 Chapter 33 of the Daffodil Mystery. Much had happened to Mr. Milberg between the time of his discovery lying bound and helpless and showing evidence that he had been in the hands of a Chinese torturer and the moment he left Sam's stay. He had read of the murder and had been shocked, and in his way grieved. It was not to save Odette Ryder that he sent his note to Scotland Yard, but rather to avenge himself upon the man who had killed the only woman in the world who had touched his warped nature. Nor had he any intention of committing suicide. He had the passports which he had secured a year before in readiness for such a step. He had kept that clerical uniform of his by him all that time, and was ready at a moment's notice to leave the country. His tickets were in his pocket, and when he dispatched the district messenger to Scotland Yard he was on his way to Waterloo Station to catch the Haver boat train. The police he knew would be watching the station, but he had no fear that they would discover beneath the benign exterior of a country clergyman, the wanted manager of Lynn's store, even supposing that there was a warrant out for his arrest. He was standing at a book stall purchasing literature to wile away the hours of the journey when he felt a hand laid on his arm and experienced a curious sinking sensation. He turned a look into a brown mask of a face he had seen before. Well, my man, he asked with a smile, what can I do for you? He had asked the question in identical terms of Sam Stey. His brain told him that much mechanically. You will come with me, Mr. Milberg, said Ling Chu. It will be better for you if you do not make any trouble. You are making a mistake. If I am making a mistake, said Ling Chu calmly, you have only to tell that policeman that I have mistaken you for Milberg, who was wanted by the police on a charge of murder, and I shall get into very serious trouble. Milberg's lips were quivering with fear, and his face was a pasty gray. I will come, he said. Ling Chu walked by his side, and they passed out of Waterloo Station. The journey to Bond Street remained in Milberg's memory like a horrible dream. He was not used to traveling on omnibuses, being something of a Siborite who spared nothing to ensure his own comfort. Ling Chu, on the contrary, had a penchant for buses and seemed to enjoy them. No word was spoken until they reached the sitting room of Tarling's flat. Milberg expected to see the detective. He had already arrived at the conclusion that Ling Chu was but a messenger who had been sent by the man from Shanghai to bring him to his presence. But there was no sign of Tarling. Now, my friend, what do you want? he asked. It is true I am Mr. Milberg. But when you say that I have committed murder, you are telling a wicked lie. He had gained some courage, because he had expected in the first place to be taken immediately to Scotland Yard and placed in custody. The fact that Tarling's flat lay at the end of the journey seems to suggest that the situation was not as desperate as he had imagined. Ling Chu, turning suddenly upon Milberg, gripped him by the wrist, half turning as he did so. Before Milberg knew what was happening, he was lying on the floor, face downwards, with Ling Chu's knee in the small of his back. He felt something like a wire loop slipped about his wrist and suffered an excruciating pain as the Chinaman tightened the connecting link of the native handcuff. Get up, said Ling Chu, sternly, and exerting a surprising strength lifted the man to his feet. What are you going to do, said Milberg, his teeth chattering with fear? There was no answer. Ling Chu gripped the man by one hand, and opening the door with the other pushed him into a room which was barely furnished. Once the wall there was an iron bed, and onto this the man was pushed, collapsing in a heap. The Chinese thief-catcher went about his work in a scientific fashion. First he fastened and threaded a length of silk rope through one of the rails of the bed, and into the slack of this he lifted Milberg's head so that he could not struggle except at the risk of being strangled. Ling Chu turned him over, unfastened the handcuffs and methodically bound first one wrist and then the other to the side of the bed. What are you going to do, repeated Milberg, but the Chinaman made no reply. He produced from a belt beneath his blouse a wicked-looking knife, and the manager opened his mouth to shout. He was beside himself with terror, but any cause for fear had yet to come. The Chinaman stopped the cry by dropping a pillow on the man's face, and began deliberately to cut the clothing from the upper part of his body. If you cry out, he said calmly, the people will think it is I who am singing. Chinaman have no music in their voices, and sometimes when I have sung my native songs, people have come up to discover who was suffering. You are acting illegally, breathed Milberg, in a last attempt to save the situation, for your crime you will suffer imprisonment. I shall be fortunate, said Ling Chu, for prison is life, but you will hang at the end of a long rope. He had lifted the pillow from Milberg's face, and now that pallid man was following every movement of the Chinaman with a fearful eye. Slowly Milberg was stripped to the waist, and Ling Chu regarded his handiwork complacently. He went to a cupboard in the wall, and took out a small brown bottle, which he placed on a table by the side of the bed. Then he himself sat upon the edge of the bed and spoke. His English was almost perfect, though now and again he hesitated in the choice of a word, and there were moments when he was a little stilted in his speech, and more than a little pedantic. He spoke slowly and with great deliberation. You do not know the Chinese people? You have not been or lived in China? When I say lived, I do not mean staying for a week at a good hotel in one of the coast towns. Your Mr. Lin lived in China in that way. It was not a successful residence. I know nothing about Mr. Lin, interrupted Milberg. Sensing that Ling Chu in some way associated him with Thornton Lin's misadventures. Good! said Ling Chu, tapping the flat blade of the knife upon his palm. If you had lived in China, in the real China, you might have a dim idea of our people and their characteristics. It is said that the Chinaman does not fear death or pain, which is a slight exaggeration, because I have known criminals who feared both. His thin lips curved for a second in the ghost of a smile, as though at some amusing recollection. Then he grew serious again. From the Western standpoint, we are a primitive people. From our own point of view, we are rigidly honorable. Also, and this I would emphasize, he did, in fact, emphasize his words to the terror of Mr. Milberg with the point of his knife upon the other's broad chest, though so lightly was the knife held that Milberg felt nothing but the slightest tingle. We do not set the same value upon the rights of the individual as do you people in the West. For example, he explained carefully, we are not tender with our prisoners if we think that by applying a little pressure to them we can assist the process of justice. What do you mean, asked Milberg, a grisly thought dawning upon his mind. In Britain, and in America too, I understand, though the Americans are much more enlightened on the subject, when you arrest a member of a gang, you are content with cross examining him and giving him full scope for the exercise of his inventive power. You ask him questions and go on asking and asking, and you do not know whether he is lying or telling the truth. Mr. Milberg began to breathe heavily. Has that idea sunken to your mind, asked Ling Chu. I don't know what you mean, said Mr. Milberg in a quavering voice. All I know is your committing a most, Ling Chu stopped him with a gesture. I am perfectly well aware of what I am doing, he said. Now listen to me. A week or so ago Mr. Thornton Lynn, your employer, was found dead in Hyde Park. He was dressed in his shirt and trousers and about his body in an endeavor to staunch