She pointed a slender, quivering finger to a box which stood, lid thrown

open, on a table in the sitting-room, by which the detectives were
standing, open-mouthed, and obviously puzzled. Allerdyke, following the
pointing finger, noted that the box was a very ordinary-looking
affair--a tiny square chest of polished wood, fitted with a brass swing
handle. It might have held a small type-writing machine; it might have
been a medicine chest; it certainly did not look the sort of thing in
which one would carry priceless jewels. But Mademoiselle de Longarde was
speaking again.

"That's what I always carried my jewels in--in their cases," she said.
"And they were all in there when I left Christiania a few days ago, and
that box has never been out of my sight--so to speak--since. And when I
opened it here to-night, wanting the things, it was as empty as it is
now. And if I behave handsomely, and go with Weiss there, to fulfil this
engagement, it'll only be on condition that you stop here, Fullaway, and
do your level best to get me my jewels back. I've done all I can--I've
told the manager there, and I've told those two policemen, and not a man
of them seems able to suggest anything! Perhaps you can."

With that she disappeared and slammed the door of the bedroom, and the
six men, left in a bunch, looked at each other. Then one of the
detectives spoke, shaking his head and smiling grimly.

"It's all very well to say we suggest nothing," he said. "We want some
facts to go on first. Up to now, all the lady's done is to storm at us
and at everybody--she seems to think all Edinburgh's in a conspiracy to
rob her! We don't know any circumstances yet, except that she says she's
been robbed. Perhaps--"

"Wait a bit," interrupted Fullaway. "Let us get her off to her
engagement. Then we can talk. I suppose," he continued, turning to the
manager, "she first announced her loss to you?"

"She announced her loss to the whole world, in a way of speaking,"
answered the manager, with a dry laugh.

"She screamed it out over the main staircase into the hall! Everybody in
the place knows it by this time--she took good care they should. I don't
know how she can have been robbed--so far as I can learn she's scarcely
been out of these rooms since she came into them yesterday afternoon. The
grand piano had been put in for her before she arrived, and she's spent
all her time singing and playing--I don't believe she's ever left the
hotel. And as I pointed out to her when she fetched me up, she found this
box locked when she went to it--why didn't the thieves carry it bodily
away? Why--"

"Just so--just so!" broke in Fullaway. "I quite appreciate your points.
But there is more in this than meets the first glance. Let us get
Mademoiselle off to her engagement, I say--that's the first thing. Then
we can do business. Weiss," he continued, drawing the concert-director
aside, "you must arrange to let her appear as soon as possible after you
get back to the hall, and to put forward her appearance in the second
half of your program, so that she can return here as soon as
possible--she'll only be in irrepressible fidgets until she knows what's
been done. And--you know what she is!--you ought to be very thankful that
she's allowed herself to be persuaded to go with you. Mademoiselle," he
went on, as the prima donna, fully attired, but innocent of jewelled
ornament, swept into the room, "you are doing the right thing--bravely!
Go, sing--sing your best, your divinest--let your admiring audience
recognize that you have a soul above even serious misfortune. Meanwhile,
allow me to order your supper to be served in this room, for eleven
o'clock, and permit me and my friend, Mr. Allerdyke, to invite ourselves
to share it with you. Then--we will give you some news that will
interest and astonish you."

"That only makes me all the more frantic to get back," exclaimed the
prima donna. "Come along, now, Weiss--you've got a car outside, I
suppose? Hurry, then, and let me get it over."

When the vastly relieved concert-director had led his bundle of silks and
laces safely out, Fullaway laughed and turned to the other men.

"Now, gentlemen," he said, "perhaps we can have a little quiet talk about
this affair." He flung himself into a seat and nodded at the
hotel-manager. "Just tell us exactly what's happened since Mademoiselle
arrived here," he said. "Let's get an accurate notion of all her doings.
She came--when?"

