MR. FORTUNE EXPLAINS

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FIRST EXPLANATION. THE PICNIC

THE Cleeve case came to Mr. Fortune in his Kentish garden: which was the one piece of luck. So after the local doctor rang up from the cottage hospital to ask if Mr. Fortune was at home, only ten minutes passed before Mr. Fortune was looking at the Hon. Julian Wray. There might have been hours.

Julian Wray was not a pleasant sight. He lay unconscious. His face was livid and bruised and a swollen lip oozed blood. He breathed noisily.

The doctor expounded. Mr. Wray had been found by a farmer lying in the Abbey meadow. There was no one else in sight. But the injuries seemed to be fresh. The doctor was afraid the skull was fractured: a very grave lesion: he was anxious to have Mr. Fortune's opinion about an operation...

“No. I don't think so.” Reggie turned away from the bed. “No. He has a chance. Quite a good chance.” But he looked at the doctor with plaintive, inquiring eyes.

“I am so glad to have your opinion,” said the doctor nervously. “Would you say it was an accident—a fall?”

“He fell all right. On his face. But not accidental. Blow from left rear by a heavy blunt instrument.”

“An assault, then?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Did you notice anything else?”

“I couldn't say—I don't know that I did.” “Why did they try to chloroform him?” said Reggie.

He gazed pathetically at the doctor. “Well, well. We want a little local colour. I'll have to visit the scene of the crime.”

As he reached the hall of the hospital a car drew up and the Inspector of police from Wembury came out of it. “Hallo, Mr. Fortune! Are you on this job, sir?”

“I fear so.” Reggie sighed.

“That's good. How did you find Mr. Wray?”

Reggie told him. “Oh lord,” the Inspector groaned, “I was hoping he'd be able to tell us something.”

“I wonder.” Reggie climbed into his car. “Let's go and see what he was doing in the Abbey meadow.”

“He was on a picnic, sir.”

“Very sociable of him,” Reggie murmured. “I seldom get sandbagged on a picnic myself. Why did the company lay him out? Had he left the lunch behind?”

The Inspector snorted at this babble. “There wasn't any company. It's like this, sir—I suppose you know who Mr. Wray is? He's the brother of the Earl of Cleeve up at Stourham House.”

“Oh yes. Yes. And do Earls' brothers go on picnics without company? I didn't know that. How haughty.”

“Mr. Wray wasn't alone, sir. He was taking his nephew, Viscount Stourham, for a day on the river. They were going to picnic in the Abbey meadow and—”

“Viscount Stourham?” Reggie cried. “That's the little boy. Oh! There was a child in it.”

“Yes, sir. Viscount Stourham is only seven. He was with Mr. Wray. That was the first thing the Earl of Cleeve said to me over the telephone when I told him about Mr. Wray. 'But Peter was with him,' he said; 'where is Peter?' Of course I didn't know, sir. There wasn't anybody to be seen in the meadow when Mr. Wray was found.”

“No. There wouldn't be,” Reggie muttered. His face was set.

“This young Viscount he's the heir and the only child, too. The Earl not having any yet by his second wife. Next to him would come Mr. Wray, if he lives.”

The Abbey meadow is a broad strip of pasture by the river. Grey ruins in which wallflowers grow and toadflax and stonecrop rise from the turf and a scattered company of ancient, gnarled hawthorn trees.

The river lies under a high bank from which clumps of iris stretch out into the stream. Among the lances of golden bloom a sculling boat lay with her bows aground. There was nothing in her but sculls and boat —hook and a bundle of bathing things. Reggie turned away and, staring at the ground, moved slowly across the rough grass.

“Both of 'em landed here, sir ”—the Inspector came after him.

“Thank you. I did notice it,” Reggie murmured. “They also came along here together. Desirin' to have lunch in the shade.” He stopped. Under one of the thorn trees stood a luncheon—basket. The grass was much beaten down. He opened the basket. “Yes: lunch consumed. And then?” He moved to and fro, he picked up two pieces of a briar pipe. “Wray lit his pipe. He'd just begun to, smoke when it got smashed. Yes. That would be the attempt to chloroform him.”

“Chloroform!” the Inspector cried. “The doctor didn't say anything about that.”

“No. No. Only a slight indication. They didn't bring it off with him. Probably worked all right with the child.” Reggie moved about. “Lot of trampling. Looks like a struggle—breakin' away—yes”—he stopped by a long patch of bent grass” that's where they finished with Wray. He lay there—and bled. Not very far from the lane.” And into the lane Reggie went. “Not many cars come along here?”

“I'd say not one in a twelvemonth, sir.”

“There's been one just lately. Came from the other end. That's from the Dover road, what? Turned by the gate there. Stood under the hedge. Some time. Went back the same way.” He frowned at the wheel—marks. “What do you make of it?”

“Lord, sir, what can you make of it? There was a car here, that's all.”

“No. No. The top broke that elder bough. It was a closed car, big car. But it would be. There isn't much.”

