feet by sudden outbursts of romantic jealousy, nor—which was another and extremely significant consideration—do they concern themselves unduly over the welfare of a dead friend's offspring.

It was this latter point, indeed, which puzzled Colin completely. He felt convinced that Major Fenton must have had some secret purpose in hunting Nancy out and practically forcing his acquaintance upon her. His story about a twenty-year-old friendship with her father would have sounded well enough in a sentimental novel, but having seen the gentleman for himself, and having had an illuminating example of his ideas of honour and fair play, Colin found the explanation uncommonly difficult to swallow.

Perhaps Inspector Marsden and his colleagues at the Yard would be able to throw some light on the problem. It would be interesting at least to know a little about the Major's career, and whether his past record was at all in keeping with this sudden excursion into philanthropy.

There was another possible source of information in the person of Mr. Medwin. The two men were certainly acquainted, otherwise Fenton's photograph would not have been adorning the mantelpiece in Albert Terrace. When he visited the house again he could easily find an opportunity to make some casual inquiry concerning the original, only it must be done in a sufficiently tactful manner not to arouse the lawyer's curiosity.

In any case, this alternative course could be postponed until he had received the Inspector's report. The odds were that, if there was really anything shady in Fenton's history, Marsden would succeed in unearthing it, and since Nancy seemed to be thoroughly capable of looking after herself, another week's delay was not likely to produce any tragical consequences.

With this consoling reflection Colin donned his pyjamas, and, turning out the fire, clambered into bed. He was just in that pleasantly drowsy stage when one feels half reluctant to fall asleep, and, lying there with the light on, he allowed his thoughts to drift back contentedly over the various details of his two meetings with Nancy.

It was an agreeable occupation, and the longer he indulged in it the more he began to realize what a very necessary part of his life she had already become. A kind of instinctive friendship seemed to have sprung up between them at their first encounter, and, although he had been unable to see her again until to-day, the interval had certainly not succeeded in making the faintest difference.

She was a girl in a thousand, there was no doubt about that! Mark evidently thought so, and, since he compared all women with Mary, his standard was about as high as any one could reasonably demand. How enchantingly pretty she had looked as they had sat opposite to each other at dinner. He had only to shut his eyes and——

Hullo! What the devil was that?

The sound had come from somewhere down below—a queer, half-deadened noise, like the distant crash of breaking glass.

In a second Colin was out of bed and had flung open the door. The lights were still burning exactly as he had left them, and, striding to the banisters, he peered over into the hall. Nothing seemed to be stirring; except for the steady ticking of the grandfather clock the whole house was as silent as a tomb.

With a momentary feeling of relief he moved toward the staircase. It was probably only some small accident; the Professor had most likely dropped a tumbler or broken a retort, and in the stillness of the night the noise had been naturally exaggerated. All the same, it would be just as well to have a look round.

Running lightly down in his bare feet, he crossed the hall and knocked at the laboratory door.

"It's I—Gray," he called out. "Anything wrong, sir?"

As he spoke he turned the handle, and the next moment he found himself standing in the open doorway, staring blankly in front of him.

The room was empty.

For the first time a real sense of misgiving suddenly took possession of him. He wheeled sharply round, and, hurrying back through the hall, rapped loudly at the door of the study.

"Mr. Carter," he shouted, "are you there?"

There was no answer.

He caught hold of the brass knob, only to make another and still more ominous discovery. Somebody had turned the key from inside.

With a quick breath he stepped back a couple of paces, and then, hunching up his shoulder, hurled himself against the panel. Under the impact of twelve stone and a few odd pounds the lock gave with a splintering crash which echoed through the house. The door swung open, and at the same moment the shrill scream of a terrified woman rang out from the top landing.

Clutching the broken woodwork to steady himself, Colin fumbled for the switch. His fingers closed on it in the darkness and, half prepared as he was for some horror, an involuntary cry broke from his lips as the whole room flared suddenly into light.

Face upward, in the centre of the French windows, lay the huddled figure of the Professor. One arm was twisted under him, and his white hair was dabbled in a stream of blood which still oozed slowly from a gaping wound in his forehead.

CHAPTER FIVE

At the sight of that hideous injury, all Colin's professional training instinctively asserted itself. Letting go the switch, he sprang forward, and, heedless of the blood and broken glass, dropped down on one knee beside the prostrate body.

It needed no medical knowledge to see that the case was hopeless. A terrific blow from some blunt instrument had smashed the whole front of the skull, and portions of the crushed and bleeding brain were even now protruding from the wound. Death must have come with merciful abruptness—a sudden and utter annihilation of every sense and feeling.

Almost dazed by the blast of fury that swept through him, Colin stumbled to his feet. He glanced wildly round the room, and the broken French window, one half of which was standing open, immediately caught his eye. Since the door had been locked from inside, it was the only way by which the murderer could have escaped. He had evidently darted through into the garden with the intention of climbing the wall, and, moved by a desperate hope, Colin stepped across the dead body and ran out on to the lawn. A flood of moonlight, streaming in through the bare trees, lit up the whole desolate expanse of grass and shrubs. Everything was perfectly still, and, except for the faint rumbling of a cart in the distance, the entire neighbourhood seemed to be plunged in absolute silence.

He was listening intently, with his eyes on the black line of bushes opposite, when a slight noise in the room behind attracted his attention. He turned round instantly, and through the window he caught sight of the panic-stricken figure of Mrs. Ramsay peering in at the open doorway.

