 CHAPTER 1 I AM AFRAID I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU, MR. LINE. Odette Ryder looked gravely at the young man who lulled against his open desk. Her clear skin was tinted with the faintest pink, and there was in the sober depths of those gray eyes of hers a light which would have warned a man less satisfied with his own genius and power of persuasion than thorned in line. He was not looking at her face. His eyes were running approvingly over her perfect figure, noting the straightness of the back, the fine poise of the head, the shapeliness of the slender hands. He pushed back his long black hair from his forehead and smiled. It pleased him to believe that his face was cast in an intellectual mold, and that the somewhat unhealthy pastiness of his skin might be described as the pallor of thought. Presently he looked away from her through the big bay window which overlooked the crowded floor of Lines' stores. He had had this office built in the Entrasol, and the big windows had been put in so that he might at any time overlook the most important department which it was his good fortune to control. Now and again as he saw a head would be turned in his direction and he knew that the attention of all the girls was concentrated upon the little scene, plainly visible from the floor below, in which an unwilling employee was engaged. She too was conscious of the fact, and her discomfort and dismay increased. She made a little movement as if to go, but he stopped her. "'You don't understand, Odette,' he said. His voice was soft and melodious, and held the hint of a caress. "'Did you read my little book?' he asked suddenly. She nodded. "'Yes, I read it, some of it,' she said, and the color deepened on her face. He chuckled. "'I suppose you thought it rather curious that a man in my position should bother his head to write poetry, eh?' he asked. Most of it was written before I came into this beastly shop, my dear, before I developed into a tradesman. She made no reply, and he looked at her curiously. "'What did you think of them?' he asked. Her lips were trembling, and again he mistook the symptoms. I thought they were perfectly horrible,' she said in a low voice. "'Horrible!' he raised his eyebrows. "'How very middle-class you are, Miss Ryder,' he scoffed. Those verses have been acclaimed by some of the best critics in the country as reproducing all the beauties of old Hellenic poetry.' She went to speak but stopped herself and stood with lips compressed. Thornton Lyne shrugged his shoulders and strode to the other end of his luxuriously equipped office. "'Poetry, like cucumbers, is an acquired taste,' he said after a while. "'You have to be educated up to some kind of literature. I daresay there will come a time when you will be grateful that I have given you an opportunity of meeting beautiful thoughts dressed in beautiful language.' She looked up at this. "'May I go now, Mr. Lyne?' She asked. "'Not yet,' he replied coolly. You said just now. You didn't understand what I was talking about. I'll put it plainer this time. "'You're a very beautiful girl, as you probably know, and you are destined in all probability to be the maid of some very average, suburban-minded person, who will give you a life tantamount to slavery. That is the life of the middle-class woman, as you probably know. And why would you submit to this bondage? Simply because a person in a black coat in a white collar has mumbled certain passages over you, passages which have neither meaning nor to an intelligent person's significance. I would not take the trouble of going through such a foolish ceremony, but I would take a great deal of trouble to make you happy.' He walked towards her slowly and laid one hand upon her shoulder. Instinctively she shrank back and he laughed. What do you say? She swung round on him, her eyes blazing, but her voice under control. "'I happen to be one of those foolish, suburban-minded people,' she said, who give significance to those mumbled words you were speaking about. Yet I am broad-minded enough to believe that the marriage ceremony would not make you any happier or more unhappy whether it was performed or omitted, but whether it were marriage or any other kind of union I should at least require a man.' He frowned at her. "'What do you mean?' he asked, and the soft quality of his voice underwent a change. I would not want an erratic creature who puts hard sentiments into indifferent verse. I repeat, I should want a man.' His face went livid. "'Do you know whom you are talking to?' he asked, raising his voice. "'I am talking to Thornton Lyne,' said she, breathing quickly. The proprietor of Lyne Stores, the employer of Odette Ryder, who draws three pounds every week from him. He was breathless with anger. "'Be careful,' he gasped. "'Be careful.' "'I am speaking to a man whose whole life is a reproach to the very name of man,' she went on speaking rapidly. A man who is sincere in nothing, who is living on the brains and reputation of his father, and the money that has come through the hard work of better men. "'You can't scare me,' she cried scornfully, as he took a step towards her. "'Oh yes, I know I'm going to leave your employment, and I'm leaving to-night.' The man was hurt, humiliated, almost crushed by her scorn. This she suddenly realized, and her quick woman's sympathy checked all further bitterness. "'I'm sorry I've been so unkind,' she said in a more gentle tone. "'But you rather provoked me, Mr. Lyne.' He was incapable of speech, and could only shake his head and point with unsteady finger to the door. "'Get out,' he whispered. O debt rider walked out of the room, but the man did not move. Presently however he crossed to the window, and looking down upon the floor saw her trim figure move slowly through the crowd of customers and assistants and mount the three steps which led to the chief cashier's office. "'You shall pay for this, my girl,' he muttered. He was wounded beyond forgiveness. He was a rich man's son, and had lived in a sense a sheltered life. He had been denied the advantage which a public school would have brought to him, and had gone to college surrounded by psycho-fans and poseurs as blatant as himself, and never once had the cold breath of criticism been directed at him, except in what he was want to describe as the reptile press. He licked his dry lips, and walking to his desk pressed the bell. After a short wait, for he had purposely sent his secretary away, a girl came in. "'Has Mr. Tarling come?' he asked. "'Yes, sir, he is in the boardroom. He has been waiting a quarter of an hour.' He nodded. "'Thank you,' he said. "'Shall I tell him?' "'I will go tell him myself,' said Lynn. He took a cigarette out of his gold case, struck a match, and lit it. His nerves were shaken, his hands were trembling. But the storm in his heart was soothing down under the influence of this great thought. Tarling, what an inspiration! Tarling with his reputation for ingenuity, his almost sublime uncanny cleverness! What could be more wonderful than this coincidence?' He passed with quick steps along the corridor which connected his private den with the boardroom, and came into that spacious apartment without stretched hand. The man who turned to greet him may have been twenty-seven or thirty-seven. He was tall, but lithe rather than broad. His face was the color of mahogany, and the blue eyes turned to line were unwinking and expressionless. This was the first impression that Lynn received. He took Lynn's hand in his. It was as soft as a woman's. As they shook, Lynn noticed a third figure in the room. He was below middle height and sat in the shadow thrown by a wall-pillar. He too rose, but bowed his head. "'A Chinaman, eh?' said Lynn, looking at this unexpected aberration with curiosity. "'Oh, of course, Mr. Tarling, I had almost forgotten that you almost come straight from China. Won't you sit down?' He followed the other's example, threw himself into a chair, and offered his cigarette case. "'The work I am going to ask you to do, I will discuss later,' he said. "'But I must explain that I was partly attracted to you by the description I read in one of the newspapers of how you had discovered the Duchess of Henley's jewels. And partly by the stories I heard of you when I was in China. You are not attached to Scotland Yard, I understand?' Tarling shook his head. "'No,' he said quietly, I was regularly attached to the police in Shanghai, and I had intended joining up with Scotland Yard. In fact, I came over for that purpose. But several things happened which made me open my own detective agency, the most important of which happenings, was that Scotland Yard refused to give me the free hand I require.' The other nodded quickly. China rang with the achievements of Jack Oliver Tarling, or as the Chinese criminal world had named him in parody of his name, Lei Zhen, the Hunter of Men. Line judged all people by his own standard, and saw in this unemotional man a possible tool and in all probability a likely accomplice. The detective force in Shanghai did curious things by all accounts, and were not too scrupulous as to whether they kept within the strict letter of the law. There were even rumours that the Hunter of Men was not above torturing his prisoners if by so doing he could elicit confessions which would implicate some greater criminal. Line did not and could not know all the legends which had grown around the name of the Hunter, nor could he be expected in reason to differentiate between the truth and the false. "'I pretty well know why you've sent for me,' Tarling went on. He spoke slowly and had a decided draw. You gave me a rough outline in your letter. You suspect a member of your staff of having consistently robbed the firm for many years. Hey, Mr. Milberg, your chief departmental manager.' Line stopped him with a gesture and lowered his voice. "'I want you to forget that for a little while, Mr. Tarling,' he said. "'In fact, I'm going to introduce you to Milberg. And maybe Milberg can help us in my scheme. I do not say that Milberg is honest. But my suspicions were unfounded. But for the moment I have a much greater business on hand. And you will oblige me if you will forget all the things I have said about Milberg. I will ring for him now.' He walked to the long table which ran half the length of the room, took up a telephone which stood at one end and spoke to the operator. "'Tell Mr. Milberg to come to me in the boardroom, please,' he said. Then he went back to his visitor. "'That matter of Milberg can wait,' he said. "'I am not sure that I shall proceed any farther with it. Did you make any inquiries at all? If so, you had better tell me the gist of them before Milberg comes.' Tarling took a small white card from his pocket and glanced at it. "'What salary are you paying, Milberg?' "'Nine hundred a year,' replied Lyne. "'He is living at the rate of five thousand,' said Tarling. "'I may even discover that he's living at a much larger rate. He has a house up the river, entertains very lavishly. But the other brushed aside the report impatiently. "'No, let that wait,' he cried. "'I tell you I have much more important business. Milberg may be a thief.' "'Did you send for me, sir?' He turned round quickly. The door had opened without noise, and a man stood on the threshold of the room, an ingratiating smile on his face, his hands twining and intertwining ceaselessly, as though he was washing them with invisible soap. CHAPTER II This is Mr. Milberg, said Lyne awkwardly. If Mr. Milberg had heard the last words of his employer, his face did not betray the fact. His smile was set, and not only curved the lips, but filled the large, lusterless eyes. Tarling gave him a rapid survey, and drew his own conclusions. The man was a born lackey, plump of face, bald of head, and bent of shoulder, as though he lived in a perpetual gesture of abasement. Shut the door, Milberg, and sit down. This is Mr. Tarling—er, Mr. Tarling is—er—a detective. Indeed, sir. Milberg bent a deferential head in the direction of Tarling and the detective, watching for some change in color, some twist of face. Any of those signs which had so often betrayed to him the convicted wrong-doer looked in vain. A dangerous man, he thought. He glanced out of the corner of his eye, to see what impression the man had made upon Ling Chu. To the ordinary eye, Ling Chu remained an impassive observer, but Tarling saw that faint curl of a lip, an almost imperceptible twitch of the nostrils, which invariably showed on the face of his attendant when he smelt a