“I should say not. And they've got clean off with the boy.”

Reggie gazed at him with sad, wondering eyes.

“We shan't do any good here, sir.”—the Inspector followed him. “It's wasting time, to my mind.”

“Yes. Yes. Time's everything,” Reggie muttered, but he wandered on. “Several fellows came out of the car. And then?”

To and fro in the meadow he moved, working it like a dog after game, and the Inspector fumed at his heels.

He came to a hollow along the hawthorns, where the grass was flattened and crumbs lay about.

“They had lunch here, eh?” the Inspector said. “Pretty well hidden they'd be.”

Reggie did not answer. He was on his hands and knees picking up crumbs. He rose with a small collection on a sheet of paper and rather diffidently offered it to the Inspector. “Thanks. I saw it was bread and cheese,” the Inspector snorted. “What about it?”

Reggie put the crumbs in an envelope and the envelope in his pocket —book and wandered to and fro, gazing at the ground with dreamy, wistful eyes. “Look here, sir, I must get on. We're doing nothing here.”

Reggie stooped and picked up something else, looked at it carefully and went on, paused by a patch of nettles and raked out of that with his foot a wine bottle. It had no label, he held it up to the light and saw it was empty. He smelt it. And then he called out to the Inspector, “Come on,” and ran back to the car.

“What have you got, sir?” The Inspector jumped in after him.

'“Has the village policeman a telephone?” asked Reggie, and the car shot into reckless speed down a lane it filled.

“Yes, sir—good lord, sir, be careful.”

“I always am,” Reggie protested, and the car came out of the lane into the village like a skidding comet. “Now then”—they were shut in the policeman's stuffy sitting—room. “Ring up the police at Dover and ask 'em if there is—a Greek ship in harbour.”

The Inspector stared and began to stammer questions.

“Oh, don't bother. Get on. Time's everything.”

The Inspector talked to the telephone and turned again to Reggie with a new respect. “That's right, sir. Greek ship come in three days ago, a tramp, Apate, still there doing repairs to engines.”

“Tell 'em they must get aboard quick and search her for Viscount Stourham.”

“Search her, sir?” the Inspector gasped.

“Damn it, man, they'll be off with him while you chatter. They've had too much time already. Give the orders.”

“It's all very well, sir. But searching a ship—and a foreigner —that's a big responsibility.”

“Give me the 'phone”—Reggie snatched it. “Dover police? Right. Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department speaking. Search that Greek ship for Viscount Stourham. Small boy. Go right through her. Inspector Grampound will give you his description. Go on, Inspector.” And the scared Inspector, taking the receiver again, said Viscount Stourham had been kidnapped: boy of seven years old, fair hair, blue eyes, fresh complexion, small for his age, dressed in grey flannel. “Tell 'em to get on it quick,” Reggie prompted. “If the boy's not on board yet, the ship must be watched. They should look out in Dover for a big closed car, possibly several men, some Greek sailors. That'll do.”

The Inspector hung up the receiver and wiped his face. “That'll do!” he repeated. “I hope to God I've done right backing you, Mr. Fortune. You do take a bit on yourself. What if these chaps at Dover ring up Scotland Yard?”

But Reggie was already asking for that number. “Mr. Lomas, please. Fortune speaking. Oh, Superintendent Bell then. Hello, Bell, Mr. Lomas gone into the country? Oh, about the Earl of Cleeve's son? Splendid. I'm on that myself. Well, Mr. Lomas has instructed the Dover police to search a Greek tramp in Dover Harbour. Thought you'd better know. What? No, I haven't seen him. But these are his orders. I'm telling him so, when we meet. If the Dover people ring you up, say they're to get on with it instead of askin' silly questions. Good—bye.” He turned to the Inspector. “Had you told Scotland Yard you wanted help?”

“No, sir, not yet we shouldn't. None of our people but me knows what's happened.”

“It was Lord Cleeve, then. Callin' on the higher powers very quick.” Reggie contemplated the Inspector dreamily: “That's not without interest.”

“Well, sir, I don't know. His lordship would be doing everything to find the boy.”

“Yes. That is indicated,” Reggie murmured. “Well, well. I wish you'd look about among the people down here and find out if anybody saw that car, or came across any foreigners in these parts lately.”

“Very good, sir.” The Inspector was revived at the thought of action. “I'll see about it. But it's like magic to me. I don't know how you got on to that Greek ship.”

“Not magic. No.” Reggie smiled. “Only the sense of smell. And takin' one thing with another. I showed you the bread and cheese.”

“It beats me ”—the Inspector breathed hard. “What is there Greek about bread and cheese?”

“Nothing distinctive. No. But it was goats'—milk cheese. That didn't say Greek, but it made a foreign atmosphere. Then there was this.” He took out of his pocket—book a small fruit stone. “Suggestive, isn't it?”

“Looks like a little plum stone to me.” The Inspector stared at him.