As he moved forward into the light she uttered a stifled scream.

"Don't be frightened," he said quickly. "It's I—Doctor Gray."

Clutching at her dressing-gown with one hand, she pointed a trembling finger toward the body.

"Oh, my Gawd, sir," she gasped, "what is it? What's been happening?"

Colin stood in the window, his face white and set.

"The Professor has been murdered," he said.

She stared at him for a moment, as though his words conveyed no meaning; then with a pitiful sound, like the whimpering of a beaten dog, she staggered back against the wall.

Colin strode forward and took her by the arm.

"You must pull yourself together," he said curtly. "This is no time for hysterics. I want your help—now—at once."

As he expected, his almost brutal words had the desired result. She stopped crying, and once more her terrified glance travelled round in the direction of the dead man.

"Who—who killed him?"

Colin shook his head. "I don't know. When I came down the study door was locked from inside. I broke it open and found him lying here—like this."

"It must have been the same man," she whispered; "the one who tried to burgle his desk." She caught hold of Colin's sleeve, and looked up imploringly into his face. "Oh, sir, can't nothing be done? Isn't there——"

"I am going to telephone to the police. While I'm doing it I want you to stand outside in the hall, so that you can see into the room. If you hear the smallest sound or movement in the garden call to me at once."

She gazed fearfully toward the broken window.

"Do you think he's out there, sir, hiding in the bushes?"

"I think he's a quarter of a mile away by this time. All the same, until the police arrive the room mustn't be left unwatched for a single moment."

He waited until she had obeyed his instructions, and then, with a final glance round, walked swiftly down the passage and took off the receiver.

"Get me on to Scotland Yard as soon as possible," he said.

There was a note of urgency in his demand which must have carried conviction even to the mind of the clerk, for in something less than ten seconds the reply came.

"Scotland Yard speaking. Who's that?"

"Dr. Colin Gray. Can you tell me if Inspector Marsden is still there?"

"I think so. Hold on a minute and I'll find out."

A pause followed.

"Hullo!" exclaimed a voice. "I'm Marsden. What's the matter, doctor? I didn't expect to hear from you again at this time of night."

"It's a bad business," said Colin quietly. "I'm speaking from the Red Lodge, Campden Hill. I have just found Professor Carter lying dead in his study."

"Dead!" came the sharp rejoinder. "How did he die?"

"He has been murdered."

He heard a sudden exclamation at the other end of the wire.

"Murdered! Good God, doctor! Are you certain of what you're saying?"

"Perfectly certain. He has been murdered by some man who broke into the house after I had gone to bed. The whole front of his skull has been smashed to pieces."

There was a brief silence, followed by a few indistinct words, as though Marsden had turned round and was addressing someone else. Then his voice came again, clear and peremptory.

"When did this happen?"

"About six or seven minutes ago."

"How did the man escape?"

"I think he ran out into the garden and climbed over the wall."

"Is there any one else in the house besides you?"

"There are two old servants. One of them is watching the room now."

"You had better go back yourself, and stop there until we arrive. Leave everything exactly as you found it. Don't disturb the body and don't touch or move a single object. We shall be with you in a quarter of an hour. Do you quite understand?"

"Quite," said Colin.

He hung up the receiver as the detective rang off, and, shivering slightly from the cold, made his way back to where he had left the housekeeper.

"They're coming down almost at once," he said. "I'll wait here and let them in."

She moved back, as though glad to escape from the sight of the room.

"Then I'd better go up and get your dressing gown," she replied. "You'll catch your death standing about like that with nothing on."

Colin nodded gratefully. "You might fetch me some slippers, too, while you're about it," he said. "You'll find a pair alongside the bed. I turned out in such a hurry I forgot to put them on."

With trembling steps and holding tightly to the banisters, Mrs. Ramsay slowly ascended the staircase. She returned in a few minutes carrying the desired articles, and, stepping forward to meet her, Colin took them from her hands.

"Thanks so much," he exclaimed. "Now I think the best thing you can do is to get back to your room. I expect the police will want to see you when they come, but until then——"

Mrs. Ramsay shook her head.

"It wouldn't be no use, sir. I couldn't close my eyes, not if you was to offer me a thousand pounds." She turned again toward the stairs. "Besides, there's Mrs. Wilson—the cook, you know, sir. I've got to go and look after her."

"What's the matter? Is she ill?" demanded Colin.

"I heard her screaming," was the answer. "I shouldn't wonder if anything had happened, what with being woke up sudden and her having a weak heart."

"People don't often die from shock," said Colin. "Take her up a drop of brandy out of the dining room, and you had better have a little yourself at the same time."

He thrust his feet into the slippers, and, putting on his dressing gown, reentered the study.

Unlike most people whose ideas on the subject are drawn chiefly from sensational novels, Colin knew that the surest way of assisting a criminal was for some well-meaning amateur to conduct a few preliminary investigations before the arrival of the police. During his four years at the hospital he had twice been called upon to give evidence in cases of murder, and the experience had convinced him that it was only when a properly qualified detective was first in the field that any really valuable clues were likely to be forthcoming. Marsden's urgent instructions over the telephone had therefore been unnecessary; even without them he would certainly have waited for the Inspector's appearance before attempting any further interference with the existing condition of the room.