criminal. Mr. Tarling is a detective, repeated land. He is a gentleman I heard about when I was in China—you know I was in China for three months—when I made my tour round the world. He asked, Tarling. Tarling nodded. Oh, yes, I know, he said. You stayed at the Bund Hotel, you spent a great deal of time in the native quarter, and you had rather an unpleasant experience as the result of making an experiment in opium-smoking. Ling's face went red, and then he laughed. You know more about me than I know about you, Tarling, he said, with a note of asperity in his voice, and turned again to his subordinate. I have reason to believe that there has been money stolen in this business by one of my cashiers, he said. Impossible, sir, said the shocked Mr. Milberg. Holy impossible! Who could have done it, and how clever of you to have found it out, sir? I always say that you see what we old ones overlook, even when it is right under our noses. Mr. Lin smiled complacently. It will interest you to know, Mr. Tarling, he said, that I myself have some knowledge of and acquaintance with the criminal classes. In fact, there is one unfortunate protege of mine whom I have tried very hard to reform for the past four years, who is coming out of prison in a couple of days. I took up this work, he said modestly, because I feel it is the duty of us, who are in a more fortunate position, to help those who have not had a chance in the cruel competition of the world. Tarling was not impressed. Do you know the person who has been robbing you? he asked. I have reason to believe it is a girl whom I have summarily dismissed to-night, and whom I wish you to watch. The detective nodded. This is rather a primitive business, he said, with the first faint hint of a smile he had shown. Hadn't you your own shop detective, who could take that job in hand? Petty larceny is hardly in my line. I understood that this was bigger work. He stopped, because it was obviously impossible to explain just why he had thought as much. In the presence of the man whose conduct originally had been the subject of his inquiries. To you it may seem a small matter. To me it is very important, said Mr. Len, profoundly. Here is a girl highly respected by all her companions, and consequently a great influence on their morals, who, as I have reason to believe, has steadily and persistently falsified my books, taken money from the firm, and at the same time has secured the good will of all with whom she has been brought into contact. Obviously she is more dangerous than another individual who succumbs to a sudden temptation. It may be necessary to make an example of this girl, but I want you clearly to understand, Mr. Tarling, that I have not sufficient evidence to convict her, otherwise I might not have called you in. You want me to get the evidence, eh? said Tarling curiously. Who is this lady, may I venture to ask, sir? It was Milberg who interposed the question. Miss Ryder, replied Len, Miss Ryder? Milberg's face took on a look of blank surprise as he gasped the words. Miss Ryder? Oh, no! Impossible! Why, impossible! demanded Mr. Len sharply. Well, sir, I meant, stammered the manager. It is so unlikely. She is such a nice girl. Thornton Len shot a suspicious glance at him. You have no particular reason for wishing to shield Miss Ryder, have you? he asked, coldly. No, sir, not at all. I beg of you not to think that. Appealed the agitated Mr. Milberg. Only it seems so—extraordinary. All things are extraordinary that are out of the common, snap Len. It would be extraordinary if you were accused of stealing Milberg. It would be very extraordinary indeed, for example, if we discovered that you were living a five thousand pounds life on a nine hundred pounds salary, eh? Only for a second did Milberg lose his self-possession. The hand that went to his mouth shook, and Tarling, whose eyes had never left the man's face, saw the tremendous effort which he was making to recover his equanimity. Yes, sir, that would be extraordinary, said Milberg steadily. Len had lashed himself again into the old fury, and if his vitriolic tongue was directed at Milberg, his thoughts were centred upon that proud and scornful face which had looked down upon him in the office. It would be extraordinary if you were sent to Pino servitude as the result of my discovery that you had been robbing the firm for years, he growled, and I suppose everybody else in the firm would say the same as you. How extraordinary! I daresay they would, sir, said Mr. Milberg, his old smile back, the twinkle again returning to his eyes, and his hands rubbing together in ceaseless evolution. It would sound extraordinary, and it would be extraordinary, and nobody here would be more surprised than the unfortunate victim. Ha! Ha! Perhaps not, said Len coldly. Only I want to say a few words in your presence, and I would like you to give them every attention. You have been complaining to me for a month past, he said, speaking with deliberation, about small sums of money being missing from the cashier's office. It was a bold thing to say, and in many ways a rash thing. He was dependent for the success of his hastily formed plan, not only upon Milberg's guilt, but upon Milberg's willingness to confess his guilt. If the manager agreed to stand sponsored to this lie, he admitted his own speculations, and Tarling, to whom the turn of the conversation had at first been unintelligible, began dimly to see the drift it was taking. I have complained that sums of money have been missing for the past month, repeated Mr. Milberg dullly. The smile had gone from his lips and eyes, his face was haggard, he was a man at bay. This is what I said, said Len, watching him. Isn't that the fact? There was a long pause, and presently Milberg nodded. That is the fact, sir, he said in a low voice. Would you have told me that you suspected Miss Ryder of defocations? Again the pause, and again the man nodded. Do you hear, asked Len triumphantly. I hear, said Tarling quietly. Now, what do you wish me to do? Isn't this a matter for the police? I mean the regular police. Len frowned. The case has to be prepared first, he said. I will give you full particulars as to the girl's address and her habits, and it will be your business to collect such information, as will enable us to put the case in the hands of Scotland Yard. I see, said Tarling, and smiled again. Then he shook his head. I'm afraid I can't come into the case, Mr. Len. Can't come in, said Len, in astonishment. Why not? Because it's not my kind of job, said Tarling. The first time I met you I had a feeling that you were leading me to one of the biggest cases I had ever undertaken. It shows you how one's instincts can lead one astray. He smiled again and picked up his hat. What do you mean you're going to throw up a valuable client? I don't know how valuable you're likely to be, said Tarling, but at the present moment the signs are not particularly encouraging. I tell you I do not wish to be associated with this case, Mr. Len, and I think there the matter can end. You don't think it's worthwhile, eh? sneered Len, yet when I tell you that I am prepared to give you a fee of five hundred guineas. If you gave me a fee of five thousand guineas or fifty thousand guineas I should still decline to be associated with this matter. Said Tarling and his words had the metallic quality which precludes argument. At any rate I am entitled to know why you will not take up this case. Do you know the girl?" asked Len loudly. I have never met the lady and probably never shall, said Tarling. I only know that I will not be concerned with what is called in the United States of America a frame-up. Frame-up? repeated the other. A frame-up. I dare say you know what it means. I will put the matter more plainly and within your understanding. For some reason or another you have a sudden grudge against a member of your staff. I read your face, Mr. Len, and the weakness of your chin and the appetite of your mouth suggests to me that you are not overscrupulous with the women who are in your charge. I guess rather than know that you have been turned down with a dull, sickening thud by a decent girl, and in your mortification you are attempting to invent a charge which has no substance and no foundation. Mr. Milberg, he turned to the other, and again Mr. Milberg ceased to smile, has his own reasons for complying with your wishes. He is your subordinate, and moreover, the side-threat of penoservitude for him, if he refuses, has carried some weight. Thornton Len's face was distorted with fury. I will take care that your behaviour is widely advertised, he said, you have brought a most monstrous charge against me, and I shall proceed against you, first lander. The truth is that you are not equal to the job I intend giving you, and you are finding an excuse for getting out. The truth is, replied Tarling, biting off the end of a cigar he had taken from his pocket, that my reputation is too good to be risked in associating with such a dirty business as yours. I hate to be rude, and I hate just as much to throw away good money, but I can't take good money for bad work, Mr. Len, and if you will be advised by me, you will drop this stupid scheme for vengeance which your hurt to vanity has suggested. It is the clumsiest kind of frame-up that was ever invented, and also you will go and apologise to the young lady, whom I have no doubt you have grossly insulted. He beckoned to his Chinese satellite, and walked leisurely to the door. Incoherent with rage, shaking in every limb with a weak man's sense of his own impotence, Len watched him until the door was half-closed, then springing forward with a strangled cry, he wrenched the door open and leapt at the detective. Two hands gripped his arm, and lifting him bodily back into the room, pushed him down into a chair. A not-unkindly face blinked down at him. A face relieved from utter solemnity by the tiny laughter lines about the eyes. Mr. Len said the mocking voice of Tarling. You are setting an awful example to the criminal classes. It is a good job your convict friend is in jail. Without another word he left the room. CHAPTER III. THE MAN WHO LOVED LINE. Two days later Thornton Line sat in his big limousine which was drawn up on the edge of Wandsworth Common, facing the gates of the jail. Poet and poseur he was, the strangest combination ever seen in man. Thornton Line was a storekeeper, a bachelor of arts, the winner of the Mangate Science Prize, and the author of a slim volume. The quality of the poetry therein was not very great, but it was undoubtedly a slim volume, printed in queerly ornate type, with old-fashioned esses and wide margins. He was a storekeeper because storekeeping supplied him with caviar and peaches, a handsome little two-seater, a six-cylinder limousine for state occasions, a country house and a flat in town, the decorations of which ran to a figure which would have purchased many stores of humbler pretensions, then Lines served first Emporium. To the elder line, Joseph Emanuel of that family, the inception and prosperity of Lines served first Emporium was due. He had devised a sale system which ensured every customer being attended to the moment he or she entered one of the many departments, which made up the splendid whole of the Emporium. It was a system based upon the age-old principle of keeping efficient reserves within call. Thornton Line succeeded to the business at a moment when his slim volume had placed him in the category of the gloriously misunderstood. Because such reviewers as had noticed his book wrote of his poetry using inverted commas to advertise their scorn, and because nobody bought the volume despite its slimness, he became the idol of men and women who also wrote that which nobody read, and in consequence developed souls with the celerity that a small boy developed semi-cake. For nothing in the wide world was more certain to the gloriously misunderstood than this. The test of excellence is scorn. Thornton Line might, in different circumstances, have drifted upward to sets even more misunderstood. Yea, even to a superior set to marriage and soap and clean shirts and fresh air, only his father died of a surfeit, and Thornton became the line of Lines served first. His first inclination was to sell the property and retire to a villa in Florence or Capri. Then the absurdity, the rich humor of an idea struck him. He, a scholar, a gentleman and a misunderstood poet, sitting in the office of a store, appealed to him. Somebody remarked in his hearing that the idea was rich. He saw himself in character