“Oh, not plum. No. An olive stone. There were others. Strong flavour of the Mediterranean in the atmosphere. Finally we have their wine bottle. Smell it.”

The Inspector sniffed and did not like it. “Did you say wine, sir? More like turpentine, to my mind.”

“Others have said so,” Reggie smiled. “But it's wine all right. Greek wine. They put resin in it, you know. They say they like it.”

“Good lord, sir,” said the Inspector with disgust.

“Yes. A sad world. Well, we thus had a wholly Greek meal and a car that went off to Dover. The natural inference was a Greek ship in Dover Harbour. There is one. Which verifies our theory.”

“It's very clever, sir”—the Inspector hesitated. “But why would Greeks want to kidnap the Earl of Cleeve's son?”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “The facts are not yet adequate. You go and look for some Greeks.”

“Yes, sir, where will you be?”

“I'm going home to tea.”

But neither the anchovy sandwiches nor the cream horns of Elise interested him and he turned away from the strawberries. The door opened and let in Lomas.

“My dear fellow!” Lomas laughed and came to shake hands with Mrs. Fortune.

“How do you do? Good—bye,” she said and departed. She has never yet allowed herself to be in the way.

“Have you heard from Dover?” Reggie cried.

“Yes. I've just seen the Inspector here. Dover has telephoned him. They took Customs officers on board and rummaged this Greek ship. There was no child, there was nothing suspicious.”

Reggie's round face was drawn with anxiety and fear. “I say, they must watch her still, Lomas. You didn't stop that?”

“That's all right. I confirmed your instructions. They'll watch any communication with the shore. But I wish you'd confined yourself to that. I don't like these dashing irregularities.”

“I had to be quick,” Reggie said. “Don't you see? Time's everything. They might have got away with the child.”

“Well, they haven't. And they won't—not in the Apate. If they try to put the child aboard her, we shall get him.”

“Yes. I hope so,” said Reggie drearily. He dropped into a chair and fumbled in his pockets. A cigar—case was at last found, a cigar was clumsily lit: in hours of anxious inaction his adroit hands are apt to make queer blunders. “I don't know if they will try now,” he mumbled, and looked at Lomas with the plaintive appeal of a puzzled child.

“Losing confidence, eh?” Lomas smiled. “Not so sure about this Greek ship theory?”

“Oh, my hat!” Reggie groaned. “It wasn't a guess. Some fellows were hiding in that meadow this morning. They ate goats'—milk cheese and olives and drank that awful Greek wine with resin in it. They must have been Greeks and in the way of getting Greek rations. They came in a car from Dover way and went back towards Dover. The only possible inference is, they belong to a Greek ship in Dover Harbour. And there is a Greek ship there and it came in with no business but to mend engines just a day or two ago. You have to believe it sent men to kidnap this child —or you've lost faith in the human reason.” Reggie puffed at his badly burning cigar. “Perhaps you have.”

“Not quite. Not yet,” Lomas consoled him. “My dear fellow, this is brilliantly clever. But you push it rather far. You're so absolute. When you have hit on a theory, it has to be the whole truth. What is the evidence after all? There were some people in that meadow some time lately making a foreign sort of meal. That doesn't prove they stole the child. And when we begin to act on your theory we get nothing. There is this Greek ship at Dover, but the child is not on board. The ship is well known in English harbours, a tramp in the regular trade, with respectable owners, a big firm, Castro &Castro. How can we go on believing that her crew were concerned in kidnapping the child? It is a widely improbable idea in itself—a Greek ship coming round Dover and landing her crew to kidnap the son of an English peer! What should Greeks want with him? What would they do with him? Lord Cleeve is as English as I am.”

“Oh, my aunt!” Reggie moaned. “What are we talking about? We've got to find the boy, Lomas. Don't you see time's everything?”

“Quite. Quite. But I'm afraid we'll have to begin at the other end.”

“The other end?” Reggie's voice rose and he shuddered and started up. “What do you mean? Waiting till you've found him and workin' back? Waiting! You'll find nothing or find a corpse.”

“Oh, my dear Reginald. Of course it's a cruel case, but you needn't be so emotional. These affairs of wealthy children being stolen are always a matter of money. The rascals want a price for the child of course. We shall have an offer presently.”

“I wonder.” Reggie looked at him with distrust. “You want to wait for that? It's a chance.”

“Well, everything is chance in our trade,” said Lomas. “But the child must have been stolen to hold for ransom. There's no sense in the case else. Just a quiet commercial crime.”

“Yes. It could be,” Reggie murmured.

“What have you got in your head, Reginald? There is no rational purpose in carrying off the child to kill him. And who should want him killed? The only person to benefit by his death is Wray, who would become the heir to the title and estate. But Cleeve is young still and has a young wife. They might have half a dozen other children yet.”

“Yes, I had thought of that,” Reggie said. “Yes. Very obscure case. Many nasty motives possible. We can't stop to look for explanations. We have to get the child back from these fellows quick.”