the wound somebody had wrapped a silk nightdress. He was killed in the flat of a small lady whose name I cannot pronounce, but you will know her. Milberg's eyes never left the Chinamans and he nodded. He was killed by you, said Ling Chu slowly, because he had discovered that you had been robbing him and you were in fear that he would hand you over to the police. That's a lie, roared Milberg. It's a lie, I tell you, it's a lie. I shall discover whether it is a lie in a few moments, said Ling Chu. He put his hand inside his blouse and Milberg watched him fascinated. But he produced nothing more deadly than a silver cigarette case which he opened. He selected a cigarette and lit it, and for a few minutes puffed in silence, his thoughtful eyes fixed upon Milberg. Then he rose and went to the cupboard and took out a larger bottle and placed it beside the other. Ling Chu pulled again at his cigarette and then threw it into the grate. It is in the interests of all parties, he said in his slow halting way, that the truth should be known, both for the sake of my honorable master, Lei Zhen, the hunter, and his honorable little lady. He took up his knife and bent over the terror-stricken man. For God's sakes, don't, don't, half screamed, half sobbed Milberg. This will not hurt you, said Ling Chu, and drew four straight lines across the other's breast. The keen razor edge seemed scarcely to touch the flesh, yet where the knife had passed was a thin red mark like a scratch. Milberg scarcely felt a twinge of pain, only a mild, irritating, smarting, and no more. The Chinaman laid down the knife and took up the smaller bottle. In this, he said, is a vegetable extract. It is what you would call capsicum, but it is not quite like your pepper, because it is distilled from a native root. In this bottle he picked up the larger, is a Chinese oil which immediately relieves the pain which capsicum causes. What are you going to do, asked Milberg? You dog, you fiend! With a little brush I will paint capsicum on these places. He touched Milberg's chest with his long white fingers. Little by little, millimeter by millimeter, my brush will move, and you will experience such pain as you have never experienced before. It is pain which will rack you from head to foot, and will remain with you all your life and memory. Sometimes, he said philosophically, it drives me mad, but I do not think it will drive you mad. He took out the cork and dipped a little camel hair brush in the mixture, withdrawing it moist with fluid. He was watching Milberg all the time, and when the stout man opened his mouth to yell, he thrust a silk handkerchief, which he drew with lightning speed from his pocket into the open mouth. Wait, wait, gasped the muffled voice of Milberg. I have something to tell you, something that your master should know. That is very good, said Lingqiu Cooley, and pulled out the handkerchief. You shall tell me the truth. What truth can I tell you, asked the man, sweating with fear? Great beads of sweat were lying on his face. You shall confess the truth that you killed Thornton Lynn, said Lingqiu. That is the only truth I want to hear. I swear I did not kill him. I swear it, I swear it, raved the prisoner. Wait, wait, he whimpered as the other picked up the handkerchief. Do you know what has happened to Miss Rider? The Chinaman checked his movement. To Miss Rider, he said quickly, he pronounced the word lighter. Brokenly, gaspingly, breathlessly, Milberg told the story of his meeting with Sam Stey. In his distress and mental anguish, he reproduced faithfully not only every word but every intonation, and the Chinaman listened with half-closed eyes. Then when Milberg had finished, he put down his bottle and thrust in the cork. My master would wish that the little woman should escape danger, he said. Tonight he does not return, so I must go myself to the hospital. You can wait. Let me go, said Milberg. I will help you. Lingqiu shook his head. You can wait, he said with a sinister smile. I will go first to the hospital, and afterwards, if all is well, I will return for you. He took a clean white towel from the dressing-table and laid it over his victim's face. Upon the towel he sprinkled the contents of a third bottle which he took from the cupboard, and Milberg remembered no more until he looked up into the puzzled face of Tarling an hour later. CHAPTER 34 Tarling stooped down and released the cords which bound Milberg to the couch. The stout man was white and shaking and had to be lifted into a sitting position. He sat there on the edge of the bed, his face and his hands, for five minutes, and the two men watched him curiously. Tarling had made a careful examination of the cuts on his chest, and was relieved to discover that Lingqiu, he did not doubt that the Chinaman was responsible for Milberg's plight, had not yet employed that terrible torture which had so often brought Chinese criminals to the verge of madness. White-side picked up the clothes which Lingqiu had so systematically stripped from the man's body and placed them on the bed by Milberg's side. Then Tarling beckoned the other into the outer room. What does it all mean? asked White-side. It means, said Tarling grimly, that my friend Lingqiu has been trying to discover the murderer of Thornton Line by methods peculiarly Chinese. Happily he was interrupted, probably as a result of Milberg telling him that Miss Odette Ryder had been spirited away. He looked back to the drooping figure by the side of the bed. He's a little bigger than I, he said, but I think some of my clothes will fit him. He made a hasty search of his wardrobe and came back with an armful of clothes. Come, Milberg, he said, rouse yourself and dress. The man looked up, his lower lip trembling pathetically. I rather think these clothes, though they may be a bad fit, will suit you a little better than your clerical garb, said Tarling sardonically. Without a word Milberg took the clothes in his arms and they left him to dress. They heard his heavy footfall and presently the door opened and he came weakly into the sitting-room and dropped into a chair. Do you feel well enough to go out now? asked White-Side. Go out, said Milberg, looking up in alarm. Where am I to go? To Cannon Row Police Station, said the practical White-Side, I have a warrant for your arrest, Milberg, on a charge of willful murder, arson, forgery, and embezzlement. Willful murder, Milberg's voice was high and squeaky and his shaking hands went to his mouth. You cannot charge me with willful murder. No, no, no, I swear to you I am innocent. Where did you see Thornton Lyne last? asked Tarling, and the man made a great effort to compose himself. I saw him last alive in his office, he began. When did you see Thornton Lyne last? said Tarling, alive or dead. Milberg did not reply. Presently White-Side dropped his hand on the man's shoulder and looked across at Tarling. Come along, he said briskly. It is my duty as a police officer to warn you that anything you say now will be taken down and used as evidence against you at your trial. Wait, wait, said Milberg, his voice was husky and thick. He looked round. Can I have a glass of water? he begged, licking his dry lips. Tarling brought the refreshment, which the man drank eagerly. The water seemed to revive something of his old arrogant spirit, for he got up from his chair, jerked at the collar of his ill-fitting coat. It was an old shooting-coat of Tarling's, and smiled for the first time. I think, gentlemen, he said with something of his old airiness, you will have a difficulty in proving that I am concerned in the murder of Thornton Lyne. You will have as great a difficulty in proving that I had anything to do with the burning down of Solomon's office. I presume that constitutes the arson charge, and most difficult of all will be your attempt to prove that I was concerned in robbing the firm of Thornton Lyne. The lady who robbed that firm has already made a confession, as you, Mr. Tarling, are well aware. He smiled at the other, but Tarling met his eye. I know of no