and the part appealed to him. To everybody's surprise he took up his father's work, which meant that he signed checks, collected profits, and left the management to the souls and the knees whom old Napoleon Line had relied upon in the foundation of his empire. Napoleon wrote an address to his three thousand employees, which address was printed on decided antique paper in queerly ornate type with wide margins. He quoted Seneca, Aristotle, Marcus Aurelius, and the Iliad. The address secured better and longer reviews in the newspapers than had his book. He had found life a pleasant experience, all the more pecan because of the amazement of innumerable ecstatic friends who clasped their hands and asked awfully, How can you, a man of your temperament, life might have gone on being pleasant if every man and woman he had met had let him have his own way? Only there were at least two people with whom Thornton Line's millions carried no weight. It was warm in his limousine, which was electrically heated. But outside, on that raw April morning, it was bitterly cold, and the shivering little group of women who stood at a respectful distance from the prison gates drew their shawls tightly about them as errant flakes of snow whirled across the open. The common was covered with a white powder, and the early flowers looked supremely miserable in their wintry setting. The prison clocks struck eight, and a wicket gate opened. A man slouched out, his jacket buttoned up to his neck, his cap pulled over his eyes. At sight of him, Line dropped the newspaper he had been reading, opened the door of the car and jumped out, walking towards the released prisoner. "'Well, Sam,' he said, genuinely, "'you didn't expect me.' The man stopped as if he had been shot and stood staring at the fur-coated figure. Then, "'Oh, Mr. Line,' he said brokenly. "'Oh, Governor,' he choked, and tears streamed down his face, and he gripped the outstretched hands in both of his, unable to speak. "'You didn't think I'd desert you, Sam, eh?' said Mr. Line, all aglow with consciousness of his virtue. "'I thought you'd given me up, sir,' said Sam's stay, huskily. "'You're a gentleman. You are, sir, and I thought to be ashamed of myself.' "'Nonsense, nonsense, Sam. Jump in the car, my lad. Go along. People will think you're a millionaire.' The man gulped, grinned sheepishly, opened the door and stepped in, and sang with a comfort into the luxurious steps of the big brown cushions. "'God, to think there are men like you in the world, sir. Why, I believe in angels I do.' "'Nonsense, Sam. Now you come along to my flat, and I'm going to give you a good breakfast and start your fare again. I'm going to try and keep straight, sir. I am. Salt me.' It may be said in truth that Mr. Line did not care very much whether Sam kept straight or not. He might indeed have been very much disappointed if Sam had kept to the straight and narrow path. He kept Sam as men keep chickens and prize cows, and he collected Sam as other men collect stamps in China. Sam was his luxury and his pose. In his club he boasted of his acquaintance with this representative of the criminal class, for Sam was an expert burglar and knew no other trade, and Sam's adoration for him was one of his most exhilarating experiences. And that adoration was genuine. Sam would have laid down his life for the pale-faced man with the loose mouth. He would have suffered himself to be torn limb from limb if, in his agony, he could have brought ease or advancement to the man who, to him, was one with the gods. Originally, Thornton Line had found Sam whilst that artist was engaged in burgling the house of his future benefactor. It was a whim of Lines to give the criminal a good breakfast and to evince an interest in his future. Twice had Sam gone down for a short term, and once for a long term of imprisonment, and on each occasion Thornton Line had made a parade of collecting the returned wanderer, driving him home, giving him breakfast and a great deal of worldly and unnecessary advice, and launching him forth upon the world with ten pounds, a sum just sufficient to buy Sam a new kid of burglar's tools. Never before had Sam shown such gratitude, and never before had Thornton Line been less disinterested in his intentions. There was a hot bath, which Sam's stay could have dispensed with, but which out of sheer politeness he was compelled to accept, a warm and luxurious breakfast, a new suit of clothes, not with two but four five-pound notes in the pocket. After breakfast, Lines had his talk. It's no good, sir, said the burglar, shaking his head. I tried everything to get an honest living, but somehow I can't get on the straight life. I drove a taxi cab for three months after I came out, till a busy fellow tumbled on to me not having a license, and brought me up under the Prevention of Crimes Act. It's no use my asking you to give me a job in your shop, sir, because I couldn't stick it. I couldn't, really. I'm used to the open-air life. I like being my own master. I'm one of those fellows you've read about. The word begins with A. Adventurers, said Lines with a little laugh. Yes, I think you are, Sam, and I'm going to give you an adventure after your own heart. And then he began to tell a tale of base and gratitude, of a girl he had helped had indeed saved from starvation and who had betrayed him at every turn. Thornton Lines was a poet. He was also a picturesque liar. The lie came as easily as the truth and easier since there was a certain crudeness about truth which revolted his artistic soul. And as the tale was unfolded of Odette Rider's perfidity, Sam's eyes narrowed. There was nothing too bad for such a creature as this. She was wholly undeserving of sympathy. Presently Thornton Lines stopped. His eyes fixed on the other to note the effect. Show me, said Sam, his voice trembling. Show me a way of getting even with her, sir, and I'll go through hell to do it. That's the kind of stuff I like to hear, said Lines, and poured out from the long bottle which stood on the coffee tray a stiff taut of Sam's favorite brandy. Now I'll give you my idea. For the rest of the morning the two men sat almost head to head, plotting woe for the girl whose chief offence had been against the dignity of Thornton Lines and whose virtue had incited the hate of that vicious man. CHAPTER IV. MURDER Back Tarling lay stretched upon his hard bed, a long cigarette holder between his teeth, a book on Chinese metaphysics balanced on his chest, at peace with the world. The hour was eight o'clock, and it was the day that Sam's stay had been released from jail. It had been a busy day for Tarling, for he was engaged in a bank fraud case, which would have occupied the whole of his time had he not had a little private business to attend to. This private matter was wholly unprofitable, but his curiosity had been peaked. He lay the book flat on his chest as the soft click of the opening door announced the coming of his retainer. The impassive Ling Chu came noiselessly into the room, carrying a tray which he placed upon a low table by the side of his master's bed. The Chinaman wore a blue silk pyjama suit, a fact which Tarling noticed. You are not going out tonight, then, Ling Chu? No Li Zhen, said the man. They both spoke in the soft, sibilant patois of Shantung. You have been to the man with a cunning face? For answer the other took an envelope from an inside pocket and laid it in the other's hand, Tarling glanced at the address. So this is where the young lady lives, eh? Miss Odette Ryder, twenty-seven Carriemore buildings, Edgware Road. It is a clan house where many people live, said Ling Chu. I myself went in your honourable service, and saw people coming in and going out interminably, and never the same people did I see twice. It is what they call in English a flat building, Ling, said Tarling with a little smile. What did the man with a cunning face say to my letter? Master, he said nothing. He just read and read, and then he made a face like this. Ling gave an imitation of Mr. Milborough's smile, and then he wrote as you see. Tarling nodded. He stared for a moment into vacancy, then he turned on his elbow and lifted the cup of tea which his servant had brought him. What of face-white and weak man, Ling, he asked in the vernacular. You saw him? I saw him, master, said the China man gravely. He is a man without a heaven. Again Tarling nodded. The Chinese used the word heaven instead of God, and he felt that Ling had very accurately sized up Mr. Thornton Lyne's lack of spiritual qualities. He finished the tea, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Ling, he said, this place is very dull and sad. I do not think I shall live here. Will the master go back to Shanghai? asked the other without any display of emotion. I think so, nodded Tarling. At any rate, this place is too dull, just miserable little taking-money-easily cases, and wife-husband-lover cases, and my soul is sick. These are small matters, said Ling philosophically. But the master, this time he spoke of the great master, Confucius, has said that all greatness comes from small things, and perhaps some small-piece man will cut off the head of some big-piece man, and then they will call you to find the murderer. Tarling laughed. You're an optimist, Ling, he said. No, I don't think they'll call me in for a murder. They don't call in private detectives in this country. Ling shook his head. But the master must find murderous, or he will no longer be Li Zhen, the hunter of men. Your blood-sirsty soul, Ling, said Tarling, this time in English, which Ling imperfectly understood, despite the sustained efforts of eminent missionary schools. Now I'll go out, he said, with sudden resolution. I am going to call upon the small-piece woman whom Whiteface desires. May I come with you? asked Ling. Tarling hesitated. Yes, you may come, he said, but you must frail me. Very more mansions is a great block of buildings, sandwiched between two more aristocratic and more expensive blocks of flats, in the edge where road. The ground floor is given up to lock-shops, which perhaps cheapened the building, but still it was a sufficiently exclusive habitation for the rents, as Tarling guessed, to be a little too high for a shop assistant, unless she were living with her family. The explanation, as you was to discover, lay in the fact that there were some very undesirable basement flats, which were let at a lower rental. He found himself standing outside the polished mahogany door of one of these, wondering exactly what excuse he was going to give the girl for making a call so late at night, and that she needed some explanation was clear from the frank suspicion which showed in her face when she opened the door to him. Yes, I am, Miss Ryder, she said. Can I see you for a few moments? I'm sorry, she said, shaking her head. But I am alone in the flat, so I can't ask you to come in. This was a bad beginning. Is it not possible for you to come out, he said anxiously, and in spite of herself, she smiled. I'm afraid it's quite impossible for me to go out with somebody I've never met before, she said, with just a trace of amusement in her eyes. I recognized the difficulty, laughed Tarling. Here is one of my cards. I am afraid I'm not very famous in this country, so you will not know my name. She took the card and read it. A private detective, she said in the troubled voice, who has sent you? Not Mr... Not Mr. Line, he said. She hesitated a moment, then threw open the door wider. You must come in. We can talk here in the hall. Do I understand Mr. Line has not sent you? Mr. Line was very anxious that I should come, he said. I am betraying his confidence, but I do not think that he has any claim upon my loyalty. I don't know why I've bothered you at all, except that I feel that you ought to be put on your guard. Against what? She asked. Against the machinations of a gentleman to whom you have been... He hesitated for a word. Very offensive, she finished for him. I don't know how offensive you've been, he laughed, but I gather you have annoyed Mr. Line for some reason or other, and that he is determined to annoy you. I do not ask your confidence in this respect, because I realize that you would hardly like to tell me. But what I want to tell you is this, that Mr. Line is probably framing up a charge against you. That is to say, inventing a charge of theft. Of theft? She cried in indignant amazement. Against me? Of theft? It's impossible that he could be so wicked. It's not impossible that anybody could be wicked. Sir Tarling of the impassive face