 CHAPTER VIII. Two years after the events just described, TX journeying up to London from Bath was attracted by a paragraph in the morning post. It told him briefly that Mr. Remington Cara, the influential leader of the Greek colony, had been the guest of honour at a dinner of the Hellenic Society. TX had only seen Cara for a brief space of time following that tragic morning, when he had discovered not only that his best friend had escaped from Dartmoor Prison and disappeared, as it were, from the world at a moment when his pardon had been signed, but that that friend's wife had also vanished from the face of the earth. At the same time it might, as even TX admitted, have been the various coincidence that Cara had also cleared out of London to reappear at the end of six months. Any question addressed to him concerning the whereabouts of the two unhappy people was met with a bland expression of ignorance as to their whereabouts. John Lexman was somewhere in the world hiding as he believed from justice, and with him was his wife. TX had no doubt in his mind as to this solution of the puzzle. He had caused to be published the story of the pardon and the circumstances under which that pardon had been secured, and he had, moreover, arranged for an advertisement to be inserted in the principal papers of every European country. It was a moot question amongst the departmental lawyers as to whether John Lexman was not guilty of a technical and punishable offence for prison-breaking. But this possibility did not keep TX awake at night. The circumstances of the escape had been carefully examined. The warder responsible had been discharged from the service, and had almost immediately purchased for himself a beer-house in Falmouth, for a sum which left no doubt in the official mind that he had been the recipient of a heavy bribe. Who had been the guiding spirit in that escape? Mrs. Lexman or Kara? It was impossible to connect Kara with the event. The motor-car had been traced to Exeter where it had been hired by a foreign-looking gentleman, but the chauffeur, whoever he was, had made good his escape. An inspection of Kara's hangers at Wembley showed that his two monoplanes had not been removed, and TX failed entirely to trace the owner of the machine he had seen flying over Dartmoor on the fatal morning. TX was somewhat baffled and a little amused by the disinclination of the authorities to believe that the escape had been affected by this method at all. All the events of the trial came back to him as he watched the landscape spinning past. He set down the newspaper with a little sigh, put his feet on the cushions of the opposite seat, and gave himself up to reverie. Presently he returned to his journals and searched them idly for something to interest him in the final stretch of journey between Newbury and Paddington. Presently he found it in a two-column article with the uninspiring title The Mineral Wealth of Tierra del Fuego. It was written brightly with a style which was at once easy and informative. It told of adventures in the marshes behind St. Sebastian Bay and journeys up the Guares-Kelman River, of nights spent in primeval forests, and ended in a geological survey wherein the commercial value of cyanite, porphyry, trachea, and diolite were severally canvassed. The article was signed G.G. It is said of TX that his greatest virtue was his curiosity. He had at the tip of his fingers the names of all the big explorers and author-travelers, and for some reason he could not place G.G. to his satisfaction. In fact he had an absurd desire to interpret the initials into George Grosssmith. His inability to identify the writer irritated him, and his first act on reaching his office was to telephone to one of the literary editors of The Times whom he knew. Not my department was the chilly reply, and besides we never give away the names of our contributors. Speaking as a person outside the office I should say that G.G. was a George Gatherkull, the explorer you know, the fellow who had an arm chewed off by a lion or something. George Gatherkull, repeated TX, what an ass I am. Yes, said the voice at the other end of the wire, and he had rung off before TX could think of something suitable to say. Having elucidated this little sideline of mystery, the matter passed from the young commissioner's mind. It happened that morning that his work consisted of dealing with John Lexman's estate. With the disappearance of the couple he had taken over control of their belongings. It had not embarrassed him to discover that he was an executor under Lexman's will, for he had already acted as trustee to the wife's small estate, and had been one of the parties to the antinuptial contract which John Lexman had made before his marriage. The estate revenues had increased very considerably. All the vanished author's books were selling as they had never sold before, and the executor's work was made the heavier by the fact that Grace Lexman had possessed an ant who had most inconsiderately died, leaving a considerable fortune to her unhappy niece. I will keep the trusteeship another year," he told the solicitor who came to consult him that morning. At the end of that time I shall go to the court for relief. Do you think they will ever turn up? asked the solicitor, an elderly and unimaginative man. Of course they'll turn up," said TX impatiently. All the heroes of Lexman's books turn up sooner or later. He will discover himself to us at a suitable moment, and we shall be properly thrilled. That Lexman would return he was sure. It was a faith from which he did not swerve. He had as implicit a confidence that one day or other Cara, the magnificent, would play into his hands. There were some queer stories in circulation concerning the Greek, but on the whole they were stories and rumors which were difficult to separate from the malicious gossip which invariably attaches itself to the rich and to the successful. One of these was that Cara desired something more than an Albanian chieftainship which he undoubtedly enjoyed. There were whispers of wider and higher ambitions. Though his father had been born a Greek, he had indubitably descended in a direct line from one of those old mabrets of Albania who had exercised their brief authority over that turbulent land. The man's passion was for power. To this end he did not spare himself. It was said that he utilized his vast wealth for this reason and none other, and that whatever might have been the irregularities of his youth, and there were adduced concrete instances, he was working toward an end with a singleness of purpose from which it was difficult to withhold admiration. TX kept in his lock desk a little red book, steelbound and triple locked, which he called his Scandalaria. In this he inscribed in his own irregular writing the tidbits which might not be published and which often helped an investigator to light upon the missing threads of a problem. In truth he scorned no source of information and was consciousness in the compilation of this somewhat chaotic record. The affairs of John Lexman recalled Cara and Cara's great reception. Mansus would have made arrangements to secure a verbatim report of the speeches which were made, and these would be in his hands by the night. Mansus did not tell him that Cara was financing some very influential people, indeed, that a certain Undersecretary of State with a great number of very influential relations had been saved from bankruptcy by the timely advances which Cara had made. This TX had obtained through sources which might be hastily described as discreditable. Mansus knew of the Baccarat establishment in Albemar Street, but he did not know that the neurotic wife of a very great man indeed, no less than the Minister of Justice, was a frequent visitor to that establishment, and that she had lost in one night some six thousand pounds. In these circumstances it was remarkable, thought TX, that she should report to the police so small a matter as the petty pilfering of servants. This, however, she had done, and whilst the lesser officers of Scotland Yard were interrogating pawnbrokers, the men higher up were genuinely worried by the lady's own lapses from Grace. It was all sorted, but unfortunately conventional, because highly placed people will always do underbred things, where money or women are concerned. But it was necessary for the proper conduct of the department which TX directed, that however sorted and however conventional might be the errors which the great ones of the earth committed, they should be filed for reference. The motto which TX won upon in life was, you never know. The Minister of Justice was a very important person, for he was a personal friend of half the monarchs of Europe. A poor man was two or three thousand a year of his own, with no very definite political views, and uncommitted to the more violent policies of either party, he succeeded in serving both, with profit to himself, and without earning the obliquy of either. Though he did not pursue the blatant policy of the vicar of Bray, yet it is a fact which may be confirmed from the reader's own knowledge, that he served in four different administrations, drawing the pay and emoluments of his office from each, though the fundamental policies of those four governments were distinct. Lady Bartholomew, the wife of this adaptable minister, had recently departed for San Remo. The newspapers announced the fact and spoke vaguely of a breakdown which prevented the lady from fulfilling her social engagements. TX, ever a doubting Thomas, could trace no visit of nerve specialist, nor yet of the family practitioner to the official residence in Downing Street, and therefore he drew conclusions. In his own, who's who, TX noted the hobbies of his victims, which, by the way, did not always coincide with the innocent occupations set against their names in the more pretentious volume. Their follies and their weaknesses found a place and were recorded at length, as it might seem to the uninformed observer beyond the limit which charity allowed. Lady Mary Bartholomew's name appeared not once, but many times, in the erratic records which TX kept. There was a plain matter of fact and wholly unobjectionable statement that she was born in 1874, that she was the seventh daughter of the Earl of Balmory, that she had one daughter who rejoiced in the somewhat unpromising name of Belinda Mary, and such further information as a man might get without going to a great deal of trouble. TX, refreshing his memory from the little red book, wondered what unexpected tragedy had sent Lady Bartholomew out of London in the middle of the season. The information was that the lady was fairly well off at this moment, and this fact made matters all the more puzzling, and almost induced him to believe that, after all, the story was true, and a nervous breakdown really was the cause of her sudden departure. He sent for Mansus. You saw Lady Bartholomew off at Charing Cross, I suppose. Mansus nodded. She went alone. She took her maid, but otherwise she was alone. I thought she looked ill. She has been looking ill for months past, said TX, without any visible expression of sympathy. Did she take Belinda Mary? Mansus was puzzled. Belinda Mary? He repeated slowly. Oh, you mean the daughter. No, she's at a school somewhere in France. TX whistled a snatch of a popular song, closed the little red book with a snap, and replaced it in his desk. I wonder where on earth people dig up names like Belinda Mary, he mused. Belinda Mary must be rather a weird little animal. The Lord forgive me for speaking so about my bedders. If heredity counts for anything, she ought to be something between a head waiter and a pack of cards. Have you lost anything? Mansus was searching his pockets. I made a few notes. Some questions I wanted to ask you about, and Lady Bartholomew was the subject of one of them. I have had her under observation for six months. Do you want it kept up? TX thought a while, then shook his head. I am only interested in Lady Bartholomew, and so far as Cara is interested in her. There is a criminal for you, my friend, he added, admiringly. Mansus busily