He walked across to where the Professor was lying and looked down again at the body. The sight filled him with a mingled grief and anger that were almost unbearable. He had revered the dead man with all the ardour of a disciple, and, in addition to this lifelong homage, their close intimacy during the last few weeks had produced other and still stronger ties. In spite of the old scientist's rather dictatorial manner, his attitude throughout had been so extraordinarily kind and generous that a very real if half-unconscious affection for him had gradually sprung up in Colin's heart. The thought that the murder had been committed while he was actually in the house only increased the horror and bitterness of the whole affair. No excuses could alter his feeling that he had failed miserably—failed in the very duty for which he had been selected and employed.

Self-reproaches, however, were of little use now, and with a tremendous effort he wrenched his mind back to the immediate problem that confronted it. Why, in God's name, should any one have wished to kill the Professor, and how had it come about that the latter's body was lying where it did? In order to reach the study from the laboratory one had to pass through the whole length of the hall. Colin's hearing was particularly acute, and he felt positive that the creak of footsteps or the opening or shutting of a door would instantly have attracted his attention. Nothing of the sort had happened. Until that one crash of breaking glass the whole house had been absolutely silent.

His eyes fell upon the damaged lock, and another question suddenly presented itself. Who had been responsible for turning the key? Surely it could not have been the Professor. If he had entered the room expecting to find it empty, what conceivable reason could he have had for fastening himself in? If, on the other hand, he had entertained even the remotest suspicion that somebody was hiding on the premises, he would certainly have come upstairs before attempting to approach the study.

It seemed more likely that the murderer had locked the door after committing the crime, so that he might have a better chance of making his escape. There was a coolness about the proceeding which suggested that he was fully aware of Colin's presence in the house, and a conviction that the whole thing had been planned and carried out with the most cold-blooded deliberation forced itself gradually upon the young surgeon's mind.

Had Mrs. Ramsay been right? Was it the same man who had ransacked the Professor's desk?

If it were so—and all the circumstances seemed to point to that conclusion—burglary and not murder had probably been the real object of his visit. There was evidently something in the place, some document or paper, of which he was desperately anxious to obtain possession. Having failed to find it at his first attempt, he had apparently returned to the house a second time in order to make another and more exhaustive search.

By some fatal chance the Professor must have taken it into his head to enter the study just after the intruder had succeeded in gaining admittance. On finding the window open he had naturally stepped forward to close it, only to receive a murderous blow out of the darkness, which had sent him crashing into the glass.

The one fact which refused to fit in with this theory was the entire absence of any sound right up to the actual moment of the crime. There must, of course, be some explanation, and Colin was puzzling his brains in a vain attempt to discover it when the loud peal of a bell suddenly jangled out from the kitchen.

Just pausing to gather his dressing gown about him, he hurried down the passageway to the outer door, which he unfastened and opened. A large car was drawn up in the roadway, and five men, two of them uniformed constables, were standing in a group on the pavement.

Inspector Marsden, who was in the centre, immediately came forward.

"Well, what's happened, doctor?" he inquired curtly. "Anything fresh to report?"

Colin shook his head. "Only what I told you over the telephone," he replied. "The Professor is dead, and the man who murdered him has escaped."

"That's enough to go on with, anyhow," returned the detective. "Jackson, you and Roberts stop here for the present. If any one attempts to leave the house arrest them at once."

With an obedient salute the two constables fell back, and, followed by his other companions, Marsden mounted the steps.

"This is Doctor Sinclair, our divisional surgeon," he announced. "He tells me that he has already had the pleasure of meeting you."

Colin shook hands with a tall, gray-bearded man, whose face seemed vaguely familiar.

"And this," continued the Inspector, "is Detective Sergeant Humphries, of the Finger Print Department. Now I think the first thing we'll do is to go in and have a look at the body. I'll take your statement as soon as the doctor has finished his examination."

Without offering any comment, Colin conducted them down the corridor, and, leading the way across the hall, brought them to the door of the study.

Marsden halted in the entrance, and stood staring silently at the tragic spectacle in front of him.

"You followed my instructions?" he asked. "Everything is exactly as you found it!"

"Exactly," said Colin.

"Then I'll ask you two gentlemen to wait here for a moment. There's just one point I should like to make certain about before any one touches the body."

He pulled out a notebook from his inside pocket, and, beckoning to his colleague stepped forward into the room.

Doctor Sinclair moved across to where Colin was standing.

"I don't suppose you remember me," he said, "but I called in at St. Christopher's last year in connection with one of your cases." He nodded toward the two detectives, both of whom were kneeling down beside the dead man. "This is a very terrible business," he added. "I was horrified when I heard that it was Professor Carter."

Colin, whose mind was in no state for conversation, made an effort to collect his thoughts.

"Did you know him personally?" he asked.

The surgeon shook his head. "No," he replied. "Like everyone else, I was a great admirer of his work, but I never had the honour of being introduced to him. The police tell me that you were acting as his resident assistant."

"I came here straight from the hospital," said Colin. "I had been with him for nearly a month."

"It seems such a particularly brutal and senseless crime," continued the other, after a short pause. "One would think that even the most callous ruffian would hesitate about striking down an old man of over eighty." He glanced at Colin's dressing gown. "I gather that the murderer broke into the house after you had gone to bed?"

Colin was about to answer when the Inspector got up suddenly and turned toward the door.

"We've seen all we want to for the present, doctor. Perhaps you'll be good enough to have a look at the body now, and let's hear your opinion?"