and the laughing eyes. All that I know is that he even induced Mr. Milborough to say that complaints have been made by Milborough concerning thefts of money from your department. That's absolutely impossible, she cried emphatically. Mr. Milborough would never say such a thing. Absolutely impossible. Mr. Milborough didn't want to say such a thing, I give him credit for that, said Tarling slowly, and then gave the gist of the argument, emitting any reference, direct or indirect, to the suspicion which surrounded Milborough. So you see, he said in conclusion, that you ought to be on your guard. I suggest to you that you see a solicitor and put the matter in his hands. He need not move against Mr. Line, but it would strengthen your position tremendously if you had already detailed the scheme to some person in authority. Thank you very, very much, Mr. Tarling, she said warmly, and looked up into his face with a smile so sweet, so pathetic, so helpless, that Tarling's heart melted towards her. And if you don't want a solicitor, he said, you can depend upon me. I will help you if any trouble arises. You don't know how grateful I am to you, Mr. Tarling. I didn't receive you very graciously. If you will forgive my saying so, you would have been a fool to have received me in any other way, he said. She held out both hands to him. He took them, and there were tears in her eyes. Presently she composed herself and led him into her little drawing-room. Of course I've lost my job, she laughed, but I've had several offers, one of which I shall accept. I am going to have the rest of the week to myself and to take a holiday. Tarling stopped her with a gesture. His ears were superhumanly sensitive. Are you expecting a visitor? He asked softly. No. Said the girl in surprise. Do you share this flat with somebody? I have a woman who sleeps here. She said, she's out for the evening. Has she a key? The girl shook her head. The man rose, and a dead marvelled, how one so tall could move so swiftly and without so much as a sound, across the uncarpeted hallway. He reached the door, turned the knob of the patterned lock, and jerked it open. A man was standing on the mat, and he jumped back at the unexpectedness of Tarling's appearance. The stranger was a cadaverous-looking man in a brand new suit of clothes, evidently ready-made, but he still wore on his face the curious yellow tinge which is the special mark of the recently liberated jailbird. Beg pardon, he stammered, but is this number eighty-seven? Tarling shot out a hand, and gripping him by the coat drew the helpless man towards him. Hello, what are you trying to do? What's this you have? He wrenched something from the man's hand. It was not a key but a flat-toothed instrument of strange construction. Come in, said Tarling, and jacked his prisoner into the hall. A swift turning back of his prisoner's coat pinioned him, and then, with dexterousness and in silence, he proceeded to search. From two pockets he took a dozen jeweled rings, each bearing the tiny tag of Lyne's store. Hello, said Tarling sarcastically, are these intended as a loving gift from Mr. Lyne to Miss Ryder? The man was speechless with rage. If looks could kill, Tarling would have died. A clumsy trick, said Tarling, shaking his head mournfully. Now go back to your boss, Mr. Thornton Lyne, and tell him that I am ashamed of an intelligent man adopting so crude a method. And with a kick he dismissed some stay to the outer darkness. The girl, who had been a frightened spectator of the scene, turned her eyes imploringly upon the detective. What does it mean? She pleaded. I feel so frightened. What did the man want? You need not be afraid of that man, or any other man. Said Tarling briskly. I'm sorry you were scared. He succeeded in calming her by the time her servant had returned, and then took his leave. Remember, I have given you my telephone number, and you will call me up if there is any trouble. Particularly, he said emphatically, if there is any trouble tomorrow. But there was no trouble on the following day, though at three o'clock in the afternoon she called him up. I am going away to stay in the country, she said. I got scared last night. Come and see me when you get back, said Tarling, who had found it difficult to dismiss the girl from his mind. I am going to see Lyne tomorrow. By the way, the person who called last night is a protege of Mr. Thornton Lynes, a man who is devoted to him body and soul, and he's the fellow we've got to look after. By Jove it almost gives me an interest in life. He heard the faint laugh of the girl. Must I be butchered to make a detective's holiday? She mocked, and he grinned sympathetically. Anyway, I'll see Lyne tomorrow, he said. The interview which Jack Tarling projected was destined never to take place. On the following morning an early walker taking a shortcut through Hyde Park found the body of a man lying by the side of a carriage drive. He was fully dressed, save that his coat and waistcoat had been removed. Round about his body was a woman's silk-knight dress stained with blood. The hands on the figure were crossed on the breast, and upon them lay a handful of daffodils. At eleven o'clock that morning the evening newspaper's burst forth with the intelligence that the body had been identified as that is thawnt in line, and that he had been shot through the heart. CHAPTER IV The London Police are confronted with a new mystery which has features so remarkable that it would not be an exaggeration to describe this crime as the murder mystery of the century. A well-known figure in London society, Mr. Thornton Lyne, head of an important commercial organization, a poet of no mean quality, and a millionaire renowned for his philanthropic activities was found dead in Hyde Park in the early hours of this morning, in circumstances which admit of no doubt that he was most brutally murdered. At half-past five Thomas Savage, a bricklayer's labourer employed by the Cubitt Town Construction Company, was making his way across Hyde Park en route to his work. He had crossed the main drive which runs parallel with Bayswater Road, when his attention was attracted to a figure lying on the grass near to the sidewalk. He made his way to the spot and discovered a man who had obviously been dead for some hours. The body has neither coat nor waistcoat, but about the breast on which his two hands were laid, was a silk garment tightly wound about the body and obviously designed to staunch a wound on the left side above the heart. The extraordinary feature is that the murderer must not only have composed the body, but had laid upon its breast a handful of daffodils. The police were immediately summoned and the body was removed. The police theory is that the murder was not committed in Hyde Park, but the unfortunate gentleman was killed elsewhere and his body conveyed to the park in his own motor-car, which was found abandoned a hundred yards from the scene of the discovery. We understand that the police are working upon a very important clue, and an arrest is imminent. Mr. J. O. Tarling, late of the Shanghai Detective Service, read the short account in the evening newspaper, and was unusually thoughtful. Lynn murdered. It was an extraordinary coincidence that he had been brought into touch with this young man only a few days before. Tarling knew nothing of Lynn's private life, though, from his own knowledge of the man during his short stay in Shanghai, he guessed that life was not wholly blameless. He had been too busy in China to bother his head about the vagaries of a tourist, but he remembered dimly some sort of scandal which had attached to the visitor's name and puzzled his head to recall all the circumstances. He put down the newspaper with a little grimace indicative of regret. If he had only been attached to Scotland Yard, what a case this would have been for him. Here was a mystery which promised unusual interest. His mind wandered to the girl, Odette Ryder. What would she think of it? She would be shocked, he thought, horrified. It hurt him to feel that she might be indirectly, even remotely associated, with such a public scandal. And he realized with a sudden sense of dismay that nothing was less likely than that her name would be mentioned as one who had quarreled with the dead man. Pshah! he muttered, shrugging off the possibility as absurd, and walking to the door, called his Chinese servant. Ling Chu came silently at his bidding. Ling Chu, he said, the white-faced man is dead. Ling Chu raised his imperturbable eyes to his master's face. All men die some time, he said calmly. This man quick die. That is better than long die. Tarling looked at him sharply. How do you know that he quick die, he demanded. These things are talked about, said Ling Chu, without hesitation. But not in the Chinese language, replied Tarling. And Ling Chu, you speak no English. I speak a little, master, said Ling Chu, and I have heard these things in the streets. Ling did not answer immediately, and the Chinaman waited. Ling Chu, he said after a while, this man came to Shanghai whilst we were there. And there was trouble, trouble. Once he was thrown out from Wing Fu's tea-house, where he had been smoking opium. Also, there was another trouble, do you remember? The Chinaman looked him straight in the eyes. I am forgetting, he said, this white man was a bad man, I am glad he is dead. Hump, said Tarling, and dismissed his retainer. Ling Chu was the cleverest of all his sleuths, a man who never lifted his nose from the trail once it was struck, and he had been the most loyal and faithful of Tarling's native trailers. But the detective never pretended that he understood Ling Chu's mind, or that he could pierce the veil which the native dropped between his own private thoughts and the curious foreigner. The native criminals were baffled in the interpretation of Ling Chu's views, and many a man had gone to the scaffold puzzling the head, which was soon to be snicked from his body, over the mention by which Ling Chu had detected his crime. Tarling went back to the table and picked up the newspaper, but had hardly begun to read when the telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver and listened. To his amazement it was the voice of Cresswell, the assistant commissioner of police, who had been instrumental in persuading Tarling to come to England. Can you come round to the yard immediately, Tarling? said the voice. I want to talk to you about this murder. Surely, said Tarling, I will be with you in a few minutes. In five minutes he was at Scotland Yard, and was ushered into the office of assistant commissioner Cresswell. The white-haired man, who came across to meet him with a smile of pleasure in his eyes, disclosed the object of the summons. I'm going to bring you into this case, Tarling, he said. It has certain aspects which seem outside the humdrum experience of our own people. It is not unusual, as you know, he said, as he motioned the other to a chair, for Scotland Yard, to engage outside help, particularly when we have a crime of this character to deal with. The fact, you know, he went on, as he opened a thin folder. These are the reports which you can read at your leisure. Thornton Lane was, to say the least, eccentric. His life was not a particularly wholesome one, and he had many undesirable acquaintances. Amongst Tomb was a criminal, and ex-confect, who was only released from jail a few days ago. That's rather extraordinary, said Tarling, lifting his eyebrows. What had he in common with the criminal? Commissioner Cresswell shrugged his shoulders. My own view is that this acquaintance was rather a posse of Linn's. He liked to be talked about. It gave him a surgeon reputation for character amongst his friends. Who is the criminal? asked Tarling. He is a man named Stae, a petty larsonist, and in my opinion a much more dangerous character than the police have realized. As he began Tarling, but the commissioner shook his head. I think we can rule him out for the list of people who may be suspected of this murder, he said. Sam Stae has very few qualities that would commend themselves to the average man, but there can be no doubt at all that he was devoted to Linn, body and soul. When the detective, temporarily in charge of the case, went down to Lambeth to interview Stae, he found him lying on his bed, prostrate with grief, with a newspaper containing the particulars of the murder by his side. The man is beside himself with sorrow, and threatens to do in the person who is responsible for this crime. You can interview him later. I