confession, he said steadily. Mr. Milberg inclined his head with a smirk. Though he still bore the physical evidence of the bad time through which he had been, he had recovered something of his old confidence. The confession was burnt, he said, and burnt by you, Mr. Tarling, and now I think your bluff has gone on long enough. My bluff, said Tarling, in his turn astonished. What do you mean by bluff? I am referring to the warrant which you suggest has been issued for my arrest, said Milberg. That's no bluff. It was Whiteside who spoke, and he produced from his pocket a folded sheet of paper, which he opened and displayed under the eyes of the man. And in case of accidents, said Whiteside, and deftly slipped a pair of handcuffs upon the man's wrists. It may have been Milberg's overweening faith in his own genius. It may have been, and probably was, a consciousness that he had covered his trail too well to be detected. One or another of these causes had kept him up, but now he collapsed. To Tarling it was amazement that the man had maintained this show of bravado to the last, though in his heart he knew that the crown had a very poor case against Milberg if the charge of embezzlement and arson were preceded with. It was on the murder alone which a conviction could be secured, and this Milberg evidently realized, for he made no attempt in the remarkable statement which followed to do more than hint that he had been guilty of robbing the firm. He sat huddled up in his chair, his manacled hands clasped on the table before him, and then, with a jerk, sat upright. If you'll take off these things, gentlemen, he said, jangling the connecting chain of the handcuffs, I will tell you something which may set your mind at rest on the question of Thornton Lyon's death. Whiteside looked at his superior questioningly, and Tarling nodded. A few seconds later the handcuffs had been removed, and Mr. Milberg was soothing his chafed wrists. The psychologist who attempted to analyze the condition of mind in which Tarling found himself would be faced with a difficult task. He had come to the flat beside himself with anxiety at the disappearance of Odette Ryder. He had intended dashing into his rooms and out again, though what he intended doing thereafter he had no idea. The knowledge that Ling Chu was on the track of the kidnapper had served as an opiate to his jagged nerves, otherwise he could not have stayed and listened to the statement Milberg was preparing to make. Now and again it came back to him, like a twinge of pain that Odette Ryder was in danger, and he wanted to have done with his business to bundle Milberg into a prison cell and devote the whole of his energies to tracing her. Such a twinge came to him now as he watched the stout figure at the table. Before you start, he said, tell me this. What information did you give to Ling Chu which led him to lead you? I told him about Miss Ryder, said Milberg, and I advanced a theory. It was only a theory as to what had happened to her. I see, said Tarling, now tell your story and tell it quickly, my friend, and try to keep to the truth. Who murdered Thornton Lyne? Milberg twisted his head slowly towards him and smiled. If you could explain how the body was taken from Odette Ryder's flat, he said slowly, and left in Hyde Park, I could answer you immediately. For to this minute I believed that Thornton Lyne was killed by Odette Ryder. Tarling drew a long breath. That is a lie, he said. Mr. Milberg was in no way put out. Very well, he said, now perhaps you will be kind enough to listen to my story. End of Chapter 34. I do not intend, said Mr. Milberg in his best oracular manner, describing all the events which preceded the death of the late Thornton Lyne, nor will I go to any length to deal with his well-known and even notorious character. He was not a good employer. He was suspicious, unjust, and in many ways mean. Mr. Lyne was, I admit, suspicious of me. He was under the impression that I had robbed the firm of very considerable sums of money. A suspicion which I, in turn, had long suspected, and had confirmed by a little conversation which I overheard on the first day I had the pleasure of seeing you, Mr. Tarling. Tarling remembered that fatal day when Milberg had come into the office at the moment that Lyne was expressing his views very freely about his subordinate. Of course, gentlemen, said Milberg, I do not for one moment admit that I robbed the firm, or that I was guilty of any criminal acts. I admit there were certain regularities, certain carelessnesses, for which I was morally responsible, and beyond that I admit nothing. If you are making a note, he turned to Whiteside, who was taking down the statement in shorthand, I beg of you to make a special point of my denial. Regularities and carelessnesses, he repeated carefully. Beyond that I am not prepared to go. In other words, you are not confessing anything? I am not confessing anything, agreed Milberg with heavy gravity. It is sufficient that Mr. Lyne suspected me, and that he was prepared to employ a detective in order to trace my defalcations as he turned them. It is true that I lived expensively, that I owned two houses, one in Camdentown and one at Hertford, but then I had speculated on the stock exchange and speculated very wisely. But I am a sensitive man, gentlemen, and the knowledge that I was responsible for certain irregularities preyed upon my mind. Let us say, for example, that I knew somebody had been robbing the firm, but that I was unable to detect that somebody, would not the fact that I was morally responsible for the finances of Lyne's stores cause me particular unhappiness? You speak like a book, said Whiteside, and I, for one, don't believe a word you say. I think you were a thief, Milberg, but go on your own sweet way. I thank you, said Milberg sarcastically. Well, gentlemen, matters had come to a crisis. I felt my responsibility. I knew someone had been robbing the house, and I had an idea that possibly I would be suspected, and that those who were dear to me, his voice shook for a moment, broke and grew husky, those who were dear to me, he repeated, would be visited with my sins of omission. Miss Odette Ryder had been dismissed from the firm of Lyne's stores in consequence of her having rejected the undesirable advances of the late Mr. Lyne. Mr. Lyne turned the whole weight of his rage against the girl, and that gave me an idea. The night after the interview, or it may have been the same night, I referred to the interview which Mr. Tarling had with the late Thornton Lyne, I was working late at the office. I was, in fact, clearing up Mr. Lyne's desk. I had occasion to leave the office, and on my return found the place in darkness. I reconnected the light, and then discovered on the desk a particularly murderous-looking revolver. In the statement I made to you, sir, he turned to Tarling, I said that the pistol had not been found by me, and indeed I professed the profoundest ignorance of its existence. I regret to confess to you that I was telling an untruth. I did find the pistol. I put it in my pocket, and I took it home. It is probable that with that pistol Mr. Lyne was fatally shot. Tarling nodded. I hadn't the slightest doubt about that, Milberg. You also had another automatic pistol, purchased subsequent to the murder from John Waddams of Holburn Circus. Mr. Milberg bowed his head. That is perfectly true, sir, he said. I have such a weapon. I live a very lonely kind of life, and you need not explain. I merely tell you, said Tarling, that I know where you got the pistol, with which you shot at me on the night I brought Odette Ryder back from Ashford. Mr. Milberg closed his eyes, and there was resignation written largely on his face. The resignation of an ill-used and falsely accused man. I think it would be better not to discuss controversial subjects, he said. If you will allow me, I will keep to the facts. Tarling could have laughed at the sublime impertence of the man, but that he was growing irritable with the double strain which was being imposed upon him. It