engaged in going through the bundles of letters, slips of papers, and little notebooks he had taken from his pocket, sniffed audibly. Have you a cold? Asked TX politely. No, sir, was the reply. Only I have it much opinion of Cara as a criminal. Besides, what has he got to be criminal about? He has all that he requires in the money department. He is one of the most popular people in London, and certainly one of the best looking men I have ever seen in my life. He needs nothing. TX regarded him scornfully. You're a poor blind brute, he said, shaking his head. Don't you know that the great criminals are never influenced by material desires or by the prospect of concrete gains? The man who robs his employers till in order to give the girl of his heart the twenty-five pearl and ruby brooch her soul desires gains nothing but the glow of satisfaction which comes to the man who is thought well of. The majority of crimes in the world are committed by people for the same reason. They want to be thought well of. Here is Dr. X, who murdered his wife because she was a drunkard and a slut, and he dared not leave her for fear the neighbours would have doubts as to his respectability. Here is another gentleman who murders his wives in their baths in order that he should keep up some sort of position and earn the respect of his friends and his associates. Nothing roused him more quickly to a frenzy of passion than the suggestion that he was not respectable. Here is the great financier who has embezzled a million and a quarter, not because he needed money, but because people looked up to him. Therefore he must build great mansions, submarine pleasure courts, and must lay out huge estates because he wished that he should be well thought of. Manus sniffed again. What about the man who half murders his wife? Does he do that to be well thought of? He asked with a tinge of sarcasm. T. X looked at him pityingly. The low brow who beats his wife, my poor Manus, he said, does so because she doesn't think well of him. That is our ruling passion, our national characteristic, the primary cause of most crimes, big or little. That is why Carrot is a bad criminal and will, as I say, end his life very violently. He took down his glossy silk hat from the peg and slipped into his overcoat. I am going down to see my friend Carrot, he said. I have a feeling that I should like to talk with him. He might tell me something. His acquaintance with Carrot's Manage had been mere hearsay. He had interviewed the Greek once after his return, but since all his efforts to secure information concerning the whereabouts of John Lexman and his wife, the main reason for his visit had been in vain, he had not repeated his visit. The house in Categan Square was a large one, occupying a corner site. It was peculiarly English in appearance with its window-boxes, its discreet curtains, its polished brass and enamel doorway. It had been the townhouse of Lorne Henry Graetham, that eccentric connoisseur of wine and follower of witless pleasure. It had been built by him round a bottle of port, as his friend said, meaning thereby that his first consideration had been the cellarage of the house, and that when those cellars had been built and provision made for the safe storage of his priceless wines, the house had been built without the architects being greatly troubled by his lordship. The double cellars of Graetham House had, in their time, been one of the sites of London. When Henry Graetham lay under eight feet of Congo Earth, he was killed by an elephant whilst on a hunting trip. His executors had been singularly fortunate in finding an immediate purchaser. Rumour had it that Carrot, who was no lover of wine, had bricked up the cellars, and their very existence passed into domestic legendary. The door was opened by a well-dressed and deferential man servant, and T. X was ushered into the hall. A fire burnt cheerily in a bronze grate, and T. X had a glimpse of a big oil painting of Carrot above the marble mantelpiece. Mr. Carrot is a very busy man, sir, said the man. Just take my card, said T. X. I think he may care to see me. The man bowed, produced from some mysterious corner, a silver salver, and glided upstairs in that manner which well-trained servants have, a manner which seems to call for no bodily effort. In a minute he returned. Will you come this way, sir? he said, and led the way up a broad flight of stairs. At the head of the stairs was a corridor which ran to the left and to the right. From this there gave four rooms, one at the extreme end of the passage on the right, one on the left, and two at fairly regular intervals in the center. When the man's hand was on one of the doors, T. X asked quietly, I think I have seen you before somewhere, my friend. The man smiled. It is very possible, sir, I was a waiter at the constitutional for some time. T. X nodded. That is where it must have been, he said. The man opened the door and announced the visitor. T. X found himself in a large room, very handsomely furnished, but just lacking that sense of coziness and comfort, which is the feature of the Englishman's home. Cara rose from behind a big writing table and came with a smile and a quick step to greet the visitor. This is a most unexpected pleasure, he said, and shook hands warmly. T. X had not seen him for a year, and found very little change in this strange young man. He could not be more confident than he had been, nor bear himself with a more graceful carriage. Whatever social success he had achieved it had not spoiled him, for his manner was as genial and easy as ever. I think that will do, Miss Holland, he said, turning to the girl who, with no book in hand, stood by the desk. Evidently, thought T. X, our Hellenic friend has a pretty taste in secretaries. In that one glance he took her all in, from the bronze brown of her hair to her neat foot. T. X was not readily attracted by members of the opposite sex. He was self-confessed a predestined bachelor, finding life in its incidence too absorbing to give his whole mind to the serious problem of marriage, or to contract responsibilities and interests which might divert his attention from what he believed was the greater game. Yet he must be a man of stone to resist the freshness, the beauty, and the youth of this straight slender girl, the pink and whiteness of her, the aliveness and buoyancy, and the thrilling sense of vitality she carried in her very presence. What is the weirdest name you have ever heard? asked Cara laughingly. I ask you, because Miss Holland and I have been discussing a begging letter addressed to us by a Maggie Goomer. The girl smiled slightly, and in that smile was Paradise, thought T. X. The weirdest name, he repeated, why I think the worst I have heard for a long time is Belinda Mary. That has a familiar ring, said Cara. T. X was looking at the girl. She was staring at him with a certain languid insolence which made him curl up inside. Then, with a glance at her employer, she swept from the room. I ought to have introduced you, said Cara. That was my secretary, Miss Holland, rather a pretty girl, isn't she? Very, said T. X, recovering his breath. I like pretty things around me, said Cara, and somehow the complacency of the remark annoyed the detective more than anything that Cara had ever said to him. The Greek went to the mantelpiece, and taking down a silver cigarette box, opened it and offered it to his visitor. Cara was wearing a gray lounge suit, and although gray is a very trying color for a foreigner to wear, this suit fitted his splendid figure and gave him just that bulk which he needed. You are a most suspicious man, Mr. Meredith, he smiled. Suspicious? I? asked the innocent T. X. Cara nodded. I am sure you want to inquire into the character of all my present staff. I am perfectly satisfied that you will never be at rest until you learn the antecedents of my cook, my valet, my secretary. T. X held his hand up with a laugh. Spare me, he said. It is one of my failings, I admit, but I have never gone much farther into your domestic affairs than to pry into the antecedents of your very interesting chauffeur. A little cloud passed over Cara's face, but it was only momentary. Oh, brown, he said eerily, with just a perceptible pause between the two words. It used to be Smith, said T. X, but no matter. His name is really Peropoulos. Oh, Peropoulos, said Cara gravely. I dismissed him a long time ago. Pensioned higher, too, I understand, said T. X. The other looked at him a while, then. I am very good to my old servants, he said slowly, and changing the subject. To what good fortune do I owe this visit? T. X selected a cigarette before he replied. I thought you might be of some service to me, he said, apparently giving his whole attention to the cigarette. Nothing would give me greater pleasure, said Cara a little eagerly. I am afraid you have not been very keen on continuing what I hoped would have ripened into a valuable friendship. More valuable to me, perhaps, he smiled, then to you. I am a very shy man, said the shameless T. X. Difficult to a fault, and rather apt to underrate my social attractions. I have come to you now because you know everybody. By the way, how long have you had your secretary? he asked abruptly. Cara looked up at the ceiling for inspiration. For, no, three months, he corrected a very efficient young lady who came to me from one of the training establishments. Somewhat uncommunicative, better educated than most girls in her position. For example, she speaks and writes modern Greek fairly well. A treasure, suggested T. X. Unusually so, said Cara. She lives in Mary LeBone Road. 86A is the address. She has no friends, spends most of her evenings in her room, is eminently respectable, and a little chilling in her attitude to her employer. T. X shot a swift glance at the other. Why do you tell me all this? he asked. To save you the trouble of finding out, replied the other coolly. That insatiable curiosity, which is one of the equipments of your profession, would, I feel sure, induce you to conduct investigations for your own satisfaction. T. X laughed. May I sit down? he said. The other wheeled an armchair across the room, and T. X sank into it. He lent back and crossed his legs and was, in a second, the personification of ease. I think you are a very clever man, Missure Cara. He said. The other looked down at him, this time without amusement. Not so clever that I can discover the object of your visit, he said pleasantly enough. It's very simply explained, said T. X. You know everybody in town. You know amongst other people, Lady Bartholomew. I know the lady very well indeed. Said Cara readily. Too readily, in fact, for the rapidity with which answer had followed question suggested to T. X that Cara had anticipated the reason for the call. Have you any idea, asked T. X, speaking with deliberation, as to why Lady Bartholomew has gone out of town at this particular moment? Cara laughed. What an extraordinary question to ask me, as though Lady Bartholomew confided her plans to one who is little more than a chance acquaintance. And yet, said T. X, contemplating the burning end of his cigarette, you know her well enough to hold her promissory note. Promissory note? Asked the other. His tone was one of involuntary surprise, and T. X swore softly to himself, for now he saw the faintest shade of relief in Cara's face. The commissioner realized that he had committed an error. He had been far too definite. When I say promissory note, he went on easily, as though he had noticed nothing. I mean, of course, the securities which the debtor invariably gives to one from whom he or she has borrowed large sums of money. Cara made no answer, but opening a drawer of his desk, he took out a key and brought it across to where T. X was sitting. Here is the key of my safe, he said quietly. You are at liberty to go carefully through its contents and discover for yourself any promissory note which I hold from Lady Bartholomew. My dear fellow, you don't imagine I'm a moneylender, do you? He said in an injured tone. Nothing was further from my thoughts, said T. X untruthily, but the other pressed the key