"She got here about the beginning of yesterday afternoon," answered the
manager, who did not appear to be too well pleased about this disturbance
of his usual proceedings. "She has always had this suite of rooms
whenever she has sung in Edinburgh before, and it was understood that
whenever she wrote or wired for them we were to arrange for a grand
piano, properly tuned to concert-pitch, to be put in for her. She wrote
for the suite over a fortnight ago from Russia, and, of course, we had
everything in readiness for her. She turned up, as I say, yesterday,
alone--she explained something about her maid having been obliged to
leave her on arrival in England, and since she came she's had the
services of one of our smartest chambermaids, whom she herself picked out
after carefully inspecting a whole dozen of them. That chambermaid can
tell you that Mademoiselle's scarcely left her rooms since then, and it's
an absolute mystery to me that any person could get in here, open this
box, and abstract its contents. As I say--if anybody wanted to steal her
jewels, why didn't he pick up this box and carry it bodily off instead of
hanging about to pick the lock? I don't believe--"

"Ah, quite so!" interrupted Fullaway. "I quite agree with you. Now, at
what time did Mademoiselle announce the loss of her jewels?"

"Oh, about--say, an hour ago. This chambermaid--she's there in
the bedroom now--was helping her to dress for the concert.
She--Mademoiselle--went to this box to get out what ornaments she wanted.
According to the girl, she let out an awful scream, and, just as she was,
rushed to the head of the main stairs--these rooms, as you see, are on
our first floor--and began to shout for me, for anybody, for everybody.
The hall below was just then full of people--coming in and out of the
dining-room and so on. She set the whole place going with the noise she
made," added the manager, visibly annoyed. "It would have been far better
if she'd shown some reserve--"

"Reserve is certainly an admirable quality," commented Fullaway, "but
it is foreign to young ladies of Mademoiselle's temperament.
Well--and then?"

"Oh, then, of course, I came up to her suite. She showed me this box. It
had stood, she declared, on a table by her bedside, close to her pillows,
from the moment she entered her rooms yesterday. She swore that it ought
to have been full of her jewels--in cases. When she had opened it--just
before this--it was empty. Of course, she demanded the instant presence
of the police. Also, she insisted that I should at once, that minute,
lock every door in the hotel, and arrest every person in it until their
effects and themselves could be rigorously searched and examined.
Ridiculous!"

"As you doubtless said," remarked Fullaway.

"No--I said nothing. Instead I telephoned for police assistance. These
two officers came. And," concluded the manager, with a sympathetic glance
at the detectives, "since they came Mademoiselle has done nothing but
insist on arresting every soul within these walls--she seems to think
there's a universal conspiracy against her."

"Exactly," said Fullaway. "It is precisely what she would think--under
the circumstances. Now let us see this chambermaid."

The manager opened the door of the bedroom, and called in a pretty,
somewhat shy, Scotch damsel, who betrayed a becoming confusion at the
sight of so many strangers. But she gave a plain and straightforward
account of her relations with Mademoiselle since the arrival of
yesterday. She had been in almost constant attendance on Mademoiselle
ever since her election to the post of temporary maid--had never left her
save at meal-times. The little chest had stood at Mademoiselle's bed-head
always--she had never seen it moved, or opened. There was a door leading
into the bedroom from the corridor. Mademoiselle had never left the suite
of rooms since her arrival. She had talked that morning of going for a
drive, but rain had begun to fall, and she had stayed in. Mademoiselle
had seemed utterly horrified when she discovered her loss. For a moment
she had sunk on her bed as if she were going to faint; then she had
rushed out into the corridor, just as she was, screaming for the manager
and the police.

When the pretty chambermaid had retired, Fullaway took up the box from
which the missing property was believed to have been abstracted. He
examined it with seeming indifference, yet he announced its particulars
and specifications with business-like accuracy.

"Well--this chest, cabinet, or box," he observed carelessly. "Let us look
at it. Here, gentlemen, we have a piece of well-made work. It is--yes,
eighteen inches square all ways. It is made of--yes, rosewood. Its
corners, you see, are clamped with brass. It has a swing handle, fitted
into this brass plate which is sunk into the lid. It has also three brass
letters sunk into that lid--Z. D. L. Its lock does not appear to be of
anything but an ordinary nature. Taking it altogether, I don't think this
is the sort of thing in which you would believe a lady was carrying
several thousand pounds' worth of pearls and diamonds. Eh?"

One of the detectives stirred uneasily--he did not quite understand the
American's light and easy manner, and he seemed to suspect him of
persiflage.

"We ought to be furnished with a list of the missing articles," he said.
"That's the first thing."