was probable that, had not this man accused Odette Ryder of the murder, he would have left him to make his confession to Whiteside, and have gone alone in his hopeless search for the taxicab driven by Sam Stey. To resume, continued Mr. Milberg, I took the revolver home. You will understand that I was in a condition of mind bordering upon a nervous breakdown. I felt my responsibilities very keenly, and I felt that if Mr. Lynde would not accept my protestations of innocence, there was nothing left for me but to quit this world. In other words, you contemplated suicide, said Whiteside? You have accurately diagnosed the situations, said Milberg ponderously. Miss Ryder had been dismissed, and I was on the point of ruin. Her mother would be involved in the crash. Those were the thoughts which ran through my mind as I sat in my humble dining room in Camden Town. Then the idea flashed upon me. I wondered whether Odette Ryder loved her mother sufficiently well to make the great sacrifice, to take full responsibility for the irregularities which had occurred in the accounts department of the Lynde Stores, and clear away to the continent until the matter blew over. I intended seeing her the next day, but I was still doubtful as to whether she would fall in with my views. Young people nowadays, he said sententiously, are terribly selfish. As it happened I just caught her as she was leaving for Hurtford, and I put the situation before her. The poor girl was naturally shocked, but she fell readily in with my suggestion and signed the confession which you, Mr. Tarling, so thoughtfully burnt. Whiteside looked at Tarling. I knew nothing of this, he said a little reproachfully. Go on, said Tarling, I will explain that afterwards. I had previously wired the girl's mother that she would not be home that night. I also wired to Mr. Lynde, asking him to meet me at Miss Ryder's flat. I took the liberty of fixing Miss Ryder's name to the invitation, thinking that that would induce him to come. It also covered you, said Tarling, and kept your name out of the business altogether. Yes, said Mr. Milberg, as though the idea had not struck him before. Yes, it did that. I had sent Miss Ryder off in a hurry. I begged that she would not go near the flat and promised that I myself would go there, pack the necessary articles for her journey, and take them down in a taxi to Charing Cross. I see, said Tarling, so it was you who packed the bag? Half-packed it, corrected Mr. Milberg. You see, I'd made a mistake in the time the train left. It was only when I was packing the bag that I realized it was impossible for me to get down to the station in time. I had made arrangements with Miss Ryder that if I did not turn up, I would telephone to her a quarter of an hour before the train left. She was to await me in the lounge of a nearby hotel. I had hoped to get to her at least an hour before the train left because I did not wish to attract attention to myself or, he added, to Miss Ryder. When I looked in my watch and realized that it was impossible to get down, I left the bag as it was half-packed and went outside to the tube station and telephoned. How did you get in and out, asked Tarling. The porter on duty at the door said he saw nobody. I went out the back way, explained Mr. Milberg. It is really the simplest thing in the world to get into Miss Ryder's basement flat by way of the muse behind. All the tenants have keys to the back door so that they can bring their cycles in and out or get in their coals. I know that, said Tarling. Go on. I am a little in advance of the actual story, said Milberg. The business of packing the bag takes my narrative along a little further than I intended it to go. Having said goodbye to Miss Ryder, I passed the rest of the evening perfecting my plans. It would serve no useful purpose, said Milberg with an airy wave of his hand if I were to tell you the arguments I intended putting before him. If they did not include the betrayal of Miss Ryder, I am a Dutchman, said Tarling. I pretty well know the arguments you intended using. Then Mr. Tarling, allow me to congratulate you upon being a thought-reader, said Milberg, because I have not revealed my secret thoughts to any human being. However, that is beside the point. I intended to plead with Mr. Lynn. I intended to offer him the record of years of loyal service to his sainted father, and if the confession was not accepted, and if he still persisted in his revengeful plan, then Mr. Tarling, I intended shooting myself before his eyes. He said this with rare dramatic effect, but Tarling was unimpressed and Whiteside looked up from his notes with a twinkle in his eye. Your hobby seems to be preparing for suicide and changing your mind, he said. I am sorry to hear you speak so flippantly on a solemn subject, said Milberg. As I say, I waited a little too long, but I was anxious for complete darkness to fall before I made my way into the flat. This I did easily because Odette had lent me her key. I found her bag with no difficulty. It was in the dining-room on shelf, and placing the case upon her bed, I proceeded, as best I could, for I am not very familiar with the articles of Feminine Toilet, to put together such things as I knew she would require on the journey. I was thus engaged when, as I say, it occurred to me that I had mistaken the time of the train, and looking at my watch, I saw to my consternation that I should not be able to get down to the station in time. Happily I had arranged to call her up, as I have already told you. One moment, said Tarlene, how were you dressed? How was I dressed? Let me think. I wore an overcoat, I know, said Mr. Milberg, for the night was chilly and a little foggy if you remember. Where was the revolver? In the overcoat pocket, replied Milberg immediately. You had your overcoat on? Milberg thought for a moment. No, I had not. I had hung it up on a hook at the foot of the bed, near the alcove, which I believe Miss Ryder used as a wardrobe. And when you went out to telephone, had you your overcoat? No. That I am perfectly certain about, said Milberg readily. I remember thinking later how foolish it was to bring an overcoat out and not use it. Go on, said Tarlene. Well, I reached the station, called up the hotel, and to my surprise and annoyance Miss Ryder did not answer. I asked the porter who answered my phone call whether he had seen a young lady dressed and so and so waiting in the lounge, and he replied, No. Therefore, said Mr. Milberg emphatically, you will agree that it is possible that Miss Ryder was not either at the station or at the hotel, and there was a distinct possibility that she had doubled back. We want the facts, interrupted Whiteside. We have enough theories. Tell us what happened. Then we will draw our own conclusions. Very good, sir, replied Milberg courteously. By the time I had telephoned it was half past nine o'clock. You will remember that I had wired to Mr. Lynn to meet me at the flat at eleven. Obviously there was no reason why I should go back to the flat until a few minutes before Mr. Lynn was due to let him in. You asked me just now, sir, he turned to Tarlene, whether I had my overcoat on and I can state most emphatically that I had not. I was going back to the flat with the intention of collecting my overcoat when I saw a number of people walking about the muse behind the block. I had no desire to attract attention as I have told you before, so I stood waiting until these people who were employees of a motor-car company which had a garage behind the flat had dispersed. Now waiting at the corner of a muse on a cold spring night is a cold business, and seeing that it would be some time before the muse would be clear, I went back to the main street and strolled along until I came to a picture palace. I am partial to cinematograph displays, explained Mr. Milberg, and although I was not in the mood for entertainment, yet I thought the pictures would afford a pleasant attraction. I forget the name of the film. It is not necessary that you should tell us for the moment, said Tarling. Will