“You're rather rattled, you know, Reginald.”

Reggie shivered again. “I'm frightened. Yes,” he said. “I don't like it. I don't like any of it.”

“My dear fellow! But what do you want to do? We've searched this ship, we're watching the ship. They won't get off with him that way.”

“No. That don't comfort me. That may make 'em desperate.”

“Well, you would have it,” Lomas shrugged.

“What else could I do?” Reggie muttered. “Once aboard and away, they'd have the child at their will. We've got to turn 'em and hunt 'em. But it's rather ghastly, Lomas.”

“Oh, I shouldn't worry, you know,” said Lomas. “They'll want to return him in good condition. There's no money in cruelty to him.”

Reggie looked at him with wondering eyes in which there was no admiration. “You talked about workin' from the other end. Did you happen to mean to do anything?”

“Oh yes. I'm going up to Stourham Castle now. I like to begin at the beginning myself. There are several things I want to know. It's curious the kidnappers should have been able to pick out the time when Wray had the boy alone on a picnic in this remote meadow.”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “Lots of other ends. All right, I'll come.”

Lord and Lady Cleeve were in the library together and together they rose and came to shake hands. “Oh, but, Mr. Lomas, it is kind of you to come so quickly,” she cried.

“I'm afraid I have no real news,” Lomas said.

Cleeve looked at her anxiously. “Dora—perhaps Mr. Lomas would rather speak to me alone.”

“Oh, is there anything more—anything dreadful?” She put her hand to her throat.

“I've nothing worse to tell you than you know,” Lomas said.

“Ah, let me stay, Bertie.” She put both hands round her husband's arm. “I must hear what they think. My poor Peter!”

Cleeve looked down at her. He was head and shoulders the taller, a lean man of brown lined face and sombre eyes, weary and worldly wise against her simplicity. She had the fresh charm of a girl, though there were dark shadows under her eyes, she was so fair, so slight and dainty. She clung to him.

“Is there anything we can do?” Cleeve said gruffly.

“I can't say that.” Lomas shook his head. “But you might be able to help us. I would rather Lady Cleeve stayed.”

“Oh, won't you sit down?” she cried. She waved them into chairs, she pulled her husband down beside her on a sofa. “Please tell us! If we could only do something.”

“The position is this. The boy has been kidnapped, but we have yet no information about the men concerned. I want you to tell me if anything has ever occurred to make you fear an attempt on the child.”

“But no, no.” Lady Cleeve looked bewildered.

Lomas looked at her sombre, silent husband. “No suspicions of any of the servants? No strangers been seen about the place?”

“I've not heard of any strangers,” Cleeve said. “The servants are all right. I should have said everybody liked the boy.” He gave Lomas a queer look of defiance or mistrust.

“This is the point. I don't understand how the kidnappers knew they would find the boy alone in that remote place unless his movements were continually watched or someone in the household gave them information.”

“Oh, that's clever,” Lady Cleeve cried. “But how horrible! Why should anyone want to hurt Peter?”

“If we've been watched, I didn't know it,” Cleeve said.

“About this picnic, then,” Lomas went on placidly. “Does Mr. Wray often take the boy out for the day?”

Cleeve left his wife to answer. “Oh ^no, indeed he doesn't. Mr. Wray is not here very much, is he, Bertie? He only came last week. But he is rather fond of having Peter to himself. He made quite a fuss of this river picnic. They've been talking about it for days. Oh, I wish, I wish-” She struggled not to cry.

“Yes. I see,” Lomas said. “Almost everybody in the house would know of it.”

“I dare say,” Cleeve scowled.

“But—but can't you do something, Mr. Lomas?” his wife cried. “All this while they have Peter, they're taking him away from me and we're just talking. Oh, there must be a way to find where they've gone with him?”

Cleeve stared at Lomas. “No clue at all, eh?” he growled.

“Well, Mr. Fortune has a theory,” said Lomas. “Some indications have suggested to him that the boy was kidnapped by a party of Greek sailors.”

“Greeks!” Lady Cleeve cried. Her blue eyes grew big and she looked at her husband. “Oh, my dear,” she gasped. She was afraid.

For the first time Reggie spoke. “Yes. What exactly does that mean?” he said.

Lady Cleeve did not answer. She was fighting emotions as she watched her husband, and he too suffered. “It means my brother Julian has lived a good deal in Greece. I suppose you knew that?” He scowled at Reggie. “That's where you got your theory from.”

“Oh no. No. There were other facts,” said Reggie blandly. “But, of course, he's the Wray who was excavatin' in Sparta. I didn't connect that. My error.”

“Well, we spent a spring with him in Greece. You can connect that, too,” Cleeve growled.

“But Julian was frightfully hurt himself,” Lady Cleeve said unsteadily. “I don't understand. What do you mean, Mr. Fortune?”

“I don't know. I don't understand either, Lady Cleeve.”