"By no means," replied Fullaway. "That, my dear sir, is neither the
first, nor the second, nor the third thing. There is much to do before we
get to that stage. At present, you, gentlemen, cannot do anything.
To-morrow morning, perhaps, when I have consulted with Mademoiselle de
Longarde, I may call you in again--or call upon you. In the meantime,
there's no need to detain you. Now," he continued, turning to the
manager, when the detectives, somewhat puzzled and bewildered, had left
the room, "will you see that your nicest supper is served--for three--in
this room at eleven o'clock, against Mademoiselle's return? Send up your
best champagne. And do not allow yourself to dwell on Mademoiselle's
agitation on discovering her loss. That agitation was natural. If it is
any consolation to you, I will give you a conclusion which may be
satisfactory to your peace of mind as manager. What is it? Merely
this--that though Mademoiselle de Longarde has undoubtedly lost her
jewels, they were certainly not stolen from her in this hotel!"




CHAPTER IX

THE LADY'S MAID'S MOTHER


When the manager, much appeased and relieved in mind, had gone, Fullaway
tapped at the door of the bedroom, summoned the pretty chambermaid, and
handed her the rosewood box.

"Put this back exactly where Mademoiselle has kept it since she came
here," he commanded. "Now you yourself--you're going to stay in the rooms
until she comes back from the concert? That's right--if she returns
before my friend and I come up again, tell her that we shall present
ourselves at five minutes to eleven. Come downstairs, Allerdyke," he
proceeded, leading the way from the room. "We must book rooms for the
night here, so we'll send to the station for our things and make our
arrangements, after which we'll smoke a cigar and talk--I am beginning to
see chinks of daylight."

He led Allerdyke down to the office, completed the necessary
arrangements, and went on to the smoking-room, in a quiet corner of which
he pulled out his cigar-case.

"Well?" he said. "What do you think now?"

"I think you're a smart chap," answered Allerdyke bluntly. "You did all
that very well. I said naught, but I kept an eye and an ear open.
You'll do."

"Very complimentary!--but I wasn't asking you what you thought about me,"
said Fullaway, with a laugh. "I'm asking you what you think of the
situation, as illuminated by this last episode?"

"Well, I'm still reflecting on what you said to that manager
chap," answered Allerdyke. "You really think this young woman has
lost her jewels?"

"Oh, no doubt, no doubt at all," replied Fullaway. "Mademoiselle is
impetuous, impulsive, demonstrative, much given to insisting on her own
way, but she's absolutely honest and truthful, and I've no doubt
whatever--none!--that she's been robbed. But--not here. She never brought
those jewels here. They were not in that box when she came here.
Mademoiselle, my dear sir, was relieved of those jewels either on the
steamer, as she crossed from, Christiania to Hull, or during the few
hours she spent at the Hull hotel. The whole thing--the robbery from your
cousin, the robbery from Mademoiselle de Longarde--is all the work of a
particularly clever and brilliant gang of international thieves; and, by
the holy smoke, sir, we've got our hands full! For there isn't a clue to
the identity of the operators, so far, unless the lady with whom we are
going to sup can help us to one."

Allerdyke ruminated over this for a moment or two. Then, after lighting
the cigar which Fullaway had offered him, he shook his head--in grim
affirmation.

"I shouldn't wonder," he said. "Certainly, it seems a big thing. You're
figuring on its having been a carefully concocted scheme? No mere chance
affair, eh?"

"This sort of thing's never done by chance," responded the American.
"This is the work of very clever and accomplished thieves who somehow
became aware of two facts. One, that your cousin was bringing with him to
England the jewels of the Princess Nastirsevitch. The other, that
Mademoiselle Zelie de Longarde carried her pearls and diamonds in an
innocent-looking rosewood box. My dear sir! you observed that I examined
that box with seeming carelessness--in reality, I was looking at it with
the eye of a trained observer. I am one of those people who, from having
knocked about the world a lot, engaging in a multifarious variety of
occupations, have picked up a queer scrap-heap of knowledge, and I will
lay you any odds you like that I am absolutely correct in affirming that
the box which I just now handed to Maggie, the chambermaid, was newly
made by a Russian cabinet-maker within the last four weeks!"

"For a purpose?" suggested Allerdyke.