you please make your story as short as possible? Milberg was silent for a moment. I am coming now to the most extraordinary fact, he said, and I would ask you to bear in mind every detail I give you. It is to my interest that the perpetrator of this terrible crime should be brought to justice. Tarling's impatient gesture arrested his platitudes, but Mr. Milberg was in no way abashed. When I got back to the muse I found it deserted, standing outside the door leading to the storerooms and cellars was a two-seater car. There was nobody inside or in attendance, and I looked at it curiously, not realizing at the moment that it was Thornton Lens. What did interest me was the fact that the back gate, which I had left locked, was open. So too was the door leading to what I would call the underground room, it was a little better, through which one had to pass to reach Odette's flat by the back way. I opened the door of the flat, said Milberg impressively, and walked in. I had extinguished the light when I went, but to my surprise I saw through the transom of Odette's bedroom that a light was burning within. I turned the handle, and even before I saw into the room my nose was assailed by a smell of burning powder. The first sight which met my gaze was a man lying on the floor. He was on his face, but I turned him over into my horror. It was Mr. Thornton Lens. He was unconscious and bleeding from a wound in the chest, said Mr. Milberg, and at the moment I thought he was dead. To say that I was shocked would be mildly to describe my terrible agitation. My first thought, and first thoughts are sometimes right, was that he had been shot down by Odette Ryder, who for some reason had returned. The room, however, was empty, and a curious circumstance about which I will tell you was that the window leading out to the area of the flat was wide open. It was protected with heavy bars, said Tarling, so nobody could have escaped that way. I examined the wound, Milberg went on, nodding his agreement with Tarling's description, and knew that it was fatal. I do not think, however, that Mr. Thornton Lens was dead at this time. My next thought was to stanch the wound, and I pulled open the drawer and took out the first thing which came to my hand, which was a nightdress. I had to find a pad, and employed two of Odette's handkerchiefs for the purpose. First of all I stripped him of his coat and his vest, a task of some difficulty, then I fixed him up as best I could. I knew his case was hopeless, and indeed I believe, said Mr. Milberg soberly. I believe he was dead even before the bandaging was completed. Whilst I was doing something, I found it was possible to forget the terrible position in which I would find myself if somebody came into the room. The moment I saw the case was hopeless, and had a second to think, I was seized by a blind panic. I snatched my overcoat from the peg, and ran out of the room, threw the back way into the muse, and reached Camdentown that night of mental and physical wreck. Did you leave the lights burning as Tarling? Mr. Milberg thought for a moment. Yes, he said. I left the lights burning. And you left the body in the flat? That, I swear, replied Milberg. And the revolver, when you got home, was it in your pocket? Mr. Milberg shook his head. Why did you not notify the police? Because I was afraid, admitted Milberg. I was scared to death. It is a terrible confession to make, but I am a physical coward. There was nobody in the room, persisted, Tarling. Nobody so far as I could see. No you the window was open. You say it is barred. That is true, but a very thin person could slip between those bars. A woman, impossible, said Tarling shortly. The bars have been very carefully measured, and nothing bigger than a rabbit could get through. And you have no idea who carried the body away? None whatever, replied Milberg firmly. Tarling had opened his mouth to say something when a telephone bell shrilled, and he picked up the instrument from the table on which it stood. It was a strange voice that greeted him. A voice husky and loud as though it were unused to telephoning. Tarling the name, shouted the voice quickly. That is my name, said Tarling. She's a friend of yours, ain't she? Asked the voice. There was a chuckle. A cold shiver ran down Tarling's spine, for though he had never met the man, instinct told him that he was speaking to Sam's stay. You'll find her tomorrow, screamed the voice, what's left of her. The woman who lured him on, what's left of her. There was a click and the receiver was hung up. Tarling was working the telephone hook like a madman. What exchange was that, he asked, and the operator after a moment supplied the information that it was hamusted. End of Chapter 35. Chapter 36 of the Daffodil Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mary Anderson. The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace. Chapter 36 at Highgate Cemetery. Odette Ryder sat back in a corner of the smooth running taxi cab. Her eyes were closed, for the inevitable reaction had come. Excitement and anxiety had combined to give her the strength to walk to the cab with a firm step which had surprised the matron. But now in the darkness and solitude she was conscious of a depression, both physical and mental, which left her without the will or power for further effort. The car sped through interminably long streets, in what direction she neither knew nor cared. Remember that she did not even know where the nursing home was situated. It might have been on the edge of London for all she was aware. Once, that was as the car was crossing Bond Street from Cavendish Square, she saw people turn and look at the cab, and a policeman pointed and shouted something. She was too preoccupied to worry her head as to the cause. She appreciated in a dim vague way the skill of the taxi driver who seemed to be able to grope his way through and around any obstruction in traffic. And it was not until she found the cab traversing a country road that she had any suspicion that all was not well. Even then her doubts were laid by her recognition of certain landmarks which told her she was on the Hurtford Road. Of course she thought, I should be wanted at Hurtford rather than in London, said she, settling herself down again. Finally the cab stopped, backed down a side lane, and turned in the direction from whence they had come. When he had got his car's head right, Sam's stay shut off his engine, descended from his seat and opened the door. Come on out of that, he said sharply. Why, what? began the bewildered girl. But before she could go much further the man dived in, gripped her by the wrist and pulled her out with such violence that she fell. You don't know me, eh? The words were his as he thrust his face into hers, gripping her shoulders so savagely that she could have cried out in pain. She was on her knees, struggling to get to her feet, and she looked up at the little man, wonderingly. I know you, she gasped. You were the man who tried to get into my flat. He grinned. And I know you, he laughed harshly. You're the devil that lured him on, the best man in the world. He's in the little vault in Highgate Cemetery. The door is just like a church. And that's where you'll be tonight, damn you. Down there I'm going to take you, down, down, down, and leave you with him because he wanted you. He was gripping her by both wrists, glaring down into her face. And there was something so wolfish, so inhuman, in the madman's staring eyes, that her mouth went dry. And when she tried to scream, no sound came. Then she lurched forward towards him, and he caught her under the arms and dragged her to her feet. Ain't it, eh? You'll faint, me lady, he chuckled. Don't you wish you might never come round, eh? I'll bet you would if you knew, if you knew. He dropped her on the grass by the side of the road, took a luggage strap from the front of the cab, and bound her hands. Then he picked up the scarf she had been wearing and tied it around her mouth. With an extraordinary display of strength, he lifted her