“You're throwing suspicion on my brother,” Cleeve said heavily. “Because he's the next heir he's made away with Peter. That's it, isn't it?”

“The next heir!” Lady Cleeve moaned. “Oh, Bertie, don't talk so. My poor Peter!”

“No, I'm not throwin' suspicion,” Reggie said quietly. “I say the boy was kidnapped by Greeks; and Mr. Wray was nearly killed in the struggle. It don't occur to you some Greeks might have a grudge against Mr. Wray?”

“Oh, there!” Lady Cleeve cried faintly. “Bertie! That would be right, wouldn't it? That might be.”

“It's only a theory, I'm afraid.” Lomas spoke to soothe him. “Mr. Fortune found the remnants of a Greek meal on the ground and there's a Greek ship in Dover today. But the boy is not aboard her and she's being watched. He won't be removed that way.”

“But then—but then—you don't really know anything!” Lady Cleeve cried. “The Greek ship hasn't got him. You haven't found any Greeks. The ship is nothing to do with it. And all the while some awful people are taking my Peter away. And you talk about ships! Oh!” She flung herself on her husband's shoulder. He was much embarrassed, muttered something to her, caressed her awkwardly and got free of her. Flushed and ashamed of himself, he turned on Lomas. “It comes to this, you haven't traced him and you've found nothing that's any use to work on.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Reggie murmured. “There's the ship, you know.”

Lomas frowned. Cleeve exclaimed angrily, “The ship! You say yourselves the boy isn't there and they won't be able to get him there.”

“They may try, though,” Reggie murmured.

“I don't believe in it,” Cleeve announced. “I can't believe any of this about Greeks and a Greek ship.”

“No? Why can't you?” Reggie sat up.

“It's fantastic.” Cleeve scowled. “I don't think you really believe it yourselves. Do you?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Absolutely,” said Reggie.

Lomas shrugged. “It's a theory. A possible theory.”

“It's wildly improbable.”

“You don't help us, you know,” said Reggie sharply. “I thought you might help us to a motive.”

“For a pack of Greek sailors making away with my son? Well, I can't, then. It's mad.”

“For anybody making away with your son,” said Reggie.

“I don't know of any motive for anybody,” Cleeve growled.

“Oh, but what could there be?” his wife cried. “Peter—the child —”

“I should take it there's only one possible motive,” said Lomas. “He's been stolen to make you pay for his recovery.”

And after a moment, “I suppose so,” Cleeve muttered.

“You agree?” said Reggie. “Well then, you'd better offer a reward. If you telephone to the Press Association that you'll pay a thousand pounds for the recovery of your son. Viscount Stourham, kidnapped today, all the papers will announce that tomorrow morning.”

“You think that would do good?” Cleeve looked at Lomas.

Lomas spread out his hands. “I'm not to advise it. We don't advise rewards in such cases. As Fortune has suggested it, I don't care to prevent you.”

“The perfect official,” Reggie chuckled. “He washes his hands of it, Lord Cleeve.”

“You don't advise, and you don't prevent!” Cleeve said angrily. “Very well, I'll do it.”

“Oh, do, Bertie, please.” Lady Cleeve started up. “Let's do it at once. It might, you know—oh, it must bring him back.”

“It's the only hope, I suppose.” Cleeve looked at Lomas.

“No. I wouldn't say that,” Reggie murmured. “The next chance. But we're keeping you. Information leadin' to recovery of Viscount Stourham. And give his description. I should say a thousand pounds.”

“Thanks,” said Cleeve angrily. “You're going, are you?”

Lomas said something civil and they went. “Not popular, are we?” Reggie murmured as they settled down in the car. “Takin' one thing with another, you'd better stay with me.”

“As you're so pressing,” Lomas smiled. The car ran on through orchards and hop gardens shimmering in the yellow sunset light. “I'm afraid the Greeks are out of it, Reginald. I abstain from saying I told you so.”

“Yes. I should if I were you,” Reggie murmured.

“My dear fellow! You know you've given them up yourself.”

“Oh no. No. The Greeks were in it all right.”

Lomas looked at him. “This faith is beautiful. But I remark that you suggested a reward for further information.”

“I wanted to see if Cleeve would put it in the papers. If he doesn't, that'll be rather interesting, Lomas.”

“What do you mean? Of course he will. He was at the telephone before we were out of the house.”

“Yes, I noticed that. Oh yes, I think he will. I rather think I frightened him. Well, if he does, that may be interesting, too.”

“We shall get a mass of futile rumours,” Lomas said gloomily. “A reward is always a nuisance. I've heard you say so yourself.”

“Not scientific, no,” Reggie murmured. “But time's everything. We can't wait to be neat. This is a chance to break 'em up.”

“Break them up?” Lomas echoed. “Where are we now, Reginald? Another theory?”

“Oh no. Same theory. Growin' more complex. What did you make of Cleeve and his wife?”

“Quite natural, weren't they? He was rather surly. She's almost hysterical, poor thing.”