The surgeon hurried forward, and, following him slowly into the room, Colin seated himself on the corner of the sofa. From this position he was able to watch the proceedings of all three of his companions, none of whom for the moment betrayed any desire to interrogate him further. Doctor Sinclair, after taking off his coat, became wholly absorbed in his professional duties. Marsden appeared to be busy making notes, while the sergeant, who had produced an electric torch and a large magnifying glass, stepped down into the garden and began a minute examination of the still open French window.

At last, after a lapse of several minutes, the surgeon rose to his feet.

"It is a clear case of deliberate murder," he said slowly. "The Professor was struck on the temple by some blunt weapon—probably a jemmy. There is no doubt that he was killed instantly. I should think he has been dead for about twenty minutes."

The Inspector turned to Colin. "You were the first to view the body," he remarked. "Is there anything in the doctor's report with which you are not in agreement?"

"Nothing," replied Colin. "I came to the same conclusion myself directly I examined the wound."

Marsden pulled a chair up to the table, and the sergeant, who had been listening from the window, stepped forward and joined him.

"I want the full facts now, Doctor Gray," he said brusquely. "Tell us in your own words exactly what happened from the moment you returned to the house."

Amid a profound silence, broken only by the occasional scratching of the Inspector's pencil, Colin proceeded to relate his story. Starting with his talk to the Professor at the laboratory door, he went on step by step to describe the whole of his subsequent experiences right up to the arrival of his present companions. He kept strictly to the bare facts, making no attempt to explain his own views, and all three of his audience listened to him with an absorbed interest, which showed itself plainly in their faces.

It was only when he had quite finished that the Inspector offered his first comment.

"Well, I wish everyone could make a statement like that," he said approvingly. "It would save us a lot of trouble in the course of the year." He leaned forward, and ran his eye over the various notes which he had jotted down while Colin was speaking. "This other burglary that the housekeeper referred to," he inquired; "when did that take place?"

"I think it was about three months ago," said Colin, after a moment's reflection. "I wasn't here at the time; in fact, there was no one else in the house except Mrs. Ramsay and the cook. That was really the chief reason why the Professor decided to engage an assistant."

"Why weren't the police notified?" demanded the Inspector. "There was certainly no report sent in to the Yard."

"The Professor declared that he didn't want to waste his time. He was a very busy man, and as nothing appeared to have been stolen he decided to let the whole matter drop."

"Nothing stolen!" repeated Marsden, raising his eyebrows. "Are you perfectly certain about that?"

"It's what he told me, anyhow," replied Colin. "According to him, the only damage they did was to smash open his desk and search his papers."

Both men glanced across the room in the direction of the oak bureau.

"Is that the desk?" inquired the Sergeant.

Colin nodded.

"Had he any idea what they were after?"

"Not the slightest. All his papers which are of any scientific value are kept in the laboratory. I believe he had some money and valuables in the safe, but they seem to have left that entirely alone."

There was a brief silence, and then, without saying anything, the Sergeant got up from his chair and walked over toward the two pieces of furniture in question. Marsden remained seated, his keen blue eyes fixed thoughtfully upon Colin's face.

"What's your opinion, doctor?" he asked at last.

"I am inclined to agree with Mrs. Ramsay," said Colin. "I think it was the same man who broke into the house before. He is evidently searching for some particular paper or document, and as he couldn't find it in the desk he came back a second time to try and open the safe. On his first visit he probably hadn't got the necessary tools with him."

"And how about the murder?"

Colin hesitated. "There's one thing I don't understand," he frankly admitted. "I left the Professor working in the laboratory, and it's a mystery to me how he managed to reach the study without my hearing him. I was awake the whole time, and I can swear that there wasn't a sound."

"Well, I can explain that to you," said the Inspector. "Mr. Carter didn't cross the hall; he entered the room by the window."

With a sudden exclamation Colin started to his feet.

"By Jove, what an idiot I am!" he exclaimed. "I never thought of that. Of course, there's a side door from the laboratory into the garden."

"I imagined that there must be," said Marsden, "and I haven't the least doubt that we shall find it unlocked." He got up from his chair and glanced at the police surgeon, who was standing by himself in front of the fire. "I don't think we need keep you any longer, Doctor Sinclair," he added. "I'll let you know what time we fix for the P.M. as soon as I've seen Ashford."

The surgeon, who seemed ready enough to depart, picked up his hat and coat.

"You can tell him to 'phone me at my house," he replied. "I shall be there till midday for certain."

He nodded a general good-night, and, accepting Colin's offer to escort him to the front door, accompanied the latter through the hall and down the outer corridor.

"We shall be bound to come across each other again during the next few days," he said as they shook hands. "I only hope that when all this is over we shall have the pleasure of meeting under less distressing circumstances."

Colin returned some more or less suitably polite rejoinder, and, shutting the door, made his way back to the study.

He found the two detectives standing in front of the safe, the sergeant stooping down and apparently engaged in some experiment with the lock.

Marsden looked round at his entrance.

"We'll leave Humphries to finish up here," he said. "I want you to take me to the laboratory; and afterward, if you'll call down the servants, I'd like to have a few minutes' conversation with both of them."

"I don't suppose you'll get much out of the cook," said Colin doubtfully. "According to Mrs. Ramsay, she's collapsed for the night."

"She'll talk all right," was the somewhat cynical answer. "Women can always pull themselves together if there's a chance of using their tongues."

He stepped forward briskly, and, following Colin to the back of the house, turned down the side passage which led to the laboratory.