upon him. I should be awfully glad if you would look for yourself, he said earnestly. I feel that in some way you associate Lady Bartholomew's illness with some horrible act of usury on my part. Will you satisfy yourself and in doing so satisfy me? Now any ordinary man, and possibly any ordinary detective, would have made the conventional answer. He would have protested that he had no intention of doing anything of the sort. He would have uttered if he were a man in the position which T. X occupied, the conventional statement, that he had no authority to search the private papers, and that he would certainly not avail himself of the other's kindness. But T. X was not an ordinary person. He took the key and balanced it lightly in the palm of his hand. Is this the key of the famous Bedroom Safe, he said banteringly? Kara was looking down at him with a quizzical smile. It isn't the safe you opened in my absence on one memorable occasion, Mr. Meredith. He said, As you probably know, I have changed that safe, and perhaps you don't feel equal to the task. On the contrary, said T. X, calmly and rising from the chair, I'm going to put your good faith to the test. For answer, Kara walked to the door and opened it. Let me show you the way, he said politely. He passed along the corridor and entered the apartment at the end. The room was a large one and lighted by one big square window which was protected by steel bars. In the grate which was broad and high a huge fire was burning, and the temperature of the room was unpleasantly close despite the coldness of the day. That is one of the eccentricities which you, as an Englishman, will never excuse in me, said Kara. Near the foot of the bed, let into and flush with the wall, was a big green door of the safe. Here you are, Mr. Meredith, said Kara. All the precious secrets of Remington Kara are yours for the seeking. I'm afraid I've had my trouble for nothing, said T. X, making no attempt to use the key. That is an opinion which I share, said Kara with a smile. Curiously enough, said T. X, I mean just what you mean. He handed the key to Kara. Won't you open it? asked the Greek. T. X shook his head. The safe, as far as I can see, is a Magnus. The key which you have been kind enough to give me is legibly inscribed upon the handle, Chubb. My experience as a police officer has taught me that Chubb keys very rarely open Magnus saves. Kara uttered an exclamation of annoyance. How stupid of me, he said. And yet now I remember I sent the key to my bankers before I went out of town. I only came back this morning, you know. I will send for it at once. Pray, don't trouble. murmured T. X politely. He took from his pocket a little flat leather case and opened it. It contained a number of steel implements of curious shape which were held in position by a leather loop along the center of the case. From one of these loops he extracted a handle and definitely fitted something that looked like a steel awl to the socket in the handle. Looking in wonder and with no little apprehension, Kara saw that the awl was bent at the head. What are you going to do? he asked a little alarmed. I'll show you, said T. X pleasantly. Very gingerly he inserted the instrument in the small keyhole and turned it cautiously first one way and then the other. There was a sharp click followed by another. He turned the handle and the door of the safe swung open. Simple, isn't it? he asked politely. In that second of time Kara's face had undergone a transformation. The eyes which met T. X. Meredith blazed with an almost insane fury. With a quick stride Kara placed himself before the open safe. I think this has gone far enough, Mr. Meredith, he said harshly. If you wish to search my safe, you must get a warrant. T. X shrugged his shoulders and carefully unscrewing the instrument he had employed and replacing it in the case, he returned it to his inside pocket. It was at your invitation, my dear Mr. Kara, he said suavely. Of course I knew that you were putting a bluff up on me with the key, and that you had no intention of letting me see the inside of your safe, then you had of telling me exactly what happened to John Lettsman. The shot went home. The face which was thrust into the commissioners was ridged and veined with passion. The lips were turned back to show the big white even teeth. The eyes were narrowed to slits. The jaw thrust out and almost every semblance of humanity had vanished from his face. You, you, he hissed and his clawing hands moved suspiciously backward. Put up your hands, said T. X sharply, and be damned quick about it. In a flash the hands went up, for the revolver which T. X held was pressed uncomfortably against the third button of the Greek's waistcoat. That's not the first time you've been asked to put up your hands, I think, said T. X pleasantly. His own left hand slipped round to Kara's hip pocket. He found something in the shape of a cylinder and drew it out from the pocket. To his surprise it was not a revolver, not even a knife. It looked like a small electric torch, though instead of a bulb and a bullseye glass there was a pepper box perforation at one end. He handled it carefully and was about to press the small nickel knob when the strangled cry of horror broke from Kara. For God's sake, be careful, he gasped. You're pointing it at me. Do not press that lever, I beg. Will it explode? Asked T. X curiously. No, no. T. X pointed the thing downward to the carpet and pressed the knob cautiously. As he did so there was a sharp hiss and the floor was stained with the liquid which the instrument contained. Just one gush of liquid and no more. T. X looked down. The bright carpet had already changed color and was smoking. The room was filled with a pungent and disagreeable scent. T. X looked from the floor to the white-faced man. Vitriol, I believe, he said, shaking his head admirably. What a dear little fellow you are! The man, big as he was, was on the point of collapse and mumbled something about self-defense and listened without a word whilst T. X, laboring under an emotion which was perfectly pardonable, described Kara, his ancestors, and the possibilities of his future estate. Very slowly the Greek recovered his self-possession. I didn't intend using it on you. I swear I didn't. He pleaded, I'm surrounded by enemies, Meredith. I had to carry some means of protection. It is because my enemies know I carry this that they fight shy of me. I'll swear I had no intention of using it on you. The idea is too preposterous. I'm sorry I fooled you about the safe. Don't let that worry you, said T. X. I'm afraid I did all the fooling. No, I cannot let you have this back again, he said, as the Greek put out his hand, to take the infernal little instrument. I must take this back to Scotland Yard. It's quite a long time since we had anything new in this shape. Compressed air, I presume. Kara nodded solemnly. Very ingenious indeed, said T. X. If I had a brain like yours, he paused. I should do something with it. With a gun, he added, as he passed out of the room. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of The Clue of the Twisted Candle This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Clue of the Twisted Candle by Edgar Wallace Chapter 9 My dear Mr. Meredith, I cannot tell you how unhappy and humiliated I feel that my little joke with you should have had such an uncomfortable ending. As you know, and as I have given you proof, I have the greatest admiration in the world for one whose work for humanity has won such universal recognition. I hope that we shall both forget this unhappy morning, and that you will give me an opportunity of rendering to you, in person, the apologies which are due to you. I feel that anything less will neither rehabilitate me in your esteem, nor secure for me the remnants of my shattered self-respect. I am hoping you will dine with me next week and meet a most interesting man, George Gatherkohl, who has just returned from Patagonia. I only received his letter this morning, having made most remarkable discoveries concerning that country. I feel sure that you are large enough minded and too much a man of the world to allow my foolish fit of temper to disturb a relationship which I have always hoped would be mutually pleasant. If you will allow Gatherkohl, who will be unconscious of the part he is playing, to act as peacemaker between yourself and myself, I shall feel that his trip, which has cost me a large sum of money, will not have been wasted. I am, dear Mr. Meredith, yours very sincerely, Remington Cara. Cara folded the letter and inserted it in its envelope. He rang a bell on his table, and the girl who had so filled TX with a sense of awe came from an adjoining room. You will see that this is delivered, Miss Holland. She inclined her head and stood waiting. Cara rose from his desk and began to pace the room. Do you know TX Meredith, he asked suddenly? I have heard of him, said the girl. A man with a singular mind, said Cara. A man against whom my favourite weapon would fail. She looked at him with interest in her eyes. What is your favourite weapon, Mr. Cara? she asked. Fear, he said. If he expected her to give him any encouragement to proceed, he was disappointed. Probably he required no such encouragement, for in the presence of his social inferiors he was somewhat monopolising. Cut a man's flesh, and it heals, he said. Whip a man, and the memory of it passes. Frighten him, fill him with a sense of foreboding and apprehension, and let him believe that something dreadful is going to happen, either to himself or to someone he loves. Better the latter, and you will hurt him beyond forgetfulness. Fear is a tyrant and a despot, more terrible than the rack, more potent than the stake. Fear is many-eyed, and sees horrors where normal vision only sees the ridiculous. Is that your creed, she asked quietly. Part of it, Miss Holland, he smiled. She played idly with the letter she held in her hand, balancing it on the edge of the desk, her eyes downcast. What would justify the use of such an awful weapon, she asked? It is amply justified to secure an end, he said blandly. For example, I want something. I cannot obtain that something through the ordinary channel, or by the employment of ordinary means. It is essential to me, to my happiness, to my comfort, or my amor proper, that that something shall be possessed by me. If I can buy it well and good. If I can buy those who can use their influence to secure this thing for me, so much the better. If I can obtain it by any merit I possess, I utilize that merit, providing always that I can secure my object in the time. Otherwise, he shrugged his shoulders. I see, she said, nodding her head quickly. I suppose that is how blackmailers feel. He frowned. That is a word I never use, nor do I like to hear it employed, he said. Blackmail suggests to me a vulgar attempt to obtain money, which is generally very badly wanted by the people who use it, said the girl with a little smile. And, according to your argument, they are also justified. It is a matter of plain, he said eerily. Viewed from my standpoint, they are sordid criminals, the sort of person that TX meets, I presume, in the course of his daily work. TX, he went on somewhat irracularily, is a man for whom I have a great deal of respect. You will probably meet him again, for he will find an opportunity of asking you a few questions about myself. I need hardly tell you, he lifted his shoulders with a deprecating smile. I shall certainly not discuss your business with any person, said the girl coldly. I am paying you three pounds a week, I think, he said. I intend increasing that to five pounds, because you suit me most admirably. Thank you, said the girl quietly, but I am already being paid quite sufficient. She left him a little astonished and not a little ruffled. To refuse the favours of Remington Cara was, by him, regarded as something of an affront. Half his quarrel with TX was that gentleman's curious indifference to the benevolent attitude which Cara had persistently adopted in his dealings with the detective. He rang the bell, this time for his valet. Fisher, he said, I am expecting