“Yes. Marked contrast. Woman full of emotions. Man sullen. Woman talking voluble, all ejaculations. Man almost dumb, even when losing his temper.”

“My dear fellow!” Lomas laughed. “One's a woman and one's a man.”

“That was emphasized. Yes. But great disturbance in both when I mentioned Greeks. Not so much surprise as alarm.”

“Natural enough—it was Wray's connection with Greece horrified them.”

“Yes, comin' back to my Greeks, aren't we? But they'd all been in Greece, you know.”

“Good gad! You don't suspect Cleeve himself?”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “I don't think Cleeve was quite frank, you know. And I think he's afraid.”

“But, great heavens, why should Cleeve have his own son kidnapped?”

“I don't know,” Reggie said slowly. “Quite a lot of things we don't know, Lomas.” And the car turned into the gates of his house.

The Inspector was waiting for them. “Hallo, my friend.” Lomas smiled. “Any news from Dover?”

“I've heard nothing from Dover, sir. But Mr. Fortune told me to look about for foreigners. Well, I think we've got 'em!”

“What?” Reggie was amazed.

“Not arrested 'em, sir. Not laid hands on 'em. I mean to say we've got evidence there were foreigners down there by the meadow today. It's like this, sir. The boy from the shop, he'd been up to Skindle's farm with their fresh yeast and he was coming back through the meadows. He saw some men looking about, little dark men he says, and one of 'em had ear—rings.”

Lomas laughed. “So they must have been foreigners. Good!”

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said the Inspector with dignity. “I hadn't finished. The boy says they were jabbering. He's sure it wasn't proper English. One of 'em kept saying something about 'Cleet hear us,' and another was trying to shut him up. 'Them brass,' he said. Then they saw the boy and had a good look at him and he heard this, 'Them brass' again.”

Reggie smiled. “Yes. That boy's too good to be carrying yeast,” he said.

“Good gad!” said Lomas. “Do you pretend to recognize this language, Reginald?”

“Yes, I think so. One of them was afraid of ' Kleteras'—that's police. And another was telling him 'Them Birassi'—that means ' It don't matter.' In modern Greek, Lomas, old thing.”

“Your game,” said Lomas.

“Oh no. No.” Reggie's smile passed. “We're only toilin' after 'em. And they've got the child. What will they do with him when they're checked?”

“If we keep 'em off the ship, we shall get 'em in the end,” said Lomas.

“In the end!” Reggie said. “Where will the child be by then?”

“Ring up Dover, Inspector, and tell them to watch close who goes aboard that ship. Did your errand—boy see the car these fellows used?”

“He says there was a big closed car in the lane. Dark car. I can't hear any more of it. Something may turn up.”

“Oh yes. Yes. Something will turn up,” Reggie murmured. “But not tonight.” He looked pathetically at Lomas. “Well, well, I suppose I can eat. Can you? We'd better try.”

Lomas had no difficulty, and Reggie in an absent, abnormal manner made something of a dinner. Thus fortified, he began to talk about the case. His wife looked at him with anxiety. It is not his habit to talk shop, and she does not expect to be told anything of his cases till they are over. But his simple purpose was soon revealed. “You know everything, Joan. What do you think of the Cleeves?”

Mrs. Fortune gave him the opinion of the world, revised by her own placid and kind judgment. Cleeve was a lonely fellow. He lived to himself and his own people. He had been much absorbed in his first wife, after her death in the child. There was some surprise when he married again, but the lady was in all things approved—charmingly pretty, rich, of good breeding, plainly devoted to him. They were never apart. People laughed a little. But the child was not put aside. They would not be long away from him. Indeed, it was a common joke that Lady Cleeve believed she was his mother.

“Yes. Yes. You don't like 'em, Joan,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder.”

“Does a nice woman ever like a man who marries again?” Lomas smiled.

“The only rule is there's no rule,” said Mrs. Fortune. She turned to her husband. “I think I might like him, but he stands off.”

In the morning Lomas, who loves his bed, was disturbed by Reggie. “Were you getting up today? I think you'd better. The ship's gone.”

Lomas sat up. “Well, what about it?”

“I don't know. I thought you might. Exert the higher intelligence. But it's true. The Inspector has just rung up. Dover says she went out on the morning tide, heading down Channel. Swears nobody has gone aboard since they searched her, except two of her own men late last night, rather drunk but unaccompanied. And she's off.”

“What do you want to do now?”

“Oh, my aunt! What can we do? Wait. I know what I'd have done in Dover last night: arrest those two for drunk and disorderly and see what I could get out of them. But we're always missing the bus in this case. Nothing to do but wait for the next.” He contemplated Lomas gloomily. “You might as well get up though. Better warn coastguards and ports and people we want to hear of the good ship Apate if she comes in anywhere.”