The door of the latter apartment was still open, and at the sight of the big, brilliantly lit interior he pulled up with an exclamation of surprise.

"Hullo!" he remarked. "I'd no idea it was such a size. The old man must have been pretty well off if he could afford to run up places like this."

He glanced round the room as though in search of the additional exit, and, without waiting for his question, Colin pointed toward a high screen which jutted out at right angles from the wall.

"It's behind there," he explained. "I never thought of looking to see if it was open. The Professor told me that he only used it in summer time."

"He used it to-night," was the detective's reply. "If he hadn't he would probably be alive now."

As he spoke he descended the steps, and, with Colin in close attendance, strode confidently toward the spot. They came to a halt in front of a small oak door, flush with the wall, and, catching hold of the handle, Marsden gave it a sharp turn. The next moment a gust of cold wind was blowing in their faces, and they were staring across the lawn in the direction of the study windows, from which a flood of yellow light streamed out into the darkness of the garden.

It was the Inspector who first broke the silence. "That's clear enough as far as it goes," he observed. "The question is, Why did he open the door at one o'clock in the morning?"

A possible explanation suddenly occurred to Colin.

"I shouldn't wonder if he wanted to let in a little fresh air. He'd been making an experiment, and there was a horrible smell in the room when I spoke to him at the doorway."

"You've got it," was Marsden's laconic answer. He pulled out an electric torch, a duplicate of the sergeant's, and allowed the light to play backward and forward over the patch of gravel outside. "I don't suppose there will be any footprints," he continued. "It's been freezing too infernally hard for that, and, in any case, we shall only do more harm than good by trampling all over the place in the dark." He switched off the torch, and closing and locking the door, put away the key in his pocket.

"We'll get back now," he added, "and if you'll give me a hand I think we'll move the Professor's body into his own bedroom. When we've done that you can call down the servants."

They returned to the study, where they found Humphries still examining the safe, and after the Inspector had exchanged a few words with his subordinate, he and Colin set about their task.

Lifting the frail, bloodstained figure between them, they carried it slowly up the staircase as far as the first landing. The Professor's room was situated right at the end of the corridor, a large, sparsely furnished apartment with an old-fashioned four-poster in the farther corner. They laid their burden on the bed, and Marsden stood up, cap in hand, while Colin sponged away the blood and covered over the body with a clean sheet.

"It's a wretched sort of ending to a life like his," said the detective, with an unexpected touch of feeling. "One of the greatest scholars in the world, so they tell me; and look at him now—knocked on the head and done for, just like any common drunk in a street fight!" He paused. "I'm not a rich man," he added, "but I'd give a couple of months' pay to put a rope round the neck of the party who did this."

He walked to the door, and, replacing his cap, glanced up at the landing above.

"You might give the servants a call now, doctor," he said. "Don't frighten 'em; just say that if they feel up to it I'd like to have a nice friendly little chat in the study." He dived into his pocket and once more pulled out his notebook. "By the way, can you tell me the name and address of the Professor's solicitor? We shall have to get hold of him the first thing in the morning."

"It's a Mr. Medwin," said Colin. "He lives close by here in Albert Terrace, but I'm hanged if I can remember his number."

"That doesn't matter," returned Marsden. "I can easily look him up in the telephone directory."

He jotted down the name, and, replacing the book in his pocket, laid his hand on Colin's arm.

"There'll be no need for you to stay up any longer," he said. "Both Humphries and I have got plenty to keep us busy until breakfast time. You turn in and get some sleep as soon as you've brought down the servants."

Colin, who was beginning to feel distinctly weary, contented himself with a nod.

"You'll know where to find me," he said, pointing to his room. "If there's anything you happen to want just give me a call."

He left his companion at the end of the passage and mounted the second flight, which led up to the servants' quarters. Somewhat to his surprise, he found Mrs. Ramsay and the cook, both fully dressed, standing on the small landing at the head of the stairs.

"We couldn't stop in bed," explained the former, "not after we heard the bell ring. Oh, sir, what do the police say? Have they——"

"The Inspector wants to have a few minutes' talk with both of you," he said. "Of course, if Mrs. Wilson doesn't feel well enough——"

The cook drew herself up with a suggestion of injured pride.

"I know my duty, sir," she remarked. "If the police wishes for my hevidence they shall have it heven if I drop dead on the carpet, the same as my poor mother did before me."

There being apparently nothing further to be said, Colin conducted his charges as far as the study, where he found the two detectives waiting to receive them. He remained just long enough to make the necessary introductions, and then, availing himself of Marsden's suggestion, returned upstairs again to his own room.

Now that his services were no longer needed an irresistible reaction had suddenly set in. He felt tired out in mind and body, and, scarcely conscious of anything but an intense desire for sleep, he threw off his dressing gown, and, for the second time that evening, clambered thankfully into bed.

* * * * * * * * *

It seemed to him as though he had scarcely laid his head upon the pillow when he was abruptly aroused by a touch on the shoulder. He sat up with a start, and, rubbing his eyes, perceived a burly and familiar figure standing beside him in the gloom.

"Hullo, Inspector!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter? Anything wrong?"

"Only the time," returned his visitor. "It's just gone eight, and as we're expecting Mr. Medwin at nine I thought I'd better give you a knock-up."

With rather a rueful laugh Colin threw back the clothes.

"How about breakfast?" he inquired. "Have you made any arrangements?"