a visit from a gentleman named Gather Cole, a one-armed gentleman whom you must look after if he comes. Detain him on some pretext or other, because he is rather difficult to get hold of, and I want to see him. I am going out now, and I shall be back at six-thirty. Do whatever you can to prevent him going away until I return. He will probably be interested if you take him into the library. Very good, sir, said the urbane Fisher. Will you change before you go out? Cara shook his head. I think I will go as I am, he said. Get me my fur coat. This beastly cold kills me. He shivered as he glanced into the bleak street. Keep my fire going, put all my private letters in my bedroom, and see that Miss Holland has her lunch. Fisher followed him to his car, wrapped the fur rug about his legs, closed the door carefully, and returned to the house. From thence onward his behaviour was somewhat extraordinary for a well-bred servant. That he should return to Cara's study and set the papers in order was natural and proper. That he should conduct a rapid examination of all the drawers and Cara's desk might be excused on the score of diligence, since he was, to some extent, in the confidence of his employer. Cara was given to making friends of his servants up to a point. In his more generous moments he would address his bodyguard as Fred, and on more occasions than one, and for no apparent reason, had tipped his servant over and above his salary. Mr. Fred Fisher found little to reward him for his search until he came upon Cara's checkbook, which told him that on the previous day the Greek had drawn six thousand pounds in cash from the bank. This interested him mightily, and he replaced the checkbook with a tightened lips and the fixed gaze of a man who was thinking rapidly. He paid a visit to the library where the secretary was engaged in making copies of Cara's correspondence, answering letters appealing for charitable donations, and in the hack words which fall to the secretaries of the great. He replenished the fire, asked deferentially for any instructions, and returned again to his quest. This time he made the bedroom the scene of his investigations. The safe he did not attempt to touch, but there was a small bureau in which Cara would have placed his private correspondence of the morning. This, however, yielded no result. By the side of the bed on a small table was a telephone, the site of which apparently afforded the servant a little amusement. This was the private phone which Cara had been instrumental in having fixed to Scotland Yard, as he had explained to his servants. Rum Cove said Fisher. He paused for a moment before the closed door of the room, and smilingly surveyed the great steel latch which spanned the door, and fit it into an iron socket securely screwed to the framework. He lifted it gingerly. There was a little knob for the purpose, and let it fall gently into the socket which had been made to receive it on the door itself. Rum Cove, he said again, and lifting the latch to the hook which held it up, left the room, closing the door softly behind him. He walked down the corridor with a meditative frown, and began to descend the stairs to the hall. He was less than half-way down when the one maid of Cara's household came up to meet him. There is a gentleman who wants to see Mr. Cara, she said. Here is his card. Fisher took the card from the salver and read, Mr. George Gather Cole, Junior Traveler's Club. I'll see this gentleman, he said, with a sudden brisk interest. He found the visitor standing in the hall. He was a man who would have attracted attention, if only from the somewhat eccentric nature of his dress and his unkempt appearance. He was dressed in a well-worn overcoat of a somewhat pronounced check. He had a top hat, glossy and obviously new, at the back of his head, and the lower part of his face was covered by a ragged beard. This he was plucking with nervous jerks, talking to himself the while, and casting a disparaging eye upon the portrait of Remington Cara, which hung above the marble fireplace. A pair of pincennes sat crookedly on his nose, and two fat volumes under his arm completed the picture. Fisher, who was an observer of some discernment, noticed under the overcoat a creased blue suit, large black boots, and a pair of pearl studs. The newcomer glared round at the valet. Take these, he ordered peremptorily, pointing to the books under his arm. Fisher hastened to obey, and noted with some wonder that the visitor did not attempt to assist him, either by loosening his hold of the volumes or raising his hand. Accidentally the valet's hand pressed against the other sleeve, and he received a shock, for the forearm was clearly an artificial one. It was against a wooden surface beneath the sleeve that his knuckles struck, and this view of the stranger's infirmity was confirmed when the other reached round with his right hand, took hold of the gloved left hand, and thrust it into the pocket of his overcoat. Where is Cara, growled the stranger? He will be back very shortly, sir, said the urbane Fisher. Out, is he, boomed, the visitor? Then I shan't wait. What the devil does he mean by being out? He's had three years to be out. Mr. Cara expects you, sir. He told me he would be in at six o'clock at the latest. Six o'clock? Ye gods, stormed the man impatiently. What dog am I that I should wait till six? He gave a savage little tug at his beard. Six o'clock, eh? You will tell Mr. Cara that I called. Give me those books. But I assure you, sir, stammered Fisher, give me those books, roared the other. Deftly he lifted his left hand from the pocket, crooked the elbow by some quick manipulation, and thrust the books, which the valet most reluctantly handed to him, back to the place from whence he had taken them. Tell Mr. Cara I will call at my own time. Do you understand, at my own time? Good morning to you. If you would only wait, sir, pleaded the agonized Fisher. Wait be hanged, snarl the other. I've waited three years, I tell you. Tell Mr. Cara to expect me when he sees me. He went out and most unnecessarily banged the door behind him. Fisher went back to the library. The girl was sealing up some letters as he entered, and looked up. I am afraid, Miss Holland, I've got myself into very serious trouble. What is that, Fisher? asked the girl. There was a gentleman coming to see Mr. Cara, who Mr. Cara particularly wanted to see. Mr. Gather Cole said the girl quickly. Fisher nodded. Yes, Miss, I couldn't get him to stay, though. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Mr. Cara will be very cross, but I don't see how you can help it. I wish you had called me. He never gave a chance, Miss, said Fisher, with a little smile. But if he comes again, I'll show him straight up to you. She nodded. Is there anything you want, Miss? He asked as he stood at the door. What time did Mr. Cara say he would be back? At six o'clock, Miss, the man replied. There is rather an important letter here which has to be delivered. Shall I ring up for a messenger? No, I don't think that would be advisable. You would better take it yourself. Cara was in the habit of employing Fisher as a confidential messenger when the occasion demanded such employment. I will go with pleasure, Miss, he said. It was a heaven-sent opportunity for Fisher, who had been inventing some excuse for leaving the house. She handed him the letter, and he read without a droop of eyelid the superscription, T. X. Meredith, Esquire, Special Service Department, Scotland Yard, Whitehall. He put it carefully in his pocket and went from the room to change. Large as the house was, Cara did not employ a regular staff of servants. A maid and a valet comprised the whole of the indoor staff. His cook and the other domestics, necessary for conducting an establishment of that size, were engaged by the day. Cara had returned from the country earlier than had been anticipated, and, save for Fisher, the only other person in the house beside the girl was the middle-aged domestic who was parlor maid, serving maid, and housekeeper and one. Miss Holland sat at her desk, to all appearance reading over the letters she had typed that afternoon. But her mind was very far from the correspondence before her. She heard the soft thud of the front door closing, and rising, she crossed the room rapidly and looked down through the window to the street. She watched Fisher until he was out of sight, then she descended to the hall and to the kitchen. It was not the first visit she had made to the big underground room with its vaulted roof and its great ranges, which were seldom used nowadays, for Cara gave no dinners. The maid, who was also cook, arose up as the girl entered. It's a sight for sore eyes to see you in my kitchen, Miss, she smiled. I'm afraid you're rather lonely, Mrs. Beale, said the girl sympathetically. Lonely, Miss, cried the maid, I fairly get the creeps sitting here hour after hour. It's that door that gives me the hump. She pointed to the far end of the kitchen, to a soiled looking door of unpainted wood. That's Mr. Cara's wine cellar. Nobody's been in it but him. I know he goes in sometimes because I try to dodge that my brother, who's a policeman, taught me. I stretched a bit of white cotton across it, and it was broke the next morning. Mr. Cara keeps some of his private papers in there, said the girl quietly. He has told me so himself. Hmm! said the woman doubtfully. I wish he'd brick it up, the same as he has the lower cellar. I get the horrors sitting here at night expecting the door to open and the ghost of the mad lord to come out, him that was killed in Africa. Miss Holland laughed. I want you to go out now, she said. I have no stamps. Mrs. Beale obeyed with alacrity, and whilst she was assuming a hat, being desirous of maintaining her prestige as housekeeper in the eyes of Cadigan Square, the girl ascended to the upper floor. Again she watched from the window the disappearing figure. Once out of sight Miss Holland went to work with a remarkable deliberation and thoroughness. From her bag she produced a small purse and opened it. In that case was a new steel key. She passed swiftly down the corridor to Cara's room and made straight for the safe. In two seconds it was open, and she was examining its contents. It was a large safe of the usual type. There were four steel drawers fitted at the back and at the bottom of the strong box. Two of these were unlocked and contained nothing more interesting than accounts relating to Cara's estate in Albania. The top pair were locked. She was prepared for this contingency, and a second key was as efficacious as the first. An examination of the first drawer did not produce all that she had expected. She returned the papers to the drawer, pushed it to, and locked it. She gave her attention to the second drawer. Her hand shook a little as she pulled it open. It was her last chance, her last hope. There were a number of small jewel boxes almost filling the drawer. She took them out one by one, and at the bottom she found what she had been searching for, and that which had filled her thoughts for the past three months. It was a square case covered in red Morocco leather. She inserted her shaking hand and took it out with a triumphant little cry. At last she settled out, and then a hand grasped her wrist, and in a panic she turned to meet the smiling face of Cara. Let me relieve you of that, Ms. Holland, said Cara in his silkiest tones. He wrenched rather than took the box from her hand, replaced it carefully in the drawer, pushed the drawer to, and locked it, examining the key as he withdrew it. Then he closed the safe and locked that. Obviously, he said presently, I must get a new safe. He had not released hold of her wrist, nor did he until he had led her from the room back to the library. Then he released the girl, standing between her and the door, with folded arms, and that cynical, quiet contemptuous smile upon his handsome face. There are many courses which I can adopt, he said slowly. I can send for the police when my servants, whom you have dispatched so thoughtfully, have returned. Or I can take your punishment into my own