"Just so--for a purpose," assented Fullaway. "That purpose being, of
course, its substitution for the real original article. You did not
handle the box which is now upstairs--it is carefully weighted, though it
is empty. I believe--nay, I am sure, it contains a sheet of lead under
its delicate lining of satin. That, of course, was to deceive
Mademoiselle. You heard her say that the jewels were in her box at
Christiania, and that she never opened the box until this evening here in
Edinburgh? Very good--between here and Christiania somebody substituted
the imitation box for the real one. Ah!--in all these great criminal
operations there is nothing like sticking to the old, well-worn,
tried-and-proved tricks of the trade!--they are like well-oiled,
well-practised machinery. And now we come back to the real, great,
anxious question--Who did it? And there, Allerdyke, we are at
present--only at present, mind!--up against a very big, blank wall."

"On the other side of which, my lad, lies the secret of the murder of my
cousin," said Allerdyke grimly. "Mind you that! That's what I'm after,
Fullaway. Damn all these jewels and things, in comparison with
that!--it's that I'm after, I tell you again, and a thousand times again.
And I'm considering if I'm doing any good hanging round here after this
singing woman when the probable sphere of action lies yonder away at
Hull, eh?"

"The proper--not probable--sphere of action, my dear sir, is the
supper-table to which we're presently going," answered Fullaway, with
supreme assurance. "What the singing woman, as you call her, can tell us
will most likely make all the difference in the world to our
investigations. Remember the shoe-buckle! Have it ready to exhibit when I
lead up to it. Then--we shall see."

The prima donna, back for her engagement at eleven o'clock, came in
flushed and smiling--the extraordinary warmth and fervour of her
reception by the audience which she had at first been so inclined to
treat with scant courtesy had restored her to good humour, and when she
had eaten a few mouthfuls of delicate food and drunk her first glass of
champagne she began to laugh almost light-heartedly.

"Well, I suppose you've been doing your best, Fullaway," she said, with
easy familiarity. "I declare you turned up at the very moment, for that
fat Weiss would have been no good. But I'm still wondering how you came
to be here, and what this gentleman--Mr. Allerdyke, is it?--is doing here
with you. Allerdyke, now--well, that's the same name as that of a man I
came across from Christiania with, and left at Hull."

Fullaway kicked Allerdyke under the table.

"You haven't heard of that Mr. Allerdyke since you left him at Hull,
then?" he asked, gazing intently at their hostess.

"Heard? How should I hear?" asked the prima donna. "He was just a
travelling acquaintance. All the same, I had certainly fixed up to see
him in London on a business matter."

"You don't read the newspapers, then?" suggested Fullaway.

"Not unless there's something about myself in them," she answered, with
an arch smile at Allerdyke.

"If you'd read this morning's papers, you'd have seen that the Mr.
Allerdyke with whom you travelled--this gentleman's cousin, by the
by--was found dead in his room at the hotel in Hull not so long after you
quitted it," said Fullaway coolly. "In fact, he must have been dead when
you passed his door on your way out."

The prima donna was genuinely shocked. She set down the glass which she
was just lifting to her lips; her large, handsome eyes dilated, her lips
quivered a little. She turned a look of sympathy on Allerdyke, who, at
that moment, realized that she was a very beautiful woman.

"You don't say so!" she exclaimed. "Well, I'm really grieved to hear
that--I am! Dead?--and when I left! Why, I was in his room that very
night we reached Hull, having a talk on the business matter I mentioned
just now--he was well enough and lively enough then, I'll swear.
Dead!--why, what did he die of?"

The two men looked at each other. There was a brief pause; then
Allerdyke slowly produced a small packet, wrapped in tissue-paper, from
his waistcoat pocket. He laid it on the table at his side and looked at
his hostess.

"I knew you had been in my cousin's room," he said. "You left or dropped
your shoe-buckle there. I found it when I searched his room. Then the
hotel manager showed me your wire. Here's the buckle."

He was watching her narrowly as he spoke, and his glance deepened in
intensity as he handed over the little packet and watched her unwrap the
paper. But there was not a sign of anything but a little surprised
satisfaction in the prima donna's face as she recognized her lost
property, and her eyes were ingenuous enough as she turned them on him.

"Why, of course, that's mine!" she exclaimed. "I'm ever so much obliged
to you, Mr. Allerdyke. Yes, I wired to the hotel, in my proper name, you
know--Zelie de Longarde is only my professional name. I didn't want to
lose that buckle--it was part of a birthday present from my mother. But
you don't mean to say that you travelled all the way to Edinburgh to hand
me that! Surely not?"