When Lomas, after a long conference with the telephone, came to breakfast Reggie was behind a paper. “He's been and done it. Here you are. Reward of One Thousand Pounds for information leading to recovery of Viscount Stourham. Send it to the Earl of Cleeve at 999 Grosvenor Gate. Not to our active and intelligent police force. I'm afraid Cleeve didn't take to you, Lomas.”

Lomas made an ugly noise. “Ugh! I wish you'd let it alone. He'll be bothering us with a mass of silly rumours.”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. “His London house, you observe. He abandons the county of Kent. I'm afraid we'd better go to London, too.”

“I wasn't thinking of staying here.”

Reggie sighed. “No. No. London is indicated. But what indicated it to him? He didn't know the ship would sail this morning. Or did he?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know. Very obscure case,” Reggie moaned. “Oh, to be in London now that summer's here.”

And to London they went, and every police force in the kingdom was inspired to watch for the little fair boy who was Viscount Stourham and a big, dark, closed car in which might be foreigners, and the air bore questions to ships in the Channel of the course of the Greek ship Apate.

On the next morning Cleeve himself appeared at Scotland Yard. His temper had not improved, he showed signs of strain. He wished, quite without courtesy, to know if he could expect the police to be of any use. Lomas, civility at a low temperature, was sorry they had not received the help which might have been expected. Cleeve did not know what they had expected. The offer of a reward had brought a pack of nonsense, if they wanted that. He produced many letters. Lomas looked them over and, rather remote and contemptuous, agreed that they were nonsense. Cleeve wanted to know if there was anything in that other nonsense about the Greeks and the ship at Dover. Lomas had found no further evidence. Cleeve supposed he never would. He had done nothing and didn't mean to try. Lomas, still civil but below freezing—point, was employing all the resources of the police to find the child. And Cleeve laughed.

Some time after he was gone, Reggie drifted in, pale and vague of eye and movement and speech, but also demanding news. He was told. His wistful gaze settled upon Lomas. “Yes. You don't seem gettin' to love each other, you an' him. I wonder.”

“The fellow's deuced hostile.” Lomas frowned. “But I could excuse that. I felt he wouldn't open his mind, that's what stiffened me. I believe you're right, Reginald. He knows something.”

“Yes, I think so,” Reggie murmured drearily.

“It begins to look like a put—up job.”

“Yes. Put up against a child. Oh, my hat! And we can't get near.” He drew a long breath and got on his feet. “Well, you'd better have the Cleeves watched, you know. I can't do anything. I'll go down to the Laboratory. A job is sedative.” He wandered out.

He worked in his hospital laboratory till evening. He sought the loneliest of his clubs for dinner; he was loitering, heavily full and forlorn, over the tape machine in the sepulchral hall when he was called to the telephone.

“Lomas speaking. The ship has been sighted coming into Falmouth. Any ideas?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Shake up the Falmouth police. Where are you? Scotland Yard. Good. I'll come along.”

It was a message from a pilot boat sent through the signal station at the Lizard. The Apate was going into Falmouth, reporting engine trouble.

“Yes. Has a lot—of it, hasn't she,” Reggie murmured. “When is the night train? Somewhere about ten, what? We'll catch that nicely. And some of your heftier men wouldn't be amiss.”

“I've warned Falmouth,” Lomas said. “They'll watch the ship and detain her.”

“I want the child,” said Reggie. “The child ought to be somewhere near Falmouth ”—he stopped, he looked at Lomas with fear in his eyes “or the fellows who had the child. Let's get on, let's get on.” Lomas was persuaded, Lomas was collecting his forces and giving his orders, and in the middle of it the telephone rang again.

“What? What? Who are you? Oh, Cator. Good gad! Go on after 'em. All right.” Lomas turned to Reggie. “That's one of the men watching Cleeve's house. Cleeve and his wife have just taken a taxi to Paddington. They won't get away. There's another man following them. Just as well we looked after 'em, though.”

“Yes. We can't afford to make mistakes,” said Reggie. “But that wouldn't have mattered, as it's turnin' out. They wouldn't have got away, anyhow. Oh, come on.”

Lomas bustled after him. “Why do you say it wouldn't matter?”

“Paddington's the station for Falmouth.”

When their car stopped at Paddington, a man like a valet was briskly at the door. “Booked to Falmouth, sir. Got berths in the sleeping —car.”

He was told he must watch it and he faded away. A square fellow closed on them as they walked to the platform. “No room in the sleeper, sir. Two last berths taken early this evening. Got you a compartment. We're just forward.”

They established themselves behind drawn blinds. “Did you notice that?” said Lomas. “They knew they were going to Falmouth early this evening. And the Apate hadn't come in yet when I rang up the Falmouth police.”

Reggie looked at him with dreary wonder. “Does that happen to mean anything to you?”

“It means they know too much about that ship.”

“Oh yes. Yes. I always thought they were interested in my Greeks. But what are they wanted for in Falmouth?”

Lomas frowned. “I'd like to confront Cleeve with that ship's captain.”

“Yes. Yes. That is indicated. Lots of confrontation. Last scene. Everybody gettin' on the stage, livin' and dead. Oh, my lord! Let's try and sleep.”