hands. So far as I am concerned, said the girl coolly, you may send for the police. She lent back against the edge of the desk, her hands holding the edge, and faced him without so much as a quiver. I do not like the police, used Cara when there came a knock at the door. Cara turned and opened it, and after a low-strained conversation, he returned, closing the door, and laid a paper of stamps on the girl's table. As I was saying, I do not care for the police, and I prefer my own method. In this particular instance, the police obviously would not serve me, because you were not afraid of them, and in all probability you were in their pay. Am I right in supposing that you are one of Mr. T. X. Meredith's accomplices? I do not know Mr. T. X. Meredith, she replied calmly, and I am not in any way associated with the police. Nevertheless, he persisted, you do not seem to be very scared of them, and that removes any temptation I might have to place you in the hands of the law. Let me see, he purses lips as he applied his mind to the problem. She half sat, half stood, watching him without any evidence of apprehension, but with a heart which began to quake a little. For three months she had played her part, and the strain had been greater than she had confessed to herself. Now the great moment had come, and she had fallen. That was the sickening, maddening thing about it all. It was not the fear of arrest, or of conviction, which brought a sinking to her heart. It was the despair of failure, had it to a sense of her helplessness against this man. If I had you arrested, your name would appear in all the papers, of course, he said narrowly, and your photograph would probably adorn the Sunday journals. He added expectantly. She laughed. That does not appeal to me, she said. I am afraid it does not, he replied, and strolled toward her, as though to pass her on his way to the window. He was abreast of her when he suddenly swung round and catching her in his arms, he caught her close to him. Before she could realize what he planned, he had stooped swiftly and kissed her full upon the mouth. If you scream, I shall kiss you again, he said, for I have sent the maid to buy some more stamps to the general post office. Let me go, she gasped. Now for the first time he saw the terror in her eyes, and there surged within him that mad sense of triumph, that intoxication of power which had been associated with the red letter days of his warped life. You're afraid, he bantered her, half whispering the words. You're afraid now, aren't you? If you scream, I shall kiss you again, do you hear? For God's sake, let me go, she whispered. He felt her shaking in his arms, and suddenly he released her with a little laugh, and she sank trembling from head to foot upon the chair by her desk. Now you're going to tell me who sent you here, he went on harshly, and why you came. I never suspected you, I thought you were one of those strange creatures one meets in England, a gentle woman who prefers working for her living, to the more simple business of getting married. And all the time you were spying. Clever. Very clever. The girl was thinking rapidly, in five minutes Fisher would return. Somehow she had faith in Fisher's ability and willingness to save her from a situation which she realized was fraught with the greatest danger to herself. She was horribly afraid. She knew this man far better than he suspected, realized the treachery and the unscrupulousness of him. She knew he would stop short of nothing, that he was without honor and without a single attribute of goodness. He must have read her thoughts, for he came nearer and stood over her. You needn't shrink, my young friend, he said with a little chuckle. You are going to do just what I want you to, and your first act will be to accompany me downstairs. Get up. He half lifted, half dragged her to her feet, and led her from the room. They descended to the hall together, and the girl spoke no word. Perhaps she hoped that she might wrench herself free and make her escape into the street, but in this she was disappointed. The grip about her arm was a grip of steel, and she knew safety did not lie in that direction. She pulled back at the head of the stairs that led down to the kitchen. Where are you taking me? she asked. I'm going to put you into safe custody, he said. On the whole, I think it is best that the police take this matter in hand, and I shall lock you into my wine cellar and go out in search of a policeman. The big wooden door opened, revealing a second door, and this cara unbolted. She noticed that both doors were seated with steel, the outer on the inside and the inner door on the outside. She had no time to make any further observation, for cara thrust her into the darkness. He switched on a light. I will not deny you that, he said, pushing her back as she made a frantic attempt to escape. He swung the outer door too as she raised her voice in a piercing scream, and clapping his hand over her mouth held her tightly for a moment. I have warned you, he hissed. She saw his face distorted with rage. She saw cara transfigured with devilish anger. Saw that handsome, almost god-like countenance thrust into hers, flushed and seamed with a malignity and a hatefulness beyond understanding. And then her senses left her, and she sank limp, swooning into his arms. When she recovered consciousness, she found herself lying on a plain stretcher bed. She sat up suddenly. Cara had gone and the door was closed. The cellar was dry and clean, and its walls were enameled white. The light was supplied by two electric lamps in the ceiling. There was a table and a chair and a small wash stand, and air was evidently supplied through unseen ventilators. It was indeed a prison and no less. And in her first moments of panic, she found herself wondering whether cara had used this underground dungeon of his before for a similar purpose. She examined the room carefully. At the farthest end was another door, and this she pushed gently at first, and then vigorously without producing the slightest impression. She still had her bag, a small affair of black moa, which hung from her belt, and which was nothing more formidable than a pen knife, a small bottle of smelling salts, and a pair of scissors. The latter she had used for cutting out those paragraphs from the daily newspapers, which referred to Cara's movements. They would make a formidable weapon, and wrapping her handkerchief around the handle to give it a better grip, she placed it on the table within reach. She was dimly conscious all the time that she had heard something about this wine cellar, something which, if she could recollect it, would be of service to her. Then in a flash she remembered that there was a lower cellar, which according to Mrs. Biel, was never used and was bricked up. It was approached from the outside down a circular flight of stairs. There might be a way out from that direction, and would there not be some connection between the upper cellar and the lower? She set to work to make a closer examination of the apartment. The floor was of concrete, covered with a light rush matting. This she carefully rolled up, starting at the door. One half of the floor was uncovered without revealing the existence of any trap. She attempted to pull the table into the center of the room, better to roll the matting, but found it fixed the wall, and going down on her knees she discovered that it had been fixed after the matting had been laid. Obviously there was no need for the fixture, and she tapped the floor with her little knuckle. Her heart started racing. The sound her knocking gave forth was a hollow one. She sprang up, took her bag from the table, opened the little pen knife and cut carefully through the thin rushes. She might have to replace the matting, and it was necessary she should do her work tidally. Soon the hole of the trap was revealed. There was an iron ring which fitted flush with the top, and which she pulled. The trap yielded and swung back as though there were a counterbalance at the other end, and indeed there was. She peered down. There was a dim light below, the reflection of a light in the distance. The flight of steps led down to a lower level, and after a seconds hesitation she swung her legs over at the cavity and began her descent. She was in a cellar slightly smaller than that above her. The light she had seen came from an inner apartment which would be underneath the kitchen of the house. She made her way cautiously along, stepping on tiptoe. The first of the room she came to was well furnished. There was a thick carpet on the floor, comfortable easy chairs, a little bookcase, well filled, and a reading lamp. This must be Cara's underground study, where he kept his precious papers. A smaller room gave from this, and again it was doorless. She looked in, and after her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, she saw it was a bathroom, handsomely fitted. The room she was in was also without any light, which came from the farthest chamber. As the girl strode softly across the well-carpted room, she trod on something hard. She stopped and felt along the floor, and her fingers encountered a thin steel chain. The girl was bewildered, almost panic-stricken. She shrunk back from the entrance of the inner room, fearful of what she would see. And then, from the interior came a sound that made her tingle with horror. It was a sound of a sigh, long and trembling. She set her teeth and strode through the doorway, and stood for a moment staring with open eyes and mouth at what she saw. My God! she breathed. London. In the twentieth century. Superintendent Mansus had a little office in Scotland Yard proper, which, he complained, was not so much a private bureau as a waiting room, to which repaired every official of the police service who found time hanging on his hands. On the afternoon of Miss Holland's surprising adventure, a plain-clothes man of D division brought to Mr Mansus' room a very scared domestic servant, voluble, tearful, and agonisingly penitent. It was a mood not wholly unfamiliar to a police officer of twenty years' experience, and Mr Mansus was not impressed. If you will kindly shut up, he said, blending his natural politeness with his employment of the vernacular. And if you will also answer a few questions, I will save you a lot of trouble. You were Lady Bersolomu's maid, weren't you? Yes, sir, sobbed the red-eyed Marianne. And you have been detected, trying to pawn a gold bracelet, the property of Lady Bersolomu? The maid gulped, nodded, and started breathlessly upon a recital of her wrongs. Yes, sir, but she practically gave it to me, sir, and I haven't had my wages for two months, sir, and she can give that foreign a thousands and thousands of pounds at a time, sir, but her poor servants she can't pay. No, she can't. And if so, William knew especially about my lady's cards and about the snuff-box, what would he think, I wonder? And I'm going to have my rights, for if she can pay thousands to a swell like Mr Kara, she can pay me and… Mansus jerked his head. Take her down to the cells, he said briefly, and they led her away, a wailing, woeful figure of amateur larcenist. In three minutes, Mansus was with TX and had reduced the girl's incoherence to something like order. This is important, said TX. Produced the Abigail. The asked the puzzled officer. The skiffy, slavey, hired help. Get busy, said TX impatiently. They brought her to TX in a condition bordering upon collapse. Get her a cup of tea, said the wise chief. Sit down, Marianne, and forget all your troubles. Oh, sir, I've never been in this position before, she began, as she flopped into the chair they put for her. Then you've had a very tiring time, said TX. Now listen, I've been respectable. Forget it, said TX wearily. Listen, if you'll tell me the whole truth about Lady Bartholomew and the money she paid to Mr Kara. Two thousand pounds, two separate thousand, and by all accounts, if you will tell me the truth, I'll compound a felony and let you go free. It was a long time before he could prevail upon her to clear her speech of the ego which insisted upon intruding. There