"The cook's on the job," was the encouraging answer. "I was careful to keep on the right side of her last night, and she's promised us a dish of eggs and bacon at a quarter past."

"I'll be there," said Colin, thrusting a leg over the side. "How did you and the sergeant get on after I'd gone to bed?"

"Well, we haven't altogether wasted our time," said Marsden, turning toward the door. "I won't hang about in your way now, however. You shall have the news—such as it is—while we're waiting for the solicitor."

He disappeared with a friendly nod, and, after indulging in a cold tub and a somewhat hasty toilet, Colin followed him downstairs to the dining room.

His arrival synchronized almost exactly with that of Mrs. Ramsay, who appeared from the kitchen carrying a well-laden tray. She arranged the contents on the breakfast table, which was already set out, at the same time expressing an apologetic hope that if there were any shortcomings they might be attributed to the natural agitation of herself and the cook. She then retired, and with an air of businesslike alacrity the two detectives drew up their chairs.

"This will just suit my complaint," observed Marsden, uncovering the eggs and bacon. "I was never a believer in working on an empty stomach, and I reckon Humphries here is pretty much of the same opinion."

"There were some sandwiches and whisky on the sideboard last night," said Colin. "I ought to have told you before I went to bed."

"Oh, we found them all right," returned Marsden with a smile. "And, for the matter of that, some very excellent cigars, too." He helped his companions to a generous portion each, and transferred the remainder to his own plate. "I only wish," he added grimly, "that we'd been equally successful in our professional discoveries."

"Have you any clue at all?" asked Colin.

"Depends on what you call a clue," was the answer. "I can tell you one thing for a certainty. Whoever broke into the house was an old hand at the game, and, what's more, a chap who knew his job from A to Z."

"Why do you think that?"

"Well, you're not likely to find an amateur burglar who can cut out a pane of glass without making a sound, nor yet one who wears gloves so as to hide his finger prints. Besides, no one but an expert cracksman could possibly have forced the lock of the safe."

"I didn't know it was forced," said Colin.

"One bolt had gone, anyhow; and a very neat bit of work it was, too, eh, Humphries?"

The sergeant, whose mouth was full, confined himself to an affirmative grunt.

"That rather knocks the bottom out of my theory," said Colin, after a short pause.

"It simplifies things a good deal from our point of view," returned the Inspector. "Directly we can get a crime into a particular class we're half way toward finding the man who did it. You see, there are never more than a certain number of skilled burglars out of prison, and it's the Yard's business to keep a pretty close eye on what they're up to. Roughly speaking, a case like this narrows itself down to about twenty or thirty likely parties. By to-night they'll all have been put through it, and if there's a single one who can't account exactly for what he was doing he'll—well, he'll be what the newspapers call 'detained for further inquiries.'

"Do you think it was the same man who broke in before?" asked Colin.

Marsden looked doubtful. "It may be, of course, and if that's so there's probably more in the case than appears on the surface. A man like the Professor might very well have had papers and secrets that certain people were anxious to get hold of, and it's quite on the cards that they might have taken in a professional thief to do their dirty work for them. The trouble is that at present we know practically nothing about his private life."

"I can't help you there," said Colin. "I believe that Mr. Medwin was the only person who was at all in his confidence."

"Well, Mr. Medwin will be able to answer for himself in a few minutes. Our next best hope is to get on to the track of this old manservant Kennedy. He seems to have been with the Professor for about forty years, so if he's still alive he might be able to give us some useful information."

"I expect Mrs. Ramsay or the cook could let you have his address."

"I asked them last night, but neither of them has the least notion where he is. From the way they spoke I gather that there was precious little love lost between them. However, he will probably show up as soon as he reads about the murder, and, if not, we oughtn't to have much difficulty——"

A ring at the front door bell interrupted his words, and, glancing at the clock, he gulped down the remainder of his tea.

"I wonder if this is our man," he added. "You don't often find a solicitor ahead of his time." He turned to Colin as Mrs. Ramsay's steps were heard crossing the hall. "Just a word of caution, doctor. He knows nothing about the murder yet, and I've told the old lady to keep her tongue quiet while she's showing him in. Leave me to break the news if you will; I've a fancy to see how he takes it."

Colin's only reply was a nod, and the three of them sat in silence until the door opened and Mrs. Ramsay appeared on the threshold, with the massive form of Mr. Medwin looming up behind her.

The solicitor, who was wearing a frock-coat and carrying a top hat in his hand, took a couple of paces forward. Then with an air of surprise he came to a sudden halt.

The Inspector rose instantly.

"Let me introduce myself, Mr. Medwin. I am Inspector Marsden, of Scotland Yard."

Mr. Medwin bowed, his close-set eyes travelling swiftly over the other occupants of the room.

"Good morning," he said, in that peculiarly suave voice of his. "May I inquire what all this signifies?"

"Professor Carter has been murdered."

Marsden's answer came with startling bluntness, and there could be no question as to the effect that it produced. An expression of incredulous amazement flashed across the big man's face, and for a moment he stood gripping his hat and staring blankly at the speaker.

"Murdered?" he exclaimed at last. "Impossible! There must be some mistake."

"It's not the sort of thing that lends itself to mistakes," returned the detective.

Mr. Medwin drew in a long breath, and Colin, who was watching intently, saw that he was making a tremendous effort to recover his self-control.

"I think I had better sit down for a moment," he said slowly.