without effort and put her back into the corner of the seat. Then he slammed the door, mounted again to his place, and sent the car at top speed in the direction of London. They were on the outskirts of Hampstead, when he saw a sign over a tobaccoist's shop, and stopped the car a little way beyond at the darkest part of the road. He gave a glance into the interior. The girl had slid from the seat to the floor, and lay motionless. He hurried back to the tobaccoist's, where the telephone sign had been. At the back of his fuddled brain lingered an idea that there was somebody who would be hurt. That cruel-looking devil who was cross-examining him when he fell into a fit, Tarling—yes, that was the name, Tarling. It happened to be a new telephone directory, and by chance Tarling's name, although a new subscriber, had been included. In a few seconds he was talking to the detective. He hung up the receiver and came out of the little booth, and the shopman, who had heard his harsh, loud voice, looked at him suspiciously. But Sam's stay was indifferent to the suspicions of men. He half ran, half walked back to where his cab was standing, pushed into the seat, and again drove the machine forward. To Highgate Cemetery, that was the idea. The gates would be closed, but he could do something. Perhaps he would kill her first, and then get her over the wall afterwards. It would be a grand revenge if he could get her into the cemetery alive, and thrust her, the living, down amongst the dead, through those little doors which open like church doors, to the cold, dank vault below. He screamed and sang with joy at the thought. In those pedestrians who saw the cab flash past, rocking from side to side, turned at the sound of the wild snatch of song. For Sam's stay was happy, as he had not been happy in his life before. But Highgate Cemetery was closed. The gloomy iron gates barred all entrance, and the walls were high. It was a baffling place, because houses almost entirely surrounded it, and he was half an hour seeking a suitable spot, before he finally pulled up before a place where the wall did not seem so difficult. There was nobody about, and little fear of interruption on the part of the girl. He had looked into the cab and had seen nothing save a huddled figure on the floor, so she was still unconscious, he thought. He ran the car onto the sidewalk, then slipped down into the narrow space between car and wall, and jerked open the door. Come on, he cried exultantly. He reached out his fingers. And then something shot from the car, something lithe and supple, something that gripped a little man by the throat and hurled him back against the wall. Stay struggled with the strength of lunacy, but Ling Chu held him in a grip of steel. End of Chapter 36. Chapter 37 of the Daffodil Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa. The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace. Chapter 37. Ling Chu returns. Tarling dropped the telephone receiver on its hook and had sunk into a chair with a groan. His face was white, whiter than the prisoners who sat opposite him, and he seemed to have gone old all of a sudden. What is it? asked White Side quietly. Who was the man? Stay, said Tarling. Stay. He has a debt. It's awful, awful. White Side, thoughtful, preoccupied. Milborough, his face twitching with fear, watched the scene curiously. I'm eaten, said Tarling. And at that moment, the telephone bell rang again. He lifted the receiver and bent over the table, and White Side saw his eyes open in wide amazement. It was a debt's voice that greeted him. It is I, Odette. Odette, are you safe? Thank God for that! He almost shouted, thank God for that! Where are you? I'm at a tobacco shop in, there was a pause while she was evidently asking somebody the name of the street. And presently she came back with the information. But this is wonderful, said Tarling. I'll be with you immediately. White Side, get a cab, will you? How did you get away? It's rather a long story, she said. Your Chinese friend saved me. That dreadful man stopped the car near a tobacco shop to telephone. Ling Chu appeared by magic. I think he must have been lying on top of the cab because I heard him come down by the side. He helped me out and stood me in a dark doorway taking my place. Please don't ask me anymore. I'm so tired. Half an hour later, Tarling was with the girl and heard the story of the outrage. Odette, writer, had recovered something of her calm. And before the detective had returned her to the nursing home, she had told him the story of her adventure. I must have fainted, she said. When I woke up, I was lying at the bottom of the cab, which was moving at a tremendous rate. I thought of getting back to the seat. But occurred to me that if I pretended to be faint, I might have a chance of escape. When I heard the cab stop, I tried to rise. But I hadn't sufficient strength, but help was near. I heard the scraping of shoes on the leather top of the car and presently the door opened. And I saw a figure which I knew was not the cabman's. He lifted me out. And fortunately, the cab had stopped opposite a private house with a big porch. And to this he led me. Wait, he said. There is a place for you may telephone a little way along. Wait till we have gone. Then he went back to the cab, closed the door noiselessly, and immediately afterwards, I saw stay running along the path. In a few seconds, the cab had disappeared and I dragged myself to the shop. And that's all. No news had been received of Ling Chu when Tarling would turn to his flat. White Side was waiting and told him that he had put Milburrow into the cells and that he would be charged the following day. I can't understand what has happened to Ling Chu. He should be back by now, said Tarling. It was half past one in the morning and a telephone inquiry to the Scotland Yard had produced no information. It is possible, of course, Tarling went on, that stay took the cab on to Hertford, the man has developed into a dangerous lunatic. All criminals are more or less mad, so the philosophical White Side. I wonder what turned this fellow's brain. Love, said Tarling. The other looked at him in surprise. Love, he repeated incredulously, and Tarling nodded. Undoubtedly, Sam stay adored Ling. It was the shock of his death which drove him mad. White Side drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully. What do you think of Milburrow's story, he asked, and Tarling shrugged his shoulders. It is most difficult to form a judgment, he said. The man spoke as though he were telling the truth, and something within me convinces me that he was not lying, and yet the whole thing is incredible. Of course, Milburrow's had time to make up a pretty good story, White Side. He is a fairly shrewd man, as Milburrow, and it was hardly likely that he would tell us a yarn which was beyond the range of belief. That is true, agreed the other. Nevertheless, I am satisfied, he told almost the whole of the truth. Then who killed Thornton Lynn? Tarling rose with a gesture of despair. He were apparently as far from the solution of that mystery as I am, and yet I have formed a theory which may sound fantastic. There was a light step upon the stair, and Tarling crossed the room and opened the door. Ling Chu came in, his calm and scruitable self, and but for the fact that his forehead and his right hand were heavily bandaged, carrying no evidence of his tragic experience. Hello, Ling Chu, said Tarling in English. You're hurt? Not badly, said Ling Chu. Will the master be good enough to give me a cigarette? I lost all mine in the struggle. Where does Sam stay? Ling Chu let the cigarette before he answered, blew out the match and placed it carefully in the ashtray on the center of the table. The man is sleeping on the terrace of night, said Ling Chu simply. Dead, said the startled Tarling. China man nodded. Did you kill him? He began Ling Chu pause and puffed a cloud of cigarette and spoke into the air. He was dying for many days, so the doctor at the big hospital told me. I hit his head once or