were gaps in her narrative which he bridged. In the main it was a believable story. Lady Bartholomew had lost money and had borrowed from Kara. She had given her security the snuff-box presented to her husband's father, a doctor, by one of the Tsars, for services rendered, and was all blue and amulet and gold, and foreign words and diamonds. On the question of the amount Lady Bartholomew had borrowed, Ebegale was very vague. All that she knew was that my lady had paid back two thousand pounds and that she was still very distressed. In a fit, was the phrase the girl used, because apparently Kara refused to restore the box. There had evidently been terrible scenes in the Bartholomew Minaj, hysterics and what not, the principal breakdown having occurred when Belinda Mary came home from school in France. Miss Bartholomew's at home then, where is she? asked TX. Here the girl was more vague than ever. She thought the young lady had gone back again. Anyway, Miss Belinda had been very much upset. Miss Belinda had seen Dr. Williams and advised that her mother should go away for a change. Miss Belinda seems to be a precocious young person, said TX. Did she by any chance see Mr. Kara? Oh, no! explained the girl. Miss Belinda was above that sort of person. Miss Belinda was a lady, if ever there was one. And how old is this interesting young woman? asked TX curiously. She is nineteen, said the girl, and the commissioner, who had pictured Belinda in short-played frocks and long pigtails, had moreover visualised her as a freckled little girl with sin legs and snub nose, was abashed. He delivered a short lecture on the sacred rights of property, paid the girl the three months wages which were due to her. He had no doubt as to the legality of her claim, and dismissed her with instructions to go back to the house, pack her box, and clear out. After the girl had gone, TX sat down to consider the position. He might see Kara, and since Kara had expressed his contrition and was probably in a more humble state of mind, he might make reparation. Then again he might not. Mances was waiting, and TX walked back with him to his little office. I hardly know what to make of it, he said in despair. If you can give me Kara's motive, sir, I can give you a solution, said Mances. TX shook his head. That is exactly what I am unable to give you, he said. He perched himself on Mances's desk, and lit a cigar. I have a good mind to go round and see him, he said after a while. Why not telephone him? Asked Mances. There is his phone straightened to his boudoir. He pointed to a small telephone in the corner of the room. Oh, he persuaded the commissioner to run the wire, did he? Asked TX interested, and walked over to the telephone. He fingered the receiver for a little while, and was about to take it off, but changed his mind. I think not, he said. I'll go round and see him tomorrow. I don't hope to succeed in extracting the confidence in the case of Lady Bartholomew, which you denied me of a poor Lexman. I suppose you'll never give up hope of seeing Mr. Lexman again, smiled Mances, busily arranging a new blotting pad. Before TX could answer, there came a knock at the door, and a uniformed policeman entered. He saluted TX. They've just sent an urgent letter across from your office, sir. I said I thought you were here. He handed the missive to the commissioner. TX took it, and glanced at the typewritten address. It was marked urgent, and by hand. He took up the thin, steel paper-knife from the desk, and slit open the envelope. The letter consisted of three or four pages of manuscript, and unlike the envelope, it was handwritten. My dear TX, it began, and the handwriting was familiar. Mances, watching the commissioner, saw the puzzled frown gather on his superior's forehead, saw the eyebrows arch and the mouth open in astonishment, and saw him hastily turn to the last page to read the signature, and then, Howling Apples gasped TX. It's from John Lexman. His hand shook as he turned the closely written pages. The letter was dated that afternoon. There was no other address than London. My dear TX, it began. I do not doubt that this letter will give you a little shock, because most of my friends will have believed that I am gone beyond return. Fortunately or unfortunately, that is not so. For myself I could wish, but I am not going to take a very gloomy view, since I am genuinely pleased at the thought that I shall be meeting you again. Forgive this letter if it is incoherent, but I have only this moment returned, and I am writing at the chairing cross-hotel. I am not staying here, but I will let you have my address later. The crossing has been a very severe one, so you must forgive me if my letter sounds a little disjointed. You will be sorry to hear that my dear wife is dead. She died abroad about six months ago. I do not wish to talk very much about it, so you will forgive me if I do not tell you any more. My principal object in writing to you at the moment is an official one. I suppose I am still amenable to punishment, and have decided to surrender myself to the authorities tonight. You used to have a most excellent assistant in Superintendent Mansis, and if it is convenient to you, as I hope it will be, I will report myself to him at 10.15. At any rate, my dear TX, I do not wish to mix you up in my affairs, and if you will let me do this business through Mansis, I shall be very much obliged to you. I know there is no great punishment awaiting me, because my pardon was apparently signed on the night before my escape. I shall not have much to tell you, because there is not much in the past two years that I would care to recall. We endured a great deal of unhappiness, and death was very merciful when it took my beloved from me. Do you ever see Kara in these days? Will you tell Mansis to expect me at between 10.30 past, and if he will give instructions to the officer on duty in the hall, I will come straight up to his room. With affectionate regards, my dear fellow, I am, you sincerely, John Lexman. TX read the letter over twice, and his eyes were troubled. Poor girl, he said softly, and handed the letter to Mansis. He evidently wants to see you, because he is afraid of using my friendship to his advantage. I shall be here nevertheless. What will be the formality? asked Mansis. There will be no formality, said the other briskly. I will secure the necessary pardon from the home secretary, and in point of fact I have it already promised, in writing. He walked back to Whitehall, his mind fully occupied with the momentous events of the day. It was a raw February evening, sleet was falling in the street, a piercing easterly wind drove even through his thick overcoat. In such doorways is offered protection from the bitter elements, the wreckage of humanity which clings to the west end of London, as the singed moss flutters about the flames that destroys it, were huddled for warmth. TX was a man of vast human sympathies. All his experience with the criminal world, all his disappointments, all his disillusions, had failed to quench the pity for his unfortunate fellows. He made it a rule on such nights as these, that if by chance, returning late to his office, he should find such a shivering piece of jetsam sheltering in his own doorway, he would give him or her the price of a bed. In his own quaint way he derived a certain speculative excitement from this practice. If the doorway was empty, he regarded himself as a winner. If someone stood sheltered in the deep recess, which is a feature of the old Georgian houses in this historic thoroughfare, he would lose to the extent of a shilling. He peered forward through the semi-darkness as he neared the door to his offices. I have lost, he said, and stripped his gloves, preparatory to groping in his pocket for a coin. Somebody was standing in the entrance, but it was obviously a very respectable somebody. A dumpy motherly somebody in a sealed skin coat and a preposterous bonnet. Hello, said TX in surprise. Are you trying to get in here? I wanted to see Mr. Meredith, said the visitor, in the mincing affected tones of one who excused the vulgar source of her prosperity by frequently reiterated claims of having seen better days. Your longing shall be gratified, said TX gravely. He unlocked the heavy door, passed through the uncuptured passage. There are no frills on government offices, and led the way up the stairs to the suite on the first floor which constituted his bureau. He switched on all the lights and surveyed his visitor, a comfortable person of the landlady type. A good sort, sought TX, but somewhat over-weighted with launette and sealed skin. You will pardon my coming. You will pardon my coming to see you at this hour of the night. She began deprecatingly. But as my dear father used to say, You dear father, being in the garter business, suggested TX humorously. When she sat down, Mrs. Mrs. Cassley beamed the lady as she seated herself. He wasn't the paper-hanging business, but needs must when the devil drives, as the saying goes. What particular devil is driving you, Mrs. Cassley? asked TX, somewhat at a loss to understand the object of this visit. I may be doing wrong, began the lady, passing her lips, and two blacks will never make a white. And all that glitters is not gold, suggested TX a little wearily. Will you please tell me your business, Mrs. Cassley? I am a very hungry man. Well, it's like this, sir, said Mrs. Cassley, dropping her erudition and coming down to bedrock homeliness. I've got a young lady stopping with me, as respectable a girl as I've had to deal with, and I know what respectability is, I might tell you, for I've taken professional borders, and I have been housekeeper to a doctor. You are well qualified to speak, said TX with a smile. And what about this particular young lady of yours? By the way, what is your address? 86A Marlebone Road, said the lady. TX sat up. Yes? He said quickly. What about you, young lady? She works, as far as I can understand, said the loquacious landlady, with a certain Mr. Cara in the typewriting line. She came to me four months ago. Never mind when she came to you, said TX impatiently. Have you a message from the lady? Well, it's like this, sir, said Mrs. Cassley, leaning forward confidentially and speaking in the hollow tone which she had decided should accompany any revelation to a police officer. This young lady said to me, if I don't come any night by eight o'clock, you must go to TX and tell him. She paused dramatically. Yes, yes, said TX quickly. For heaven's sake, go on, woman. Tell him, said Mrs. Cassley, that Belinda Mary, he sprang to his feet. Belinda Mary, he breathed. Belinda Mary! In a flash he saw it all. This girl was the knowledge of modern Greek, who was working in Cara's house, was there for a purpose. Cara had something of her mother's, something that was vital and which she would not part with, and she had adopted this method of securing that something. Mrs. Cassley was prattling on, but her voice was merely a haze of sound to him. It brought a strange glow to his heart that Belinda Mary should have thought of him. Only as a policeman, of course, said the still small voice of his official self. Perhaps, said the human TX, defiantly. He got onto the telephone to Mansis and gave a few instructions. You stay here, he ordered the astounded Mrs. Cassley. I am going to make a few investigations. Cara was at home, but was in bed. TX remembered that this extraordinary man invariably went to bed early, and that it was his practice to receive visitors in this guarded room of his. He was admitted almost at once, and found Cara in his silk dressing gown lying on the bed smoking. The heat of the room was unbearable, even on that bleak February night. This is a pleasant surprise, said Cara, sitting up. I hope you don't mind my disobeal. TX came straight to the point. Where is Miss Holland? he asked. Miss Holland? Cara's eyebrows advertised his astonishment. What an extraordinary question to ask me, my dear man. At her home, or at the theatre or in a cinema palace, I don't know how these people employ their evenings. She is not at home, said TX, and I have reason to