"No!" replied Allerdyke. He wanted to take a direct share in the talking,
and went resolutely ahead now that the chance had come. "No--not at all.
I knew you'd come to Edinburgh--found it out from that chauffeur who was
driving you when you and I met at Howden the night before last, and so I
came on to find you. I want to ask you some questions about my cousin,
and maybe to get you to come and give evidence at the inquest on him."

"Inquest!" she exclaimed. "I know what that means, of course. Why--you
don't say there's been anything wrong?"

"I believe my cousin was murdered that night," answered Allerdyke. "So,
too, does Fullaway there. And you were probably the last person who ever
spoke to him alive. Now, you see, I'm a plain, blunt-spoken sort of
chap--I ask people straight questions. What did you go into his room to
talk to him about?"

"Business!" she replied, with a directness which impressed both men.
"Mere business. He and I had several conversations on board the
_Perisco_--I made out he was a clever business man. I want to invest some
money--he advised me to put it into a development company in Norway,
which is doing big things in fir and pine. I went into his room to look
at some plans and papers--he gave me some prospectuses which are in that
bag there just now---I was reading them over again only this evening.
That's all. I wasn't there many minutes--and, as I told you, he was very
well, very brisk and lively then."

"Did he show you any valuables that he had with him--jewels?" asked
Allerdyke brusquely.

"Jewels! Valuables!" she answered. "No--certainly not."

"Nor when you were on the steamer?"

"No--nor at any time," she said. "Jewels?--why--what makes you ask such a
question?"

"Because my cousin had in his possession a consignment of such things, of
great value, and we believe that he was murdered for them--that's why,"
replied Allerdyke. "He had them when he left Christiania--he had them
when he entered the Hull hotel--"

Fullaway, who had been listening intently, leant forward with a shake
of his head.

"Stop at that, Allerdyke," he said. "We don't know, now, that he did have
them when he entered the hotel at Hull! He mayn't have had. Miss
Lennard--we'll drop the professional name and turn to the real one," he
said, with a bow to the prima donna--"Miss Lennard here thinks she had
her jewels in her little box when she entered the Hull hotel, and also
when she came to this hotel, here in Edinburgh, but--"

"Do you mean to say that I hadn't?" she exclaimed. "Do you mean--"

"I mean," replied Fullaway, "that, knowing what I now know, I believe
that both you and the dead man, James Allerdyke, were robbed on the
_Perisco_. And I want to ask you a question at once. Where is your maid!"

Celia Lennard dropped her knife and fork and sat back, suddenly
turning pale.

"My maid!" she said faintly. "Good heavens! you don't think--oh, you
aren't suggesting that she's the thief? Because--oh, this is dreadful!
You see--I never thought of it before--when she and I arrived at Hull
that night she was met by a man who described himself as her brother. He
was in a great state of agitation--he said he'd rushed up to Hull to meet
her, to beg her to go straight with him to their mother, who was dying in
London. Of course, I let her go at once--they drove straight from the
riverside at Hull to the station to catch the train. What else could I
do? I never suspected anything. Oh!"

Fullaway leaned across the table and filled his hostess's glass.

"Now," he said, motioning her to drink, "you know your maid's name and
address, don't you? Let me have them at once, and within a couple of
hours we'll know if the story about the dying mother was true."




CHAPTER X

THE SECOND MURDER


It had been very evident to Allerdyke that ever since Fullaway had
mentioned the matter of the missing maid, Celia Lennard had become a
victim to doubt, suspicion, and uncertainty. Her colour came and went;
her eyes began to show signs of tears; her voice shook. And now, at the
American's direct question, she wrung her hands with an almost
despairing gesture.

"But I can't!" she exclaimed. "I don't know her address--how should I?
It's somewhere in London--Bloomsbury, I think--but even then I don't know
if that's where her mother lives, to whom she said she was going. I did
know her address--I mean I remembered it for a while, at the time I
engaged her--a year ago, but I've forgotten it. Oh! do you really think
she's robbed me, or helped to rob me?"

"Never mind opinions," answered Fullaway curtly. "They're no good. Is
this the maid you brought with you once or twice when you called at my
office some time ago, over the Pinkie Pell deal?"

"Yes--yes, the same!" she answered.

"A Frenchwoman?" said Fullaway.

"Yes--Lisette. Of course she went with me to your office--that was eight
or nine months ago, and I've had her a year. And I had excellent
testimonials with her, too. Oh, I can't think that--"

"Can't you make an effort to remember her address?" urged Fullaway.
"What can we do until we know that?"