doubt whether you'll get much out of him, because he is absolutely incoherent. Linn was something more than human in his eyes, and I should imagine that the only decent emotion he has had in his life is this affection for a man who was certainly good to him, whether he was sincere in his philanthropy or otherwise. Now here are a few of the facts which have not been made public. Cresswell seated himself back in his chair, and ticked off his fingers the points as he made them. You know that around Linn's chest a silk night-dress was discovered? Tarling nodded. Under the night-dress, made into a pad, evidently with the object of arresting the bleeding, were two handkerchiefs neatly folded as though they had been taken from a drawer. They were ladies' handkerchiefs, so we may start on the supposition that there is a woman in the case. Now, another peculiar feature of the case, which happily has escaped the attention of those who saw the body first, and gave particulars to the newspapers, was that Linn, though fully dressed, wore a pair of thick felt slippers. They were taken out of his own store yesterday evening, as we have ascertained, by Linn himself, who sent for one of his assistants to his office, and told him to get a pair of very soft-soled slippers. The third item is that Linn's boots were discovered in the deserted motor-car which was drawn up by the side of the road a hundred yards from where the body was lying. And the fourth feature, and this explains why I have brought you into the case, is that in the car was discovered his blood-stained coat and waistcoat. In the right-hand pocket of the latter garment, said Cresswell, speaking slowly, was found this. He took from his drawer a small piece of crimson paper, two inches square, and handed it without comment to the detective. Charlie took the paper and stared. Written in thick black ink were four Chinese characters. CHU, JOW, FAN, NOW. He brought this trouble upon himself. CHAPTER VI. THE MOTHER OF ODETT RIDER. The two men looked at one another in silence. Well, said the commissioner at last, Tarlington shook his head. That's amazing, he said, and looked at the little slip of paper between his finger and thumb. You see why I'm bringing you in, said the commissioner. If there is a chined ease into this crime, nobody knows better than you how to deal with it. I have had this slip translated. It means he brought this trouble upon himself. Literally, self-look for trouble, said Tarling. But there is one fact which you may not have noticed. If you will look at the slip, you will see that it is not written, but printed. He passed the little red square across the table and the commissioner examined it. That's true, he said in surprise. I did not notice that. Have you seen these slips before? Tarlington nodded. A few years ago, he said, there was a very bad outbreak of crime in Shanghai, mostly under the leadership of a notorious criminal whom I was instrumental in getting beheaded. He ran a gang called the Cheerful Hearts. You know the fantastic titles which these Chinese gangs adopt. It was their custom to leave on the scene of their depredations the Hong or sign manual of the gang. It was worded exactly as this slip, only it was written. These visiting cards of the Cheerful Hearts were bought up as curios and commanded high prices until some enterprising Chinaman started printing them so that you could buy them at almost any station or shop in Shanghai, just as you buy picture postcards. The commissioner nodded. And this is one of those? This is such a one. How it came here, heaven knows, he said. It is certainly the most remarkable discovery. The commissioner went to a cupboard, unlocked it, and took out a suitcase which he placed upon the table and opened. Now, said the commissioner, look at this, Tarling. This was a stained garment which Tarling had no difficulty in recognizing as a nightdress. He took it out and examined it. Save for two sprays of forget-me-nots upon the sleeves, it was perfectly plain and was innocent of lace or embroidery. It was found round his body, and here are the handkerchiefs. He pointed to two tiny squares of linen so discolored as to be hardly recognizable. Tarling lifted the flimsy garment with its evidence of the terrible purpose for which it had been employed and carried it to the light. Are there laundry-marks? None whatever, said the commissioner. Or on the handkerchiefs? None, replied Mr. Cresswell. The property of a girl who lived alone, said Tarling, she is not very well off but extremely neat, fond of good things but not extravagant, eh? How do you know that? asked the commissioner, surprised. Tarling laughed. The absence of laundry-marks shows that she washes her silk garments at home, and probably her handkerchiefs also, which places her amongst the girls who aren't blessed with too many of this world's goods. The fact that it is silk and good silk and that the handkerchiefs are good linen suggests a woman who takes a great deal of trouble, yet whom one would not expect to find overdressed. Have you any other clue? None, said the commissioner. We have discovered that Mr. Lyne had a rather serious quarrel with one of his employees, a Miss Odette writer. Tarling caught his breath. It was, he told himself, absurd to take so keen an interest in a person whom he had not seen for more than ten minutes, and who a week before was a perfect stranger. But somehow the girl had made a deeper impression upon him than he had realized. This man, who had spent his life in the investigation of crime and in the study of criminals, had found little time to interest himself in womanhood, and Odette writer had been a revelation to him. I happened to know there was a quarrel, I also know the cause, he said, and related briefly the circumstances under which he himself had met Thornton Lyne. What have you against her, he said, with an assumption of carelessness which he did not feel. Nothing definite, said the commissioner, her principal accuser is the man's stay. Even he did not accuse her directly, but he hinted that she was responsible in some way which he did not particularize for Thornton Lyne's death. I thought it curious that he should know anything about this girl, but I am inclined to think that Thornton Lyne made this man his confidant. What about the man, asked Tarling, can he account for his movements last night and early this morning? His statement, replied the commissioner, is that he saw Mr. Lyne at his flat at nine o'clock, and that Mr. Lyne gave him five pounds in the presence of Lyne's butler. He said he left the flat and went to his lodgings in Lambeth, where he went to bed very early. All the evidence we have been able to collect supports his statement. We have interviewed Lyne's butler, and his account agrees with Stays. Stay left at five minutes past nine, and at twenty-five minutes to ten, exactly half an hour later, Lyne himself left the house, driving his two-seater. He was alone and told the butler he was going to his club. How was he dressed, asked Tarling. That is rather important, nodded the commissioner, for he was an evening dress until nine o'clock. In fact, until after Stay had gone, when he changed into the kit in which he was found dead. Tarling pursed his lips. He'd hardly changed from evening into daydress to go to his club, he said. He left Scotland Yard a little while after this, a much puzzled man. His first call was at the flat in Edgware Road, which Odette Ryder occupied. She was not at home, and the haul-porter told him that she had been away since the afternoon of the previous day. Her letters were to be sent on to Hartford. He had the address, because it was his business to intercept the postman and send forward the letters. Hillington Grove, Hartford. Tarling was worried. There was really no reason why he should be, he told himself, but he was undoubtedly worried. And he was disappointed, too. He felt that, if he could have seen the girl and spoken with her for a few minutes, he could have completely disassociated her from any suspicion which might attach. In fact, she was away from home, that she had disappeared from her flat on the eve of the murder, would be quite enough, as he knew, to set the official policeman nosing on her trail. "'Do you know whether Miss Ryder has friends at Hartford?' he asked the porter. "'Oh, yes, sir,' said the man, nodding. Miss Ryder's mother lives there.' Tarling was going when the man detained him with a remark which switched his mind back to the murder and filled him with a momentary sense of hopeless dismay. "'I'm rather glad Miss Ryder didn't happen to be in last night, sir,' he said. Some of the tenants upstairs were making complaints. "'Complaints about what?' asked Tarling, and the man hesitated. "'I suppose you're a friend of the young ladies, aren't you?' and Tarling nodded. "'Well, it only shows you,' said the porter, confidentially, how people are very often blamed for something they did not do. The tenant in the next flat is a bit crotchety. He is a musician, and rather deaf. If he hadn't been deaf, he wouldn't have said that Miss Ryder was the cause of his being wakened up. I suppose it was something that happened on the outside.' "'What did he hear?' asked Tarling quickly, and the porter laughed. "'Well, sir, he thought he heard a shot and a scream like a woman's. It woke him up. I should have thought he had dreamt it, but another tenant who also lives in the basement heard the same sound, and the rum thing was they both thought it was in Miss Ryder's flat. What time was this?' "'They say about midnight, sir,' said the porter, but of course it couldn't have happened, because Miss Ryder had not been in and the flat was empty.' Here was a disconcerting piece of news for Tarling to carry with him on his railway journey to Hartford. He was determined to see the girl and put her on her guard, and though he realized that it was not exactly his duty to put a suspected criminal upon her guard and that his conduct was, to say the least of it, irregular, such did not trouble him very much. He had taken his ticket and was making his way to the platform when he aspired a familiar figure, hurrying as from a train which had just come in, and apparently the man saw Tarling even before Tarling had recognized him, for he termed abruptly a side and would have disappeared into the press of people had not the detective overtaken him. "'Hello, Mr. Milberg,' he said. "'Your name is Milberg, if I remember all right.' The manager of Lyne's store turned, rubbing his hands, his habitual smile upon his face. "'Why, to be sure,' he said genially, it's Mr. Tarling, the detective gentleman. "'What sad news this is, Mr. Tarling, how dreadful for everybody concerned. "'I suppose it has meant an upset at the stores, this terrible happening?' "'Oh, yes, sir,' said Milberg, in a shocked voice. "'Of course we closed the store for the day. It is dreadful, the most dreadful thing within my experience. "'Is anybody suspected, sir?' he asked. Tarling shook his head. "'It is a most mysterious circumstance, Mr. Milberg,' he said. "'And then, may I ask if any provision had been made to carry on the business in the event of Mr. Lyne's sudden death?' Again Milberg hesitated and seemed reluctant to reply. "'I am, of course, in control,' he said, as I was when Mr. Lyne took his trip around the world. I have received authority also from Mr. Lyne's solicitors to continue the direction of the business until the court appoints a trustee.' Tarlington eyed him narrowly. "'What effect has this murder had upon you personally?' he asked bluntly. "'Does it enhance or depreciate your position?' Milberg smiled. "'Unhappily,' he said, it enhances my position, because it gives me a greater authority and a greater responsibility. I would that the occasion had never arisen, Mr. Tarling. "'I'm sure you do,' said Tarling dryly, remembering Lyne's accusations against the other's probity. After a few common places the men parted. Milberg, on the journey to Hartford, Tarlington analyzed that urbane man, and found him deficient in certain essential qualities, weighed him and found him wanting in elements which should certainly form part of the equipment of a trustworthy man. At Hartford he jumped into a cab and gave the address. "'Hillington Grove, sir? That's about two miles out,' said the cabman. "'It's Mrs. Ryder you want?' Tarling nodded. "'You ain't come with the young lady she was expecting,' said the driver. "'No,' replied Tarling, in surprise. "'I was told to keep my eyes open for a young lady,' explained the cabman vaguely. A further