He moved forward, and, laying his hat on the corner of the table, sank into the vacant chair from which Marsden had just arisen.

"You must excuse me," he continued. "I feel half stunned at this appalling news. The Professor was one of my most valued friends." He moistened his lips and glanced up suddenly at the detective. "When did it happen?" he demanded.

"Last night," was the reply, "or, to be more exact, about a quarter to one this morning."

"Why wasn't I sent for before?"

Marsden stroked his moustache, and eyed the other with a kind of dispassionate interest.

"Well, Mr. Medwin, I appreciate the importance of your testimony, but as I happen to be responsible for this case you must permit me to conduct my investigation in the way that I consider best."

Instead of betraying any resentment at the snub, the solicitor merely nodded.

"Quite so," he assented readily. "Your first step would naturally be to go into all the circumstances of the murder, and I was forgetting for a moment what a great deal of work it must have entailed." He paused. "Have you made any discoveries?" he asked. "Anything that could possibly be described as a clue?"

"Several," replied Marsden. "But I think it will save time if I give you the full details straight away. There are several peculiar features about the affair, and it's not much use discussing them until you are in possession of the facts."

Mr. Medwin folded his arms.

"Just exactly as you prefer," he remarked. "Please consider me entirely at your service."

Without wasting any more words Marsden entered upon a brief description of everything that had taken place from the moment when Colin had returned to the house. The curt and matter-of-fact fashion in which he told his story seemed somehow or other to heighten its dramatic horror, and, in spite of the solicitor's expressionless face, it was easy to see the strained attention with which he was following every word. Once or twice he seemed to be on the point of asking a question, but on each occasion he apparently changed his mind at the last moment, as though unwilling to interrupt the narrative.

"As far as I can see at present," concluded Marsden, "there are two probable lines of inquiry, both of which I propose to follow up. Either it was an ordinary case of burglary, or else the thief was after some particular object that he believed to be hidden in the study. With regard to the actual murder, I am inclined to think that it was more or less of an accident. The silly fool got rattled when the old man came in at the window, and smashed his head in before he realized what he was doing. He has probably been cursing himself ever since."

"I should say that your first suggestion was the right one," remarked Mr. Medwin. "An old-fashioned house like this, shut away from the road, is exactly the sort of place that a professional burglar would select. It's very improbable there's anything more in it than that—a sordid attempt at house-breaking, ending up in a brutal and bloody murder."

"Well," returned Marsden slowly, "I'm not altogether satisfied on the point. Take the question of this previous attempt. Granting it was the same man, why did he content himself with merely examining the desk?"

The lawyer glanced swiftly in the direction of Colin.

"Is that what the Professor told you?" he asked.

Colin nodded.

"He said the same thing to me," continued the other, "but I remember wondering at the time whether his statement could really be trusted. Like so many gifted men, he was curiously careless in the matter of money. It's quite possible that he may have had a bundle of notes in some drawer that he remembered nothing about."

"And you think that, having whetted his appetite, the thief came back for more?"

Marsden put the question almost casually.

Mr. Medwin spread out his hands. "Surely it's a more likely theory than to imagine the existence of some mysterious object that nobody has ever heard of?"

"I suppose that if the Professor had had any specially valuable paper or secret in his possession he would probably have mentioned the fact? I gather that you were entirely in his confidence?"

"Entirely, as far as his business arrangements were concerned."

"And how about his private affairs?"

The solicitor paused. "I am as much in the dark as you are with regard to them. On anything that concerned himself Mr. Carter was one of the most reticent men who ever lived."

"So I understand from Dr. Gray," returned the Inspector. "All the same, we shall have to look into the matter, and I should think the easiest way of doing it would be to get in touch with his old servant, Kennedy. Do you happen to know where he can be found?"

Colin, who was watching closely, thought that he detected a faint change of expression in the solicitor's face. If so, it passed away instantly.

"I haven't any idea," was the reply. "I am afraid it's very likely that he's dead. He was partly paralyzed when he left the Professor's service, and I don't imagine he would have lasted for more than a few months."

The Inspector walked to the window and for a moment or two stared thoughtfully out into the garden.

"What about the estate?" he asked, turning round suddenly. "Who comes into the property?"

Mr. Medwin shrugged his shoulders. "There again I am completely at sea. I presume that it passes to the next of kin, but who that fortunate person may be I haven't the remotest notion."

"Hasn't Mr. Carter made a will?"

"Not that I'm aware of. I suggested to him several times that he ought to take some steps in the matter, but he always made the excuse that he was too busy to be bothered about it at the moment. As so often happens in these cases, the opportunity has now gone by for ever."

"Then if no one comes forward the money passes to the Crown?"

"That is so; but it's not a situation which is likely to occur. In view of the large fortune at stake some claimant is certain to put in an appearance."

The Inspector raised his eyebrows. "A large fortune, eh?" he repeated. "Can you give us any idea of what it amounts to?"

Mr. Medwin reflected. "The Professor has been saving money for years," he said slowly. "He drew a big income from his various patents, and his personal expenditure was comparatively trifling. Some of his experiments were naturally rather costly, but, all the same, there can be no doubt that he was an extremely wealthy man. As a rough estimate I should say that he was worth at least a couple of hundred thousand pounds."

CHAPTER SIX

"We find that Professor Carter was wilfully murdered by some person or persons unknown."

The foreman of the jury, a stout, pompous little man who was evidently pleased with his temporary importance, announced the verdict in a loud and impressive voice.