believe that she has not left this house. What a suspicious person you are, Mr. Meredith. Cara rang the bell, and Fisher came in with a cup of coffee on a tray. Fisher, drawled Cara, Mr. Meredith is anxious to know where Miss Holland is. Will you be good enough to tell him you know more about her movements than I do? As far as I know, sir, said Fisher deferentially, she left the house about five-thirty, her usual hour. She sent me out a little before five on a message, and when I came back her hat and her coat had gone, so I presume she had gone also. Did you see her go? asked TX. The man shook his head. No, sir, I very seldom see the young lady come or go. There has been no restrictions placed upon the young lady, and she has been at liberty to move about as she likes. I think I am correct in saying that, sir. He turned to Cara. Cara nodded. You will probably find her at home. He shook his finger waggishly at TX. What a dog you are! he jibed. I ought to keep the beauties of my household veiled, as we do in the east, and especially when I have a susceptible policeman wandering at large. TX gave jest for jest. There was nothing to be gained by making trouble here. After a few amiable common places, he took his departure. He found Mrs. Cassley being entertained by manses with the holy fictitious description of the famous criminals he had arrested. I can only suggest that you go home, said TX. I will send a police officer with you to report to me, but in all probability he will find the lady has returned. She may have had a difficulty in getting a bus on a night like this. A detective was summoned from Scotland Yard, and accompanied by him, Mrs. Cassley returned to her domicile with a certain importance. TX looked at his watch. It was a quarter to ten. Whatever happens, I must see old Lexman, he said. Tell the best man we've got in the department to stand by for eventualities. This is going to be one of my busy days. End of CHAPTER XI To the livid face of a young Albanian chief, who had lost at Kera's Wim, all that life held for a man. To the hateful eyes of the girl's father, who stood with folded arms, glaring down at the bound and manacled figure on the floor. To the smoke-stained rafters of this peasant cottage and the dancing shadows on the roof. To that terrible hour of waiting when he sat, bound to a post, with a candle flickering and spluttering lower and lower to the little heap of gunpowder that would start the trail toward the clumsy infernal machine under his chair. He remembered the day well because it was candle misday, and this was the anniversary. He remembered other things more pleasant—the beat of hooves on the rocky roadway, the crash of the door falling in when the Turkish gendarmes had battered away to his rescue. He remembered with a savage joy the spectacle of his would-be assassins twitching and struggling on the gallows at Pizarra. And he heard the faint tinkle of the front doorbell. Had TX returned? He slipped from the bed and went to the door, opened it slightly, and listened. TX with a search warrant might be a source of panic, especially if— He shrugged his shoulders. He had satisfied TX and delayed his suspicions. He would get Fischer out of the way that night and make sure. The voice from the hall below was loud and gruff. Who could it be? Then he heard Fischer's foot on the stairs, and the valet entered. Will you see Mr. Gathercall now? Mr. Gathercall? Cara breathed a sigh of relief, and his face was wreathed in smiles. Why, of course, tell him to come up. Ask him if he minds seeing me in my room. I told him you were in bed, sir, and he used shocking language, said Fischer. Cara laughed. Send him up, he said. And then as Fischer was going out of the room, he called him back. By the way, Fischer, after Mr. Gathercall has gone, you may go out for the night. You've got somewhere to go, I suppose, and you needn't come back until the morning. Yes, sir, said the servant. Such an instruction was remarkably pleasing to him. There was much that he had to do, and that night's freedom would assist him materially. Perhaps, Cara hesitated, perhaps you had better wait until eleven o'clock, bring me up some sandwiches and a large glass of milk, or, better still, place them on a plate in the hall. Very good, sir, said the man, and withdrew. Down below, that grotesque figure with his shiny hat and his ragged beard was walking up and down the tessellated hallway, muttering to himself and staring at the various objects in the hall with a certain amused antagonism. Mr. Cara will see you, sir, said Fischer. Oh! said the other, glaring at the unoffending Fischer. That's very good of him. Very good of this person to see a scholar and a gentleman who has been about his dirty business for three years. Grown gray in his service. Do you understand that, my man? Yes, sir, said Fischer. Look here! The man thrust out his face. Do you see those gray hairs in my beard? The embarrassed Fischer grinned. Is it gray, challenged the visitor with a roar? Yes, sir, said the valet hastily. Is it real gray, insisted the visitor? Pull one out and see. The startled Fischer drew back with an apologetic smile. I couldn't think of doing a thing like that, sir. Oh! you couldn't, sneered the visitor. Then lead on. Fischer showed the way up the stairs. This time the traveller carried no books. His left arm hung limply by his side, and Fischer privately gathered that the hand had got loose from the detaining pocket, without its owner being aware of the fact. He pushed open the door and announced, Mr. Gather Cole, and Cara came forward with a smile to meet his agent, who, with top hats still on the top of his head, and his overcoat dangling about his heels, must have made a remarkable picture. Fischer closed the door behind them and returned to his duties in the hall below. Ten minutes later he heard the door opened and the booming voice of the stranger came down to him. Fischer went up the stairs to meet him and found him addressing the occupant of the room in his own eccentric fashion. No more Patagonia, he roared, no more Tierra del Fuego. He paused. Certainly he replied to some question, but not Patagonia. He paused again, and Fischer, standing at the foot of the stairs, wondered what had occurred to make the visitor so genial. I suppose your check will be honoured all right, asked the visitors ardently, and then burst into a little chuckle of laughter as he carefully closed the door. He came down the corridor talking to himself, and greeted Fischer. Damn all Greeks, he said jovially, and Fischer could do no more than smile reproachfully, the smile being his very own, the reproach being on behalf of the master who paid him. The traveller touched the other on the chest with his right hand. Never, trust a Greek, he said. Always get your money in advance. Is that clear to you? Yes, sir, said Fischer. But I think you will always find that Mr. Care is always most generous about money. Don't you believe it? Don't you believe it, my poor man, said the other. You— At that moment there came from Care's room a faint clang. What's that? asked the visitor, a little startled. Mr. Care has put down his steel latch, said Fischer with a smile, which means that he is not to be disturbed until—he looked at his watch—until eleven o'clock at any rate. He is a funk, snapped the other, a beastly funk. He stamped down the stairs as though testing the weight of every tread, opened the front door without assistance, slammed it behind him, and disappeared into the night. Fischer, his hands in his pockets, looked after the departing stranger, nodding his head in reprobation. You're a queer old devil, he said, and looked at his watch again. It wanted five minutes to ten. CHAPTER XIII If you would care to come in, sir, I'm sure Lex won't be glad to see you. Said T. X. It's very kind of you to take an interest in the matter. The chief commissioner of police growled something about being paid to take an interest in everybody, and strolled with T. X down one of the apparently endless corridors of Scotland Yard. You won't have to bother about the pardon, he said. I was dining to-night with old man Bartholomew, and he all fixed that up in the morning. There will be no necessity to detain Lexman and Custody, asked T. X. The chief shook his head, none, whatever, he said. There was a pause then. By the way, did Bartholomew mention Belinda Mary? The white-haired chief looked around in astonishment. And who the devil is Belinda Mary? He asked. T. X. went red. Belinda Mary, he said a little quickly, is Bartholomew's daughter. By Jove, said the commissioner. Now you mention it. He did. She's still in France. Oh, is she? Said T. X. innocently, and in his heart of hearts, he wished most fervently that she was. They came to the room which Manus occupied, and found that admirable man waiting. Wherever policemen meet, their conversation naturally drifts to shop, and in two minutes the three were discussing with some animation, and much difference of opinion, as far as T. X was concerned, a series of frauds which had been perpetrated in the Midlands, and which have nothing to do with the story. Your friend is late, said the chief commissioner. There he is, cried T. X, springing up. He heard a familiar footstep on the flagged corridor, and sprung out of the room to meet the newcomer. For a moment he stood, wringing the hand of this grave man, his heart too full for words. My dear chap, he said at last. You don't know how glad I am to see you. John Lexman said nothing. Then, I am sorry to bring you into his business, T. X. He said quietly, Nonsense! said the other. Come in and see the chief. He took John by the arm, and led him into the superintendent's room. There was a change in John Lexman, a subtle shifting of balance, which was not readily discoverable. His face was older, the mobile mouth a little more grimly set, the eyes more deeply lined. He was in evening dress and looked, as T. X thought, a typical clean English gentleman, such as one as any self-respecting valet would be proud to say he had turned out. T. X looked at him carefully, could see no great change, save that down one side of his smooth, shaven cheek ran the scar of an old wound, which could not have been more than superficial. I must apologise for this kit, said John, taking off his overcoat, and laying it across the back of his chair. But, the fact is, I was so bored this evening, that I had to do something to pass the time away, so I dressed, and went to the theatre, and was more bored than ever. T. X noticed that he did not smile, and that when he spoke it was slowly and carefully, as though he were weighing the value of every word. Now, he went on, I have come to deliver myself into your hands. I suppose you have not seen Cara, said T. X. I have no desire to see Cara, was the short reply. Well, Mr. Lexman, broken the chief, I don't think you are going to have any difficulty about your escape. By the way, I suppose it was by aeroplane. Lexman nodded. And you had an assistant. Again, Lexman nodded. Unless you press me, I would rather not discuss the matter for some little time, Sir George. He said, There is much that will happen before the full story of my escape is made known. Sir George nodded. We will leave it at that, he said cheerily. And now I hope you will have come back to delight us all with one of your wonderful plots. For the time being, I have done with wonderful plots, said John Lexman, in that even, deliberate tone of his. I hope to leave London next week for New York, and take up such of the threads of life as remain. The greater threat is gone. The chief commissioner understood. The silence which followed was broken by the loud and insistent ringing of the telephone bell. Hello, said Mansa's rising quickly. That's Kara's bell. With two quick strides, he was at the telephone and lifted down the receiver. Hello, he cried. Hello, he cried again. There was no reply, only the continuous buzzing. And when he hung up the receiver again, the bell continued ringing. The three policemen looked at one another. There's trouble there, said Mansa's. Take off the receiver, said TX, and try again. Mansa's obeyed, but