surprise awaited the detective. He expected to discover that Hillington Grove was a small suburban house bearing a grandiose title. He was amazed when the cabman turned through a pair of impressive gates and drove up a wide drive of some considerable length, turning eventually onto a graveled space before a large mansion. It was hardly the kind of home he would have expected for the parent of a cashier at Lyne's store, and his surprise was increased when the door was opened by a footman. He was ushered into a drawing-room, beautifully and artistically furnished. He began to think that some mistake had been made and was framing an apology to the mistress of the house when the door opened and a lady entered. Her age was nearer forty than thirty, but she was still a beautiful woman and carried herself with the air of a grand dam. She was graciousness itself to the visitor, but Tarling thought he detected a note of anxiety both in her mean and in her voice. I'm afraid there's some mistake, he began. I have probably found the wrong Mrs. Ryder. I wanted to see Miss Odette Ryder. The lady nodded. That is my daughter, she said. Have you any news of her? I am quite worried about her. Worried about her, said Tarling quickly. What has happened? Isn't she here? Here, said Mrs. Ryder, wide-eyed, of course she is not. But hasn't she been here? Didn't she arrive here two nights ago? Mrs. Ryder shook her head. My daughter has not been, she replied, but she promised to come and spend a few days with me, and last night I received a telegram. Wait a moment, I will get it for you. She was gone a few moments and came back with a little buff form which she handed to the detective. He looked and read, my visit cancelled. Do not write me at flat. I will communicate with you when I reach my destination. The telegram had been handed in at the General Post Office, London, and was dated nine o'clock, three hours according to expert opinion before the murder was committed. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7. At the Daffodil Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace. Chapter 7. The Woman in the Case. May I keep this telegram, asked Tarling. The woman nodded. He saw that she was nervous, ill, at ease, and worried. I can't quite understand why Odette should not come, she said. Is there any particular reason? I can't say, said Tarling. But please don't let it worry you, Mrs. Rider. She probably changed her mind at the last moment and is staying with friends in town. Then you haven't seen her, asked Mrs. Rider anxiously. I haven't seen her for several days. Is anything wrong? Her voice shook for a second, but she recovered herself. You see, she made an attempt to smile. I had been in the house for two or three days and I had seen neither Odette nor anybody else, she added quickly. Who was she expecting to see, wondered Tarling, and why did she check herself? Was it possible that she had not heard of the murder? He determined to test her. Her daughter is probably detained in town, owing to Mr. Lynn's death. He said, watching her closely. She started and went white. Mr. Lynn's death, she stammered. Has he died, that young man? He was murdered in Hyde Park yesterday morning, said Tarling, and she staggered back and collapsed into a chair. Murdered, murdered, she whispered. Oh, God, not that, not that. Her face was ashen-white, and she was shaking in every limb. This stately woman, who had walked so serenely into the drawing room a few minutes before. Presently she covered her face with her hands and began to weep softly, and Tarling waited. Did you know, Mr. Lynn? He asked after a while. She shook her head. Have you heard any stories about Mr. Lynn? She looked up. None, she said listlessly, except that he was not a very nice man. Forgive me for asking you, but are you very much interested? He hesitated, and she lifted her head. He did not know how to put this question into words. It puzzled him that the daughter of this woman, who was evidently well off, should be engaged in a more or less humble capacity in Lynn's store. He wanted to know whether she knew that the girl had been dismissed, and whether that made much difference to her. Then again his conversation with the debt rider had not led him to the conclusion that she could afford to throw up her work. She spoke of finding another job, and that did not sound as though her mother was in a good position. Is there any necessity for your daughter working for a living? He asked bluntly, and she dropped her eyes. It is her wish, she said, in a low voice. She does not get on with people about here, she added hastily. There was a brief silence, then he rose and offered his hand. I do hope I haven't worried you with my questions, he said, and I daresay you wonder why I have come. I will tell you candidly that I am engaged in investigating this murder, and I was hoping to hear that your daughter, in common with the other people who were brought into contact with Mr Lynn, might give me some thread of a clue, which would lead to more important things. A detective, she asked, and he could have sworn there was horror in her eyes. A sort of detective he laughed, but not a formidable one. I hope, Mrs Ryder. She saw him to the door and watched him as he disappeared down the drive, then walked slowly back to the room and stood against the marble mantelpiece, her head upon her arms weeping softly. Jack Tarling left Hartford, more confused than ever. He had instructed the fly driver to wait for him at the gates, and this worthy he proceeded to pump. Mrs Ryder had been living in Hartford for four years, and was greatly respected. Did the cabman know the daughter? Oh yes, he had seen the young lady once or twice, but she did not come very often, he explained. By all accounts she does not get on with her father. Her father? I did not know, she had a father, said Tarling, in surprise. Yes, there was a father, he was an infrequent visitor, and usually came up from London by the late train, and was driven in his own brohem to the house. He had not seen him indeed, very few people had, but by all accounts he was a very nice man and well connected in the city. Tarling had telegraphed to the assistant who had been placed at his disposal by Scotland Yard, and Detective Inspector Whiteside was waiting for him at the station. Any fresh news, asked Tarling. Yes, sir, there's rather an important clue come to light, said Whiteside. I've got the car here, sir, and we might discuss it on the way back to the yard. What is it? asked Tarling. We'd got it from Mr Lynn's manservant, said the inspector. It appears that the butler had been going through Mr Lynn's things, acting on instructions from headquarters, but in the corner of his writing desk a telegram was discovered. I'll show it to you when I get to the yard. It has a very important bearing upon the case, and I think may lead us to the murderer. On the word telegram, Tarling felt mechanically in his pockets for the wire which Mrs Ryder had given him from her daughter. Now he took it out and read it again. It had been handed in at the general post office at nine o'clock, exactly. That's extraordinary, sir. Detective Inspector Whiteside, sitting by his side, had overlooked the wire. What is extraordinary? asked Tarling, with an air of surprise. I happen to see the signature to that wire. Oh, Debt, isn't it? said the Scotland Yard man. Yes, not at Tarling. Why? What is there extraordinary in that? Well, sir, said Whiteside. It's something of a coincidence that the telegram, which was found in Mr Lynn's desk, and making an appointment with him at a certain flat in the edge where, Road, was also signed, O Debt. And he bent forward, looking at the wire, still in the astonished Tarling's hand. He said, in triumph, it was handed in exactly at the same time as that. An examination of the telegram at Scotland Yard left no doubt in the detective's mind that Whiteside had spoken nothing but the truth. An urgent message was dispatched to the general post office, and in two hours the original telegrams were before him. They were both written in the same hand, the first to her mother, saying that she could not come, the second to Lynn running. We used to see me at my flat tonight at eleven o'clock, O Debt rider. Tarling's heart sank within him. This amazing news was stunning. It was impossible, impossible, he told himself again and again that this girl could have killed Lynn. Suppose she had. Where had they met? Had they gone driving together? And had she shot him in making the circuit of the park? But why should he be wearing list slippers? Why should his coat be off? And why should the nightdress be bound round and round his body? He thought the matter out, but the more he thought, the more puzzled he became. It was a very depressed man who interviewed an authority that night and secured from him a search warrant. Armed with this and accompanied by Whiteside, he made his way to the flat at Edgeware Road and showing his authority secured a pass key from the Hall Porter, who was also the caretaker of the building. Tarling remembered the last time he had gone to the flat and it was with the feeling of intense pity for the girl that he turned the key in the lock and stepped into the little hall, reaching out his hand and switching on the light as he did so. There was nothing in the hall to suggest anything unusual. There was just that close and musty smell which is peculiar to all buildings which have been shut up, even for a few days, but there was something else. Tarling sniffed and Whiteside sniffed. A dull, burnt smell, some pugnip, scorched odour, which he recognised as the stale stench of exploded cordite. He went into the tiny dining room. Everything was neat, nothing displaced. That's curious, said Whiteside, pointing to the sideboard, and Tarling saw a deep glass vase half filled with daffodils. Two or three blossoms had either fallen or had been pulled out where lying, shriveled and dead on the polished surface of the sideboard. Huh! said Tarling. I don't like this very much. He turned and walked back into the hall and opened another door, which stood ajar. Again he turned on the light. He was in the girl's bedroom. He stopped dead and slowly examined the room. But for the disordered appearance of the Chester drawers, there was nothing unusual in the appearance of the room. At the open doors of the bureau, a little heap of female attire had been thrown palmel upon the floor. All these were eloquent of hasty action. Still more was a small suitcase, half packed, and the bed also left in a great hurry. Tarling stepped into the room, and if he had been half blind, he could not have missed the last and most damning evidence of all. The carpet was a biscuit colour and covered the room flush to the wane's scot. Opposite the fireplace was a big, dark red, irregular stain. Tarling's face grew tense. This is where Lynn was shot, he said. And look there, said White Side excitedly, pointing to the chest of drawers. Tarling stepped quickly across the room and pulled out a garment which hung over the edge of the drawer. It was a nightdress, a silk nightdress, with two little sprays of forget-me-nots embroidered on the sleeves. It was the companion to that which had been found about Lynn's body. And there was something more. The removal of the garment from the drawer disclosed a mark on the white enamel of the bureau. It was a bloody thumb print. The detective looked round at his assistant and the expression of his face was set in its hardest mask. White Side, he said quietly, swear out a warrant for the arrest of Odette Ryder on a charge of willful murder. Telegraph all stations to detain this girl and let me know the result. Without another word he turned from the room and walked back to his lodgings. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 of The Deathedill Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Lucy Burgoyne. The Deathedill Mystery by Edgar Wallace. Chapter 8 The Silencing of Sam Stey. There was a criminal in London who was watched day and night. It was no new experience to Sam Stey to find an unconcerned looking detective strolling along behind him. But for the first time in his life, the burglar was neither disconcerted nor embarrassed by these attentions. The death of Thornton Lynn had been the most tragic blow which had ever overtaken him, and if they had arrested him, he would have been indifferent. For this hangdog criminal, with the long, melancholy face, lined and seamed and puckered so that he appeared to be an old man, had loved Thornton Lynn as he had loved nothing in his wild and barren life. Lynn to him had been some divine creature, possessed gifts and qualities which no other would have recognised in him. In Sam's eyes, Lynn could have done no wrong. By Sam Stey's standard, he stood for all that was beautiful in human nature. Thornton Lynn was dead, dead, dead, dead. Every footfall echoed the horrible, unbelievable word. The man was incapable of feeling. Every other pain was deadened in this great suffering which was his. And who had been the cause of it all? Whose treachery had cut short this wonderful life? He ground his teeth at the thought. O dead rider, he remembered the name. He remembered all the injuries she had done to this man, his benefactor. He remembered that long conversation which Lynn and he had had on the morning of Sam's release from prison and the plannings which had followed. He could not know that his hero was lying and that in his pique and hurt vanity he was inventing grievances which had no foundation and offences which had never been committed. He only knew that because of the hate which Lynn Thornton Lynn's heart justifiable hate from Sam's view, the death of this great man had been encompassed. He walked aimlessly westward, unconscious of and uncaring for his shadow and had reached the end of Piccadilly when somebody took him gently by the arm. He turned and as he recognized an acquaintance his thick lips went back in an ugly snail. It's all right Sam, said the plain clothes policemen with the grin. There's no trouble coming to you. I just want to ask you a few questions. You fellows have been asking questions day and night since, since that happened ground Sam. Nevertheless he permitted himself to be mullified and led to a seat in the park. Now I'm putting it to you straight Sam, said the policeman. We've got nothing against you at the yard but we think you might be able to help us. You knew Mr Lynn, he was very decent to you. Here shut up, said Sam savagely. I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. Do you hear? He was the grandest fellow that ever was, was Mr Lynn. God bless him, oh my God, my God. He wailed and to the detective's surprise this hardened criminal buried his face in his hands. That's all right Sam, I know he was a nice fellow. Had he any enemies he might have talked to a chap like you where he wouldn't have talked to his friends. Sam, red-eyed, looked up suspiciously. Am I going to get into any trouble for talking? He said, none at all Sam, said the policeman quickly. Now you'd be a good lad and do all you can to help us and maybe if you ever get into trouble we'll put one in for you. Do you see, did anybody hate him? Sam nodded, was it a woman? Asked the detective, we studied indifference. Ed Was replied the other with an oath. Damn her, Ed Was. He treated her well, did Mr Lynn. She was broke, half-starving. He took her out of the gutter and put her into a good place and she went about making accusations against him. He poured forth a stream of the foulest abuse which the policeman had ever heard. That's the kind of girl she was, Slade. He went on, addressing the detective. As criminals will, familiarly, by their surnames, she ain't fit to walk the earth. His voice broke. Might I ask her name? Demanded Slade. Again, Sam looked suspiciously around. Look here, he said. Leave me to deal with her. I'll settle with her and don't you worry. That would only get you into trouble, Sam, you Slade. Just give us her name. Did it begin with an R? How do I know, growled the criminal. I can't spell. Her name was Odette. Ryder, said the other, eagerly. That's her. She used to be cashier at Lynn's store. Now, just quieten yourself down and tell me all Lynn told you about her. Will you, my lad? Sam's days stared at him, and then a slow look of cunning passed over his face. If it was her, he breezed. If I could only put her away for it. Nothing better illustrated the mentality of this man than the fact that the thought of shopping the girl had not occurred to him before. That was the idea, a splendid idea. Again, his lips curled back, and he eyed the detective with a queer little smile. All right, sir, he said. I'll tell the head split. I'm not going to tell you. That's his audit to be, Sam, said the detective, genuinely. You can tell Mr. Tarling or Mr. Whiteside, and they'll make it worth your while. The detective called a cab, and together they drove, not to Scotland Yard, but to Tarling's little office in Bond Street. It was here that the man from Shanghai had established his detective agency, and here he waited with the phlegmatic Whiteside for the return of the detective. He had sent to withdraw Sam's day from his shadow up. The man shuffled into the room, looked resentfully from one to the other, nodded to both, and declined the chair, which was pushed forward for him. His head was throbbing in an uncountable way, as it had never throbbed before. There were curious buzzers and noises in his ears. It was strange that he had not noticed this until he came into the quiet room to meet the grave eyes of a hard-faced man whom he did not remember having seen before. Now stay, said Whiteside, whom at least the criminal recognised. We want to hear what you know about this murder. Stay pressed his lips together and made no reply. Sit down, said Tarling, and this time the man obeyed. Now, my lad, Tarling went on, and when he was in a persuasive mood, his voice was silky. They told me that you were a friend of Mr. Lin's, Sam nodded. He was good to you, was he not? Good! The man drew a deep breath. I'd have given my heart and soul to save him from a minute's pain. I would, sir. I'm telling you straight, and may I be struck dead if I'm lying. He was an angel on earth. My God! If ever I lay my hands on that woman, I'll strangle her. I'll put her out. I'll not leave here till she's torn to rags. His voice rose. Specks of foam stood on his lips. His whole face seemed transfigured in an ecstasy of hate. She's been robbing him and robbing him for years. He shouted. He looked after her and protected her, and she went and told lies about him. She did. She trapped him. His voice rose to a screen, and he made a move forward towards the desk. Both fists clenched till the knuckles showed white. Tarling sprung up, for he recognized the signs. Before another word could be spoken, the man collapsed in a heap on the floor and lay like one dead. Tarling was round the table in an instant, turned the unconscious man on his back, and lifting one eyelid examined the pupil. Epilepsy or something worse, he said, this thing has been preying on the poor devil's mind. Phone and ambulance, white side, will you? Shall I give him some water? Tarling shook his head. He won't recover for hours. If he recovers at all, he said, if Sam's day knows anything to the detriment of a dead rider, he's likely to carry his knowledge to the grave. And in his heart of hearts, J.O. Tarling felt a little sense of satisfaction that the mouth of this man was closed. End of chapter 8 Chapter 9 of the Daffodil Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Daffodil Mystery by Edgar Wallace Chapter 9 Where the Flowers Came From Where was Odette, Rider? That was a problem which had to be solved. She had disappeared as though the earth had opened and swallowed her up. Every police station in the country had been warned, all outgoing ships were being watched. Tactful inquiries had been made in every direction where it was likely she might be found, and the house at Hurtford was under observation day and night. Tarling had procured an adjournment of the inquest for whatever might be his sentiments towards Odette, Rider. He was, it seemed, more anxious to perform his duty to the state, and it was very necessary that no prurient-minded coroner should investigate too deeply into the cause, and the circumstances leading up to Thornton Lyne's death, lest the suspected criminal be warned. Accompanied by Inspector Whiteside, he reexamined the flat to which the blood-stained carpet pointed unmistakably as being the scene of the murder. The red thumb-prints on the bureau had been photographed and were awaiting comparison with the girls at the moment she was apprehended. Carrie Moore mansions where Odette, Rider, lived were, as has been described, a block of good-class flats, the ground floor being given over to shops. The entrance to the flats was between two of these, and a flight of stairs led down to the basement. Here were six sets of apartments, with windows giving out to the narrow areas which ran parallel to the side streets on either side of the block. The centre of the basement consisted of a large, concrete storeroom, about which were set little cubicles or cellars in which the tenants stored such of their baggage, furniture, etc., as they did not need. It was possible, it is covered, to pass from the corridor of the basement flat into the storeroom and out through a door at the back of the building into a small courtyard. Access to the street was secured through a fairly large door, placed there for the convenience of tenants who wished to get their coal and heavy stores delivered. In the street behind the block of flats was a muse consisting of about a dozen shut-up stables, all of which were rented by a taxi cab company and now used as a garage. If the murder was committed in the flat, it was by this way. The body would have been carried to the muse, and here, too, a car would attract little attention. Inquiries made amongst employees of the cab company, some of whom occupied little rooms above their garages, elicited the important information that the car had been seen in the muse on the night of the murder, a fact, it seemed, which had been overlooked in the preliminary police investigations. The car was a two-seater dame-ler with a yellow body and a hood. This was an exact description of Thornton Lyne's machine, which had been found near the place where his body was discovered. The hood of the car was up when it was seen in the muse, and the time apparently was between ten and eleven on the night of the murder. But though he pursued the most diligent inquiries, Tarling failed to discover a new human being who had either recognized Lyne or observed the car, arrive or depart. The whole port of the flats on being interviewed was very emphatic that nobody had come into the building by the main entrance between the hours of ten and half-past. It was possible, he admitted, that they could have come between half-past ten and a quarter to eleven because he had gone to his office, which proved to be a stuffy little place under the stairs to change from his uniform into his private clothes before going home. He wasn't the habit of locking the front door at eleven o'clock. Tenants of the mansions had passed keys to the main door, and of all that happened after eleven he would be ignorant. He admitted that he may have gone little before eleven that night, but even as to this he was not prepared to swear. In fact, said White said afterwards, his evidence would lead nowhere. At the very hour when somebody might have come into the flat, that is to say, between half-past ten and a quarter to eleven, he admits he was not on duty. Tarling nodded. He had made a diligent search of the floor of the basement corridor through the storeroom into the courtyard, but had found no trace of blood, nor did he expect to find any such trace, since it was clear that, if the murder had been committed in the flat and the night-dress, which was wound about the dead man's body was Odette Ryder's, there would be no bleeding. Of one thing I am satisfied, he said, if Odette Ryder committed this murder she had an accomplice. It was impossible that she could have carried or dragged this man into the open and put him into the car, carried him again from the car and laid him on the grass. The daffodils puzzled me, said White's side. Why should he be found with the daffodils on his chest, and why, if he was murdered here, should she trouble to pay that tribute of her respect? Tarling shook his head. He was nearer a solution to the latter mystery than either of them knew. His search of the flat completed. He drove to Hyde Park, and, guided by White's side, made his way to the spot where the body was found. It was on a graveled sidewalk, nearer to the grass than to the road, and White's side described the position of the body. Tarling looked around, and suddenly uttered an exclamation. I wonder, he said, pointing to a flower bed. White's side stared, then laughed. That curious, he said, we seem to see nothing but daffodils in this