A moment's silence followed as the Coroner wrote down the words, and then, amid a general murmur of voices and shuffling of papers, the crowded court commenced to break up.

Colin, who was sitting on one of the back benches, remained in his place while the building slowly emptied itself. At last, just as it was clearing, the Inspector and Mr. Medwin appeared together in the gangway, and, picking up his hat, he stepped out to join them.

The solicitor was the first to speak.

"An unsatisfactory verdict," he observed, "but, considering the entire lack of any definite evidence, I suppose it was the only one that could be expected."

"I've no complaint to make," remarked Marsden. "I should say that it summed up the situation exactly."

"Well, you're as much concerned with finding out the truth as either of us," returned the other, "but I must confess to being a little disappointed that we've made no further progress. It seems extraordinary that a crime like this can be committed, and that there should be absolutely no clue to the murderer."

"It's a remarkable case all round," agreed Marsden. "One of its most peculiar features is the fact that no one has yet come forward to claim relationship with the Professor. I suppose you've discovered nothing fresh about his private affairs since our conversation yesterday?"

"Nothing," was the answer. "If I had I should have informed the Coroner. My own opinion is that before long we are bound to get on the right track, and in the meanwhile the only thing to do is to go on with the business of winding up the estate. I am working in conjunction with the solicitor for the Treasury, and he assures me that we shall be allowed plenty of time to make the most exhaustive inquiries before the Crown takes any steps to put forward a claim." He turned to Colin. "By the way, I wanted to have a talk with you, Gray," he added. "I understand that your arrangement with the Professor was only a verbal one, but, all the same, I think you are at least entitled to six months' salary. I will discuss the point with the Treasury, and, should they raise no objection, I will take the responsibility of forwarding you a cheque."

"It's very good of you," said Colin coolly, "but if you won't think me ungrateful I would much prefer that you allowed the matter to drop. I am not in need of money, and the small amount of work I did has already been exceedingly well paid for."

Mr. Medwin smiled benevolently.

"Just as you please," he observed. "It's refreshing to come across any one who takes such a modest and unmercenary view of their services." He paused. "I have no idea what your plans are," he continued, "but should you be anxious to obtain some particular appointment I shall be only too delighted to do anything I can to assist you. I know that Mr. Carter entertained the very highest opinion of your abilities."

"I am not looking out for a new job at present," replied Colin bluntly. "I am going to find the man who murdered the Professor. There'll be time enough to think about my own affairs after he's been tried and hanged."

As he spoke the court clock chimed the hour, and with a sudden air of surprise Mr. Medwin pulled out his watch.

"One o'clock," he exclaimed. "I didn't realize it was so late. I have promised to lunch with a client of mine, so I'm afraid I must hurry off." He shook hands with each of them in turn. "I need hardly say I wish you both every success in your investigations. You will no doubt keep me informed of any discoveries you make, and sooner or later, if we all work together, I feel convinced that the truth will come out."

With a friendly nod he turned toward the door, and the next moment Colin and the Inspector were left alone.

"I don't know why it is," said Colin. "I've nothing against that chap, but somehow or other I feel dead certain that he's a wrong 'un."

"We shall be very unpopular if we stop and discuss the matter here," replied Marsden. "They've been waiting to shut the court for the last five minutes."

"Well, suppose we go and have some lunch," suggested Colin. "I know quite a decent place round the corner in the High Street, and there are one or two things I'd like to have a talk about if you're not in a great hurry."

"I was going to propose it myself," replied Marsden. "I've got one of our men coming down to take some photographs at the Red Lodge this afternoon. He'll be along about a quarter to two, so that will just spin out the time until he arrives."

They left the court, and a few minutes later they were seated at a table in a discreet little French restaurant, the stout proprietress of which greeted Colin with a motherly and familiar smile.

"It's curious you should have said that about our legal friend," began Marsden, as soon as they had given their order. "I don't set much store myself on what people call instincts; I've seen too many of 'em go wrong. All the same, from the moment I clapped my eyes on this fellow Medwin I've had a sort of feeling that he was keeping something up his sleeve."

"Something to do with the murder?" demanded Colin.

Marsden broke off a bit of crust and chewed it thoughtfully.

"On the whole I should say not," he replied. "There's no getting away from the fact that he was knocked all of a heap when he heard the news. I'm more inclined to think that he's up to some hanky-panky with regard to the old man's money. He may have a notion who the rightful heirs are, and, if so, he's probably lying low with the idea of making a bit out of it himself."

"What sort of a standing has he got in his profession?" asked Colin.

"Oh, good enough as far as it goes," returned the detective. "Still, I thought there'd be no harm in making a few inquiries, so I've asked Ainsworth to tackle the job himself. It will have to be done carefully, of course; if Medwin got wind of the fact he'd probably kick up the devil of a dust."

"Are you any further on at all with regard to the murder?" asked Colin.

Marsden gave a warning glance in the direction of the returning waiter, and for several minutes the two of them remained silent, while a deftly moving Italian attended to their needs.

"There's no point in informing the rest of the world," remarked Marsden, as soon as they were alone again, "but, to tell you the truth, we seem to be up against a blank wall. I didn't say too much to the Coroner, chiefly on account of the newspapers. Some of them are always waiting for a chance to dig out the old stunt about the incompetence of Scotland Yard, so in a case like this it's just as well to give the impression that we're keeping something in the background. As a matter of cold fact, I only wish we were."