there was no response. I'm afraid this is not my affair, said John Lexman, gathering up his coat. What do you wish me to do, said George? Come along tomorrow morning and see us, Lexman, said Sir George, offering his hand. Where are you staying? asked TX. At the Great Midland, replied the other. At least my bags have gone on there. I shall come along and see you tomorrow morning. It's curious that should happen the night you returned. He said, gripping the other's shoulder affectionately. John Lexman did not speak for the moment. If anything has happened to Kara, he said slowly. If the worst that was possible happened to him, believe me, I should not weep. TX looked down into the other's eye sympathetically. I think he has hurt you pretty badly, old man, he said gently. John Lexman nodded. He has, damn him, he said between his teeth. The Chief Commissioner's motor-car was waiting outside, and in this, TX, Mansa's, and a Detective Sergeant were whirled off to Cadogan Square. Fisher was in the hall when they rang the bell and opened the door instantly. He was, frankly, surprised to see his visitors. Mr. Kara was in his room, he explained resentfully, as though TX should have been aware of the fact without being told. He had heard no bell ringing, and indeed had not been summoned to the room. I have to see him at eleven o'clock, he said, and I have had standing instructions not to go to him unless I am sent for. TX led the way upstairs, and went straight to Kara's room. He knocked, but there was no reply. He knocked again, and on this, failing to evoke any response, kicked heavily at the door. Have you a telephone downstairs? he asked. Yes, sir, replied Fisher. TX turned to the Detective Sergeant. Phone to the yard, he said, and get a man up with a bag of tools. We shall have to pick this lock, and I haven't got my case with me. Picking the lock would be no good, sir, said Fisher, an interested spectator. Mr. Kara has got the latch down. I forgot that, said TX. Tell him to bring his saw, we'll have to cut through the panel here. While they were waiting for the arrival of the police officer, TX strove to attract the attention of the inmates of the room, but without success. Does he take opium or anything? asked Mansus. Fisher shook his head. I've never known him to take any of that kind of stuff, he said. TX made a rapid survey of the other rooms on that floor. The room next to Kara's was the library, beyond that was the dressing room, which, according to Fisher, Miss Holland had used. And at the far the most end of the corridor was the dining room. Facing the dining room was a small service lift, and by its side a storeroom in which there were a number of trunks, including a very large one, smothered in injunctions in three different languages, to handle with care. There was nothing else of interest on this floor, and the upper and lower floors could wait. In a quarter of an hour the carpenter had arrived from Scotland Yard, and had bored a hole in the rosewood panel of Kara's room, and was busily applying his slender sore. Through the holy cut, TX could see no more than that the room was in darkness, save for the glow of a blazing fire. He inserted his hand, groped for the knob of the steel latch, which he had remarked on his previous visit to the room. Lifted it, and the door swung open. Keep outside, everybody! he ordered. He ordered. He felt for the switch of the electric, found it, and instantly the room was flooded with light. The bird was hidden by the open door. TX took one stride into the room and saw enough. Kara was lying half on and half off the bed. He was quite dead, and the bloodstained patch above his heart told its own story. TX stood looking down at him, saw the frozen horror on the dead man's face. Then drew his eyes away and slowly surveyed the room. There, in the middle of the carpet, he found his clue. A bent and twisted little candle, such as you find on children's Christmas trees. End of Chapter 13 14 It was Mansus who found the second candle, a stouter affair. It lay underneath the bed. The telephone, which stood on a fairly large-sized table by the side of the bed, was overturned, and the receiver was on the floor. By its side were two books, one being The Balkan Question by Velary, and the other Travels and Politics in the Near East by Miller. With them was a long ivory paper knife. There was nothing else on the bedside table, save a silver cigarette box. TX drew on a pair of gloves and examined the bright surface for fingerprints, but a superficial view revealed no such clue. Open the window, said TX. The heat here is intolerable. Be very careful, Mansus. By the way, is the window fastened? Very well fastened, said the superintendent after a careful scrutiny. He pushed back the fastenings, lifted the window, and as he did, a harsh bell rang in the basement. That is the burglar alarm, I suppose, said TX. Go down and stop that bell. He addressed Fisher, who stood with a troubled face at the door. When he had disappeared, TX gave a significant glance to one of the waiting officers, and the man sauntered after the valet. Fisher stopped the bell and came back to the hall and stood before the hall fire, a very troubled man. Near the fire was a big oaken writing-table, and on this there lay a small envelope which he did not remember having seen before, though it might have been there for some time, for he had spent a greater portion of the evening in the kitchen with the cook. He picked up the envelope and, with a start, recognized that it was addressed to himself. He opened it and took out a card. There were only a few words written upon it, but they were sufficient to banish all the color from his face, and set his hands shaking. He took the envelope and card and flung them into the fire. It so happened that, at that moment, Mansus had called from upstairs, and the officer, who had been told off to keep the valet under observation, ran up and answered to the summons. For a moment Fisher hesitated. Then, hatless and coatless as he was, he crept to the door, opened it, leaving it a jar behind him, and darting down the steps, ran like a hair from the house. The doctor, who came a little later, was cautious as to the hour of death. If you got your telephone message at 10.25, as you say, that was probably the hour he was killed. He said, I could not tell within half an hour. Obviously, the man who killed him gripped his throat with his left hand, there are bruises on his neck, and stabbed him with the right. It was at this time that the disappearance of Fisher was noticed, but the cross-examination of the terrified Mrs. Beale removed any doubt that TX had as to the man's guilt. You had better send out an all-stations message and pull him in, said TX. He was with the cook from the moment the visitor left until a few minutes before we rang, besides which it is obviously impossible for anybody to have gotten to this room or out again. Have you searched the dead man? Mansus produced a tray on which Kara's belongings had been disposed. The ordinary keys Mrs. Beale was able to identify. There were one or two which were beyond her. TX recognized one of these as the key of the safe, but two smaller keys baffled him, not a little, and Mrs. Beale was at first unable to assist him. The only thing I can think of, sir, she said, is the wine cellar. The wine cellar? said TX slowly. That must be—he stopped. The greater tragedy of the evening with all its mystifying aspects had not banished from his mind the thought of the girl—that Belinda Mary, who had called upon him in her hour of danger as he divined. Perhaps he descended into the kitchen and was brought face to face with the unpainted door. It looks more like a prison than a wine cellar, he said. That's what I've always thought, sir, said Mrs. Beale, and sometimes I've had a horrible feeling of fear. He cut short her low quacity by inserting one of the keys in the lock. It did not turn, but he had more success with the second. The lock snapped back easily and he pulled the door back. He found the inner door bolted top and bottom. The bolts slipped back in their well-oiled sockets without any effort. Evidently, Carrie used this place pretty frequently, thought TX. He pushed the door open and stopped with an exclamation of surprise. The cellar apartment was brilliantly lit, but it was unoccupied. This beats the band, said TX. He saw something on the table and lifted it up. It was a pair of long-bladed scissors and about the handle was wound a handkerchief. It was not this fact which startled him, but that the scissors' blades were dappled with blood and blood, too, was on the handkerchief. He unwound the flimsy piece of camber and stared at the monogram. B. M. B. He looked around. Nobody had seen the weapon and he dropped it in his overcoat pocket and walked from the cellar to the kitchen where Mrs. Beale and Mance's awaited him. There is a lower cellar, is there not? he asked in a strained voice. That was bricked up when Mr. Kara took the house, explained the woman. There is nothing more to look for here, he said. He walked slowly up the stairs to the library, his mind in a whirl. That he, an accredited officer of police, sworn to the business of criminal detection, should attempt to screen one who was conceivably a criminal was inexplicable. But if the girl had committed this crime, how had she reached Kara's room and why had she returned to the locked cellar? He sent for Mrs. Beale to interrogate her. She had heard nothing and she had been in the kitchen all the evening. One fact she did reveal, however, that Fisher had gone from the kitchen and had been absent a quarter of an hour and had returned a little agitated. Stay here, said TX, and went down again to the cellar to make a further search. Probably there is some way out of this subterranean jail, he thought, and a diligent search of the room soon revealed it. He found the iron trap, pulled it open, and slipped down the stairs. He too was puzzled by the luxurious character of the vault. He passed from room to room and finally came to the inner chamber where a light was burning. The light, as he discovered, proceeded from a small reading-lamp, which stood by the side of a small brass bedstead. The bed had recently been slept in, but there was no sign of any occupant. TX conducted a very careful search and had no difficulty in finding the bricked-up door. Other exits, there were none. The floor was of woodblock laid on concrete. The ventilation was excellent, and in one of the recesses, which had evidently held at some time or other a large wine bin, there was a perfect electrical cooking plant. In a small larder were a number of baskets, bearing the name of a well-known caterer, one of them containing an excellent assortment of cold and potted meats, preserves, etc. TX went back to the bedroom and took the little lamp from the table by the side of the bed and began a more careful examination. Presently he found traces of blood and followed an irregular trail to the outer room. He lost it suddenly at the foot of the stairs leading down from the upper cellar. Then he struck it again. He had reached the end of his electric cord, and was now depending upon an electric torch he had taken from his pocket. There were indications of something heavy having been dragged across the room, and he saw that it led to a small bathroom. He had made a cursory examination of this well-appointed apartment, and now he proceeded to make a close investigation, and was well rewarded. The bathroom was the only apartment which possessed anything resembling a door, a two-fold screen, and as he pressed this back, he felt some thing which prevented its wider extension. He slipped into the room and flashed his lamp in the space behind the screen. There, stiff in death, with glazed eyes and a lulling tongue lay a great gaunt dog, his yellow fangs exposed in a last grimace. About the neck was a collar, and attached to that a few links of broken chain. T. X mounted the steps thoughtfully and passed out to the kitchen. Did Belinda Mary stab Kara or kill the dog? That she killed one hound or the other was certain. That she killed both was possible.