murder. The big bed to which Tarling walked was smothered with great feathery bells that danced and swayed in the light-spring breezes. Hmm, said Tarling, do you know anything about daffodils White's side? Tarling shook his head with a laugh. Ha! All daffodils are daffodils to me. Is there any difference in them? I suppose there must be. Tarling nodded. These are known as golden spurs, he said, a kind which is very common in England. The daffodils in Miss Ryder's flat are the variety known as the emperor. Well, said White's side. Well, said the other slowly, the daffodils I saw this morning, which were found on Lin's chest, were golden spurs. He knelt down by the side of the bed and began pushing aside the stems, examining the ground carefully. Here you are, he said. You pointed to a dozen jagged stems. That is where the daffodils were plucked, I'd like to swear to that. Look, they were all pulled together by one hand. Someone leaned over and pulled a handful. White's side looked dubious. Must chivious boys sometimes do these things. Only in single stalks, said Tarling, and the regular flower thieves are careful to steal from various parts of the bed, so that the loss should not be reported by the park gardeners. Then you suggest. I suggest that whoever killed Thornton line found it convenient for some reason best known to himself or herself to ornament the bodies it was found, and the flowers were got from here. Not from the girl's flat at all. I'm sure of that, replied Tarling emphatically. In fact, I knew that this morning when I'd seen the daffodils which you had taken to Scotland Yard. White's side scratched his nose in perplexity. The further this case goes, the more puzzled I am, he said. Here is a man, a wealthy man, who has apparently no bitter enemies, discovered dead in Hyde Park with a woman's silk nitrous wound round his chest, with list-slippers on his feet, and a Chinese inscription in his pocket, and further, to puzzle the police, a bunch of daffodils on the chest. That was a woman's act, Mr. Tarling, he said suddenly. Tarling started. How do you mean? he asked. It was a woman's act to put flowers on the man, said White side quietly. Those daffodils tell me of pity, and compassion, and perhaps repentance. A slow smile dawned on Tarling's face. My dear White side, he said, you are getting sentimental, and here, he added, looking up, attracted to the spot is a gentleman I seem to be always meeting, Mr. Milbur, I think. Milbur had stopped at the side of the detective, and looked as if he would have been glad to have faded away unobserved. But Tarling had seen him, and Milbur came forward with his curious little shuffling walk, a sad smile on his face, the same worried look in his eyes, which Tarling had seen once before. Good morning, gentlemen, he said, with a flourish of his top hat. As opposed, Mr. Tarling, nothing has been discovered. At any rate, I didn't expect to discover you here this morning, smiled Tarling. I thought you were busy at the stores. Milbur shifted uneasily. The place has a fascination for me, he said askly. I. I can't keep away from it. He dropped his eyes before Tarling's keen gaze and repeated the question, is there any fresh news? I ought to ask you that, said Tarling quietly. The other looked up. You mean Miss Ryder, he asked. No, sir, nothing has been found to her detriment, and I cannot trace her present address, although I have pursued the most diligent inquiries. It is very upsetting. There was a new emphasis in his voice. Tarling remembered that when Lin had spoken to Milbur before and had suggested that the girl had been guilty of some act of predation. Milbur had been quick to deny the possibility. Now his manner was hostile to the girl, indefinitely so, but sufficiently marked for Tarling to notice it. Do you think that Miss Ryder had any reason for running away? asked the detective. Milbur shrugged his shoulders. In this world, he said anxiously, one is constantly being deceived by people in whom one has put one's trust. In other words, you suspect Miss Ryder of robbing the firm. Up went Mr. Milbur's plump hands. I would not say that, he said. I would not accuse a young woman of such an act of treachery to her employers, and I distinctly refused to make any charges until the auditors have completed their work. There is no doubt, he added carefully, that Miss Ryder had the handling of large sums of money, and she of all people in the business, and particularly in the cashier's department, would have been able to rob the firm without the knowledge of either myself or poor Mr. Lin. This, of course, is confidential. He laid one hand appealingly on Tarling's arm, and that worthy knotted. Have you any idea where she would be? Again Milbur shook his head. The only thing, he hesitated, and looked into Tarling's eyes. Well, asked the detective impatiently, there is a suggestion, of course, that she may have gone abroad. I do not offer that suggestion, only I know that she spoke French very well, and that she had been to the continent before. Tarling stroked his chin thoughtfully. To the continent, eh? He said softly. Well, in that case I shall search the continent, for on one thing I am determined, and that is to find O dead writer. Ended beckoning to his companion, he turned on his heel, and left the obsequious Mr. Milbur, staring after him. End of Chapter 9 Where the Flowers Came From Chapter 10 of the Daffodil Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Daffodil Mystery By Edgar Wallace Chapter 10 The Woman at Ashford Tarling went back to his lodgings that afternoon, a puzzled and baffled man. Bing Chu, his passive Chinese servant, had observed those symptoms of perplexity before. But now there was something new in his master's demeanor, a kind of curt irritation, an anxiety which in the hunt of men had not been observed before. The Chinaman went silently about the business of preparing his chief's tea, and made no reference to the tragedy or to any of its details. He had set the table by the side of the bed, and was gliding from the room in that cat-like way of his, when Tarling stopped him. "'Ling Chu,' he said, speaking in the vernacular, you remember in Shanghai when the cheerful hearts committed a crime, how they used to live behind their home. "'Yes, Master, I remembered it very well,' said Ling Chu calmly. "'There were certain words in red paper, and afterwards you could buy them from the shops, because people desired to have these signs to show to their friends.' "'Many people carried these things,' said Tarling slowly, and the sign of the cheerful hearts was found in the pocket of the murdered man. "'Ling Chu' met the other's eyes with imperturbable calmness. "'Master,' he said, "'may not the white-faced man who is now dead have brought such a thing from Shanghai. He was a tourist and tourist by these foolish souvenirs.' Tarling nodded again. "'That is possible,' he said, "'I have already thought that such might have been the case. Yet why should he have this sign of the cheerful hearts in his pocket? On the night he was murdered.' "'Master,' said the Chinaman, "'why should he have been murdered?' Tarling's lips curled in a half-smile. "'By which I suppose you mean that one question is as difficult to answer as the other,' he said, "'all right, Ling Chu, that will do.' His principal anxiety for the moment was not this or any other clue which had been offered, but the discovery of Odette Ryder's present hiding place. Again and again he turned the problem over in his mind. At every point he was baffled by the wild improbability of the facts that he had discovered. Why should Odette Ryder be content to accept a servile position in Lin's stores when her mother was living in luxury at Hurtford? Who was her father, that mysterious father who appeared and disappeared at Hurtford, and what part did he play in the crime? And if she was innocent, why had she disappeared so completely and in circumstances so suspicious? And what did Sam's day know? The man's hatred of the girl was uncanny. At the mention of her name a veritable fountain of venom had bubbled up and tarling had sensed the abysmal depths of this man's hate and something of his boundless love for the dead man. He turned impatiently on the couch and reached out his hand for his tea when there came a soft tap at the door and Ling Chu slipped into the room. "'The bright man is here,' he said, and in this words announced Whiteside, who brought into this room something of his alert fresh personality which had earned him the pseudonym which Ling Chu had affixed. "'Well, Mr. Tarling,' said the inspector, taking out a little notebook, "'I'm afraid I haven't done very much in the way of discovering the movements of Miss Ryder, but so far as I can find out by inquiries made at Charing Cross Booking Office, several young ladies unattended have left for the Continent in the past few days.' "'You cannot identify any one of these with Miss Ryder,' asked Tarling in a tone of disappointment. The detective shook his head. Despite his apparent unsuccess, he had evidently made some discovery which pleased him, for there was nothing gloomy in his admission of failure. "'You have found out something, though,' suggested Tarling quickly, and Whiteside nodded. "'Yes,' he said, "'by the greatest of luck I've got whole of a very curious story. I was chatting with some of the ticket collectors and trying to discover a man who might have seen the girl. I have a photograph of her taken in a group of stores, employees, and this I have had enlarged, as it may be very useful.' Tarling nodded. "'Whilst I was talking with a man on the gate,' Whiteside proceeded, a traveling ticket inspector came up and he brought rather an extraordinary story from Ashford. On the night of the murder there was an accident to the Continental Express. "'I remember seeing something about it,' said Tarling, "'but my mind has been occupied by this other matter. What happened?' A luggage truck, which was standing on the platform, fell between two of the carriages and derailed one of them,' explained Whiteside. "'The only passenger who was hurt was a Miss Stevens. Apparently it was a case of simple concussion, and when the train was brought to a standstill she was removed to the cottage hospital, where she is today.' "'Apparently the daughter of the traveling ticket inspector is a nurse at the hospital, and she told her father that this Miss Stevens, before she recovered consciousness, made several references to a Mr. Lin and a Mr. Milbur.' Tarling was sitting erect now, watching the other through narrowed lids. "'Go on,' he said quietly. "'I could get very little from the traveling inspector, except that his daughter was under the impression that the lady had a grudge against Mr. Lin, and that she spoke even more disparagingly of Mr. Milbur.' Tarling had risen and slipped off his silk-dressing gown before the other could put away his notebook. He struck a gong with his knuckles, and when Ling too appeared, gave him an order in Chinese which Whiteside could not follow. "'You're going to Ashford? I thought you would,' said Whiteside. "'Would you like me to come along?' "'No, thank you,' said the other, "'I'll go myself. I have an idea that Miss Stevens may be the missing witness in the case, and may throw greater light upon the happenings of the night before, last than any other witness we have yet interviewed.' He found he had to wait an hour before he could get a train for Ashford, and he passed that hour impatiently, walking up and down the broad platform. Here was a new complication in the case. Who was Miss Stevens, and why should she be journeying to Dover on the night of the murder? He reached Ashford, and with difficulty found a cab, for it was raining heavily, and he had come provided with neither Macintosh nor Umbrella. The maitren of the cottage hospital reassured him on one point. "'Oh, yes, Miss Stevens is still in the hospital,' she said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. There was just a chance that she might have been discharged, and again the possibility that she would be difficult to trace. The maitren showed him the way through a long corridor, terminating in a big ward. Before reaching the door of the ward, there was a smaller door on the right. We put her in this private ward, because we thought it might be necessary to operate, said the maitren, and opened the door. Tarling walked in. Facing him was the foot of the bed, and in that bed lay a girl whose eyes met his. He stopped dead, as though he were shot. For Miss Stevens was, oh, dead rider.'