twice, but not very hard. He cut me a little with a knife, but it was nothing. Sam stay is dead, eh? Said Tarling thoughtfully. Well, that removes a source of danger to miswriter Ling Chu. The China man smiled. It removes many things, master, because before this man died, his head became good. You mean he was sane? He was sane, master, said Ling Chu. He wished to speak to paper, so the big doctor at the hospital sent for a judge or one who sits in judgment. A magistrate? Yes, a magistrate, said Ling Chu, nodding. A little old man who lives very near the hospital, and he came complaining because it was so late an hour. Also, there came a man who wrote very rapidly in a book and when the man had died, he wrote more rapidly in a machine and gave me these papers to bring to you, detaining others for himself and for the judge who spoke to the man. He fumbled in his blouse and brought out a roll of paper covered with typewriting. Tarling took the documents and saw that it consisted of several pages. Then he looked up at Ling Chu. First tell me Ling Chu, he said. What happened? You may say it. Ling Chu, with a jerky little bow, pulled a chair from the wall and sat at a respectful distance from the table. And Tarling, noting the rapid consumption of a cigarette, passed in the box. You must know, master, that against your wish and knowledge, I took the large-faced man and put him to the question. These things are not done in this country, but I thought it best that the truth should be told. Therefore, I prepared to give him the torture when he told me that the small, small girl was in danger. So I left him, not thinking that your excellency would return until morning. And I went to the big house where the small, small girl was kept and as I came to the corner of the street, I saw her get into a quick, quick car. It was moving off long before I came to it and I had to run, it was very fast. But I held on behind and presently when it stopped at this street to cross, I scrambled up the back and lay flat across the top of the cab. I think people saw me do this and shouted to the driver, but he did not hear. Thus I lay for a long time and the car drove out into the country and after a while came back. But before it came back it stopped and I saw the man talking to the small, small woman in angry tones. I thought he was going to hurt her and I waited ready to jump upon him. But the lady went into the realms of sleep and he lifted her back into the car. Then he came back to the town and again he stopped to go into a shop. I think it was the telephone. For there was one of those blue signs which you see outside a shop where the telephone may be used by the common people. Whilst he had gone in, I got down and lifted the small, small woman out, taking the straps from her hands and placing her in a doorway. Then I took her place. We drove for a long time till he stopped by a high wall and then master, there was a fight. So they can choose simply. It took me a long time to overcome him and then I had to carry him. We came to a policeman who took us in another car to a hospital where my wounds were dressed. Then they came to me and told me that the man was dying and wished to see somebody because he had that in his heart for which he desired ease. So he talked, master, and the man wrote for an hour and then he passed to his father's that little white-faced man. He finished abruptly as was his custom. Tarling took the papers up and opened them, glancing through page after page, Whiteside sitting patiently by without interrupting. When Tarling had finished the documents, he looked across the table. Thornton land was killed by Sam's stay, he said, and Whiteside stared at him, but he began, I have suspected it some time, but there were one or two links in the evidence which were missing and which I was unable to supply. Let me read you the statement of Sam's stay. End of chapter 37, recording by Melissa. Chapter 38 of the Daffodil Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Melissa. The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace. Chapter the last, the statement of Sam's stay. My name is Sam's stay. I was born at Maidenstone in the County of Kent. My age is 29 years. I left school at the age of 11 and got mixed up with a bad set. And at the age of 13, I was convicted for stealing from a shop and was sent to Borstal Institute for four years. On my release from Borstal, I went to London and a year later was convicted of housebreaking, receiving a sentence of 12 months imprisonment with hard labor. On my release from prison, I was taken up by a society who taught me motor driving and I secured a license and another name as a taxi cab driver. And for 12 months drove a cab on the streets. At the end of that period, I was convicted for stealing passengers baggage and was sent to prison for 18 months. It was after my release from this term of imprisonment that I first met Mr. Thornton Lynn. I met him in the following manner. I had been given a letter from the Prisoner's Aid Society and went to Mr. Thornton Lynn to get a job. He took a great interest in me and from the very first was the best friend I had ever had. His kindness was wonderful and I think there never was a man in the world with such a beautiful nature as his. He assisted me many times and although I went back to prison, he never deserted me but helped me as a friend and was never disgusted when I got into trouble. I was released from jail in the spring of this year and was met at the prison gates by Mr. Thornton Lynn in a beautiful motor car. He treated me as though I were a prince and took me home to his grand house and gave me food and beautiful wine. He told me that he had been very much upset by a young lady whom he had looked after. This young lady worked for him and he had given her work when she was starving. He said that she had been spreading lies about him and that she was a bad girl. I had never seen this person whose name was Odette Ryder but I felt full of hatred towards her and the more he spoke about the girl the more determined I was to have revenge on her. When he told me that she was very beautiful I remembered in the same gang as me at Wadsworth Jail there had been a man named Selzer. This is the name as far as I can remember. He was serving a lagging, a term of penal servitude for throwing vitriol in the face of his girl. She had let him down and had married another man while he was serving a term of imprisonment. I believe she was very beautiful. When Selzer got out he laid weight for her and threw vitriol in her face and he has often told me that he didn't regret it. So that when Mr. Lynn told me that the girl was beautiful this idea struck me that I would have revenge upon her. I was living in Lambeth at the house of an old lad who practically took nobody but Crooks's lodgers. It cost more than ordinary lodgings but it was worth it because if the police made any inquiries the landlord or his wife would always give wrong information. I went to this place because I intended committing a burglary at Muswell Hill with a man who was released from jail two or three days before me. Who knew the crib and asked me when we were at work one day if I would go in with him on a job. I thought there might be a chance of getting away with the stuff if I could get somebody to swear that I hadn't left the house that night. I told the landlord I had a job on the 14th and gave him one pound. I saw Mr. Lynn on the 14th at his house and put the idea up to him. I showed him the vitriol which I had bought in the Waterloo Road and he said he would not hear of my doing it. I thought he only said that because he did not want to be mixed up in the case. He asked me to leave the girl to him and he would settle with her. I left his house about nine o'clock at night telling him I was going back to my lodgings but really I went to the block of flats in the Edgware Road where this girl rider lived. I knew the flat because I had been there the night before and Mr. Lynn's suggestion to plant some jewelry which had been taken from the