Celia drew her fine eyebrows together in a palpable effort to think.

"I've got it somewhere," she said at last. "I must have it
somewhere--most likely in an address-book at my flat--I should be sure to
put it down at the time."

"Who is there at your flat?" asked Fullaway.

"My housekeeper and a maid," answered Celia. "They're always there,
whether I'm at home or not. But they couldn't get at what you want--all
my papers and things are locked up--and in a hopeless state of
confusion, too."

Fullaway pushed aside his plate.

"Then there's only one thing to be done," he said, with an accent of
finality. "We must go up to town at once."

Allerdyke, still quietly eating his supper, looked up.

"That's just what I was going to suggest," he said. "There's no good to
be done hanging about here. Let's get on to the scene of operations. If
Miss Lennard's maid has stolen her jewels, she's probably had some hand
in the theft from my cousin. We must find her. Now, then, let me come in.
I'll look up the train, settle up with these hotel folk, and we'll be
off. You give your attention to your packing, Miss Lennard, and leave the
rest to me--you won't mind travelling the night?"

Celia shook her head.

"I don't mind travelling all night for half a dozen nights if I can track
my lost property," she said lugubriously. "You're dead sure it's no use
stopping here?--that the robbery didn't take place here?"

"Sure!" answered Fullaway. "We must get off. That French damsel's got to
be found--somehow."

The supper-party came to an end--the prima donna and her temporary maid
began to bustle with garments and trunks, the two men attended to all
other necessary matters, and at two o'clock in the morning the three sped
out of Edinburgh for the South, each secretly wondering what was going to
come of their journey. Allerdyke, preparing to go to sleep in the
compartment which he and Fullaway occupied by themselves, dropped one
grim remark to his companion as he settled himself.

"Seems like a wild-goose chase this, my lad, but it's one we've got to go
through with! What'll the next stage be?"

The next stage was an arrival in London in the middle of a lovely May
morning, a swift drive to Celia Lennard's flat in Bedford Court Mansions,
the hurried rummaging of its owner amongst an extraordinary mass of
papers, books, and documents, and the ultimate discovery of the French
maid's address. Celia held it up with a sigh of vast relief, which
changed into a groan of despairing doubt.

"There it is!" she exclaimed. "Lisette Beaurepaire, 911 Bernard Street,
Bloomsbury--I knew it was Bloomsbury. That's where she lived when I
engaged her, anyhow--but then her sick mother mayn't live there! The man
who met her at Hull, who said he was her brother, didn't say where the
mother lived, except that it was in London."

"We must go to Bernard Street, anyway, at once," said Fullaway. "We may
get some information there."

But such information as they got on the door-step of 911 Bernard Street
was scanty and useless. The house was a typical Bloomsbury lodging-place,
let off in floors and rooms. Its proprietor, summoned from a
neighbouring house, recollected, with considerable difficulty and after
consultation of a penny pocket-book, that he had certainly let a
top-floor room to a young Frenchwoman about a year ago, but he had never
caught her name properly, and simply had her noted down as Mamselle. She
had paid her rent regularly, and had remained in the house five
weeks--that was all he knew about her. Had he ever seen her since? Not
that he knew of--in fact, he shouldn't know her if he saw her--they were
all pretty much alike, these young Frenchwomen. Did he know where she
came from to his house--where she went from his house? Not he! he knew no
more than what he had just told.

"What now?" asked Allerdyke as the three searchers paced dejectedly up
the street. "This is doing no good--it's worse than the Hull affair.
However, there's one thing suggests itself to me. Didn't you say," he
went on, turning to Celia, "that you had some very good testimonials with
this young woman? If so, and you've still got them, we might trace her in
that way."

"I had some, and I may have them still, but you saw just now what an
awful mess all my letters and papers are in," replied Celia, almost
tearfully. "I always do get things like that into hopeless confusion--I
never know what to destroy and what to keep, and they accumulate so. It
would take hours upon hours to look for those letters, and in the
meantime--"

"In the meantime," remarked Fullaway as he signalled to a taxi-cab,
"there's only one thing to be done. We must go to the police. Get in,
both of you, and let's make haste to New Scotland Yard."