store. His idea was that he would pinch her for theft. I had not been able to get into the house owing to the presence there of a detective named Tarling but I had had a very good look round and I knew the way in without coming through the front door where a porter was always on duty. I had no difficulty either in getting into the building or into the flat. I thought it best to go in early because the girl might be out of the theater and I should have a chance of concealing myself before her return. When I got into the flat I found it was in darkness. This suited my purpose very well. I went from one room to another. At last I came to the bedroom. I made an inspection of the room looking about for a likely place where I could hide. At the foot of the bed was an alcove covered by a curtain where several dresses and a dressing gown were hanging and I found that I could easily get in there behind the clothes and nobody would be the wiser. There were two clothes hooks projecting outside the curtain just inside the alcove. I mentioned these because of something which happened later. Whilst I was prying around I heard a key turn in the lock and switched off the lights. I had just time to get into the alcove when the door opened and a man named Milborough appeared. He turned on the lights as he came into the room and shut the door after him. He looked around as though he was thinking about something and then taking off his coat he hung it on one of the hooks near the alcove. I held my breath fearing that he would look inside but he did not. He walked about the room as though he was looking for something and again I was afraid that I should be discovered after all but by and by he went out and came back with a small suitcase. It was after he had gone that I saw poking out of the pocket of the great coat which had been hung on the hook, the butt of a pistol. I didn't quite know what to make of it but thinking that it was better in my pocket than in his if I were discovered I lifted it out of the pocket and slipped it into my own. After a while he came back as I say and started packing the bag on the bed. Presently he looked at his watch and said something to himself, turned up the lights and hurried out. I waited and waited for him to come back but nothing happened and knowing that I would have plenty of time if he came back again I took a look at the pistol I had. It was an automatic and it was loaded. I had never worked with a gun in my life but I thought I might as well take this as I intended committing a crime which might land me in a jug for the term of my natural life. I thought I might as well be hung as go to penal service. Then I put out the lights and sat down by the window waiting for Miss Ryder's return. I lit a cigarette and opened the window to let out the smell of the smoke. I took out the bottle of vitriol, removed the cork and placed it on the stool nearby. I don't know how long I waited in the dark but about 11 o'clock, as far as I can judge, I heard the outer door click very gently on a soft foot in the hall. I knew it wasn't Milborough because he was a heavy man. This person moved like a cat. In fact, I did not hear the door of the bedroom open. I waited with the vitriol on the stool by my side for the light to be switched on but nothing happened. I don't know what made me do it but I walked towards the person who had come into the room. Then before I knew what had happened, somebody had gripped me. I was half strungled by an arm which had been thrown around my neck and I thought it was Milborough who had detected me the first time and had come back to pinch me. I tried to push him away but he struck me on the jaw. I was getting frightened for I thought the noise would rouse the people and the police would come and I must have lost my head but before I knew what had happened I had pulled the gun out of my pocket and fired point blank. I heard a sound like a thud of a body falling. The pistol was still in my hand and my first act was to get rid of it. I felt a basket by my legs in the darkness who was full of cotton and wool and stuff and I pushed the pistol down to the bottom and then groped across the room and switched on the lights. As I did so, I heard the key turn in the lock again. I gave one glance at the body which had fallen on its face and then I dived for the alcove. The man who came in was Milbara. His back was to me. As he turned the body over I could not see its face. I saw him take something out of the drawer and bind it around the chest and I saw him strip off the coat and vest but not until he had gone out and I came from the recess did I realize that the man I had killed was dear Mr. Lin. I think I must have gone raving mad with grief. I don't know what I did. All I thought of was that there must be some chance and that he wasn't dead at all and he must be got away to a hospital. We had discussed the plan of going into the flat and he had told me he would bring his car to the back. I rushed out of the flat going through the back way. Sure enough, there was the car waiting and nobody was about. I came up to the bedroom and lifted him in my arms and carried him back to the car propping him up in the seat. Then I went back and got his coat and vest and threw them onto the seat by him. I found his boots were also in the car and then for the first time I noticed that he had slippers on his feet. I had been a taxi driver so I knew how to handle a car and in a few minutes I was going along the Edgware Road on my way to St. George's Hospital. I turned in through the park because I didn't want people to see me and it was when I had gotten to a part where nobody was about that I stopped the car to have another look at him. I realized that he was quite dead. I sat in that car with him for the best part of two hours crying as I have never cried. Then after a while I roused myself and carried him out and laid him on the sidewalk some distance from the car. I had enough sense to know that if you were found dead in my company it would go very badly for me but I hated leaving him and after I had folded his arms I sat by him for another hour or two. He seemed so cold and lonely that it made my heart bleed to leave him at all. In the early light of morning I saw a bed of daffodils growing close by and I plucked a few and laid them on his breast because I loved him. Tarling finished reading and looked at his assistant. That is the end of the daffodil mystery, he said, a fairly simple explanation, white side. Incidentally, it equates our friend Milborough who looks like escaping conviction altogether. A week later two people were walking slowly along the downs overlooking the sea. They had walked for a mile in complete silence then suddenly Odette Ryder said, I get very easily tired, let us sit down. Tarling obediently sunk down by her side. I read in the newspapers this morning Mr. Tarling, she said, that you have sold in store. That's true, said Tarling. There are very many reasons why I do not wanna go into the business or stay in London. She did not look at him but played with the blades of grass she had plucked. Are you going abroad, she asked. We are, said Tarling. We, she looked at him in surprise. Who are we? I am referring to myself and a girl to whom I made violent love at Hartford, said Tarling and she dropped her eyes. I think you were sorry for me, she said and you were rather led into your wild declaration of love, suggested Tarling. That's the word, she replied with a little smile. You were led to say what you did because of my hopeless plight. I was led to say what I did, said Tarling, because I loved you. Where are you, we going, she asked awkwardly. To South America, said Tarling, for a few months. Then afterwards to my well-beloved China for the cool season. Why does South America ask the girl? Because, said Tarling, I was reading an article on horticulture in this morning's papers and I learned that daffodils do not grow in the Argentine. End of chapter 38, End of the Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace, recording by Melissa.