Once more Allerdyke received an impression of the American's usefulness
and practical acquaintance with things. Fullaway seemed to know exactly
what to do, whom to approach, how to go about the business in hand;
within a few minutes all three were closeted with a high official of the
Criminal Investigation Department, a man who might have been a barrister,
a medical specialist, or a scientist of distinction, and who maintained
an unmoved countenance and a perfect silence while Fullaway unfolded the
story. He and Allerdyke had held a brief consultation as they drove from
Bloomsbury to Whitehall, and they had decided that as things had now
reached a critical stage it would be best to tell the authorities
everything. Therefore the American narrated the entire sequence of events
as they related not only to Mademoiselle de Longarde's loss but to the
death of James Allerdyke and the disappearance of the Nastirsevitch
valuables. And the official heard, and made mental notes, soaking
everything into some proper cell of his brain, and he said nothing until
Fullaway had come to an end, and at that end he turned to Celia Lennard.

"You can, of course, describe your maid?" he asked.

"Certainly!" answered Celia. "To every detail."

"Do so, if you please," continued the official, producing a pile of
papers from a drawer and turning them over until he came to one which he
drew from the rest.

"A Frenchwoman," said Celia. "Aged, I should say, about twenty-six. Tall.
Slender--but not thin. Of a very good figure. Black hair--a quantity of
it. Black eyes--very penetrating. Fresh colour. Not exactly pretty, but
attractive--in the real Parisian way--she is a Parisian. Dressed--when
she left me at Hull--in a black tailor-made coat and skirt, and carrying
a travelling coat of black, lined with fur--one I gave her in Russia."

"Her luggage?" asked the official.

"She had a suit-case: a medium-sized one."

"Large enough, I presume, to conceal the jewel-box your friend has told
me about just now?"

"Oh, yes--certainly!"

The official put his papers back in the drawer and turned to his visitors
with a business-like look which finally settled itself on Celia's face.

"You must be prepared to hear some serious news," he said. "I mean about
this woman. I have no doubt from what you have just told me that I know
where she is."

"Where?" demanded Celia excitedly. "You know? Where, then?"

"Lying in the mortuary at Paddington," answered the official quietly.

In spite of Celia's strong nerves she half rose in her seat--only to drop
back with a sharp exclamation.

"Dead! Probably murdered. And I should say," continued the official,
with a glance at the two men, "murdered in the same way as the gentleman
you have told me of was murdered at Hull--by some subtle, strange, and
secret poison."

No one spoke for a minute or two. When the silence was broken it was by
Allerdyke.

"I should like to know about this," he said in a hard, keen voice. "I'm
getting about sick of delay in this affair of my cousin's, and if this
murder of the young woman is all of a piece with his, why, then, the
sooner we all get to work the better. I'm not going to spare time,
labour, nor expense in running that lot down, d'you understand? Money's
naught to me--I'm willing--"

"We are already at work, Mr. Allerdyke," said the official, interrupting
him quietly. "We've been at work in the affair of the young woman for
twenty-four hours, and although you didn't know of it, we've heard of the
affair of your cousin at Hull, and the two cases are so similar that when
you came in I was wondering if there was any connection between them.
Now, as regards the young woman. You may or may not be aware that in
Eastbourne Terrace, Paddington, a street of houses which runs alongside
the departure platform of the Great Western Railway, there are a number
of small private hotels, which are largely used by railway passengers. To
one of these hotels, about nine o'clock on the evening of May 13th (just
about twenty-four hours after you, Miss Lennard, landed at Hull), there
came a man and a woman, who represented themselves as brother and sister,
and took two rooms for the night. The woman answers the description of
your maid--as to the man, I will give you a description of him later.
These two, who had for luggage such a medium-sized suit-case as that Miss
Lennard has spoken of, partook of some supper and retired. There was
nothing noticeable about them--they seemed to be quiet, respectable
people--foreigners who spoke English very well. Nothing was heard of them
until next morning at eight o'clock, when the man rang his bell and asked
for tea to be brought up for both. This was done--he took it in at his
door, and was seen to hand a cup in at his sister's door, close by. An
hour later he came downstairs and gave instructions that his sister was
not to be disturbed--she was tired and wanted to rest, he said, and she
would ring when she wanted attendance. He then booked the two rooms again
for the succeeding night, and, going into the coffee-room, ate a very
good breakfast, taking his time over it. That done, he lounged about a
little, smoking, and eventually crossed the road towards the
station--since when he has not been seen. The day passed on--the woman