For Falmouth you change from that train at Truro. Lord and Lady Cleeve were anxious to do so. Reggie watched their scurry down the platform, while Lomas stretched himself awake. Then a little party of solid men made for the other train.

Just as it drew out one man more climbed into their carriage. “I've been on to the Falmouth police, sir. This Greek ship came in just after midnight. Police boat patrolling. No one gone on board yet, no one landed. Some fellows were loitering about the quay in the night, but nothing to call suspicious. An Inspector's coming to meet the train.”

“Seem to be all on our toes, don't we?” Reggie murmured. “Yes. I wonder if we're in time.”

The little train stopped. Cleeve was out on the instant and calling a porter. His wife and he hurried away. But two of the detectives were in front of them. A man of military aspect scanned the train and marched upon it.

“Mr. Lomas, sir? I'm Inspector Hawken. I phoned your man at Truro. Nothing new since.”

“We'll have something now.” Lomas smiled. “I want you to go aboard the Apate and ask for the captain. Tell him you have orders to bring him ashore about the two men of his crew who got drunk at Dover. You can say the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department has come down here to inquire into the affair. You don't know anything else. To inquire into the affair. But you can frighten him like hell. I don't mind.”

Inspector Hawken marched off with an air to frighten armies.

One of the detectives came back. “Gone to the Bristol Hotel, sir. I've got a car for you.”

It was not far, but when they drove up, Cleeve and his wife were already coming out of the hotel. “Good morning!” Lomas called. They started round; the tired faces were distorted with emotion. “You're in rather a hurry.” He came out of the car. “But why are you in a hurry?”

Cleeve scowled. “I suppose he wrote to you, too?”

“You've had a letter? What a pity you didn't tell me! I'm afraid you've not been quite frank with us, Lord Cleeve.”

“Very well, if you like, I didn't trust you.”

“Oh, why should we?” Lady Cleeve cried. “You've done nothing —nothing.”

“The letter, please?” said Lomas.

Cleeve brought out a sheet of cheap paper. The writing was in pencil and laborious.

DR SIR,—

Your advert, ofering reward for Vicount Stourham. I know how you could get him back if you was to come quick to Falmouth. Come to Blacky's in the Ope, which any will tell you of and ask for Pincher. Looking to you as a gentleman for the reward. Come in the daytime. P.S. You best come quick.

“Half educated and English.” Lomas looked at Reggie. “Well, we'll try it.” He turned sharply on Cleeve. “If you'd done your duty we could have taken this fellow and had what he knows last night.”

“No, you couldn't,” Cleeve said sullenly. “He says he's only there in the daytime. My God, do you suppose no one thinks but you?”

“Bah, he wants to see who's coming,” Lomas cried. “Now go on with you. Ask for the fellow. We'll do the rest.”

The Ope is a court which runs down to the sea, a place of lounging and lodging for sailors. Cleeve and his wife hurried into it, asked for Blacky's and were directed to a house something cleaner than the rest. A shaggy, frowsy man answered their knock. Pincher was in, for what he knew. Come yesterday and had his usuals, never went out last night. He looked at Lady Cleeve's wan daintiness with curiosity. Would the gemmun go up? But the lady went, too.

The next minute the Ope was startled by a woman's scream. Cleeve put his head out of a window and shouted, “Lomas! Here for heaven's sake!”

Lomas came into the room to find a dead man. He lay in bed and it was sodden with his blood and a wound gaped in his throat. “What do you know about it?” Lomas turned on the landlord.

“Gawd! I don't know nuffin, sir. He's been lodging here this two —three days. 'E come in yesterday bit later 'n this, 'ad 'is usuals an' I never see 'im since, so 'elp me Gawd. Anybody might 'ave come up to 'im.”

Reggie turned from the body. “Killed by knife—thrust in the throat. Many hours ago. Say last night. He may have been a sailor. But I think he was a chauffeur last.” He looked vaguely about the room, from the puzzled frown of Lomas to Cleeve's scowl, to the wide—eyed horror of Lady Cleeve. “And that's that. I suppose you don't know him, Cleeve?”

“Know him?” Cleeve took a step forward and looked again. “I never saw him before. I could swear that.”

“Come on then. Let's try our captain.”

“The captain?” Cleeve Stared. “What do you mean?”

“The captain of the Greek ship Apate.”

“She's in here?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Didn't you know?” said Reggie.

“Come and meet him, Cleeve,” said Lomas. He spoke to some of his men, he waved the Cleeves to the door.

“I'll do anything you like,” Cleeve muttered.

“You'd better,” said Lomas.

“Oh, but this dreadful thing!” Lady Cleeve cried. “How did it happen?”

“We'll attend to that,” said Lomas. “If you want to know why it happened, this fellow was killed so that he shouldn't be able to say what has become of the child.”

“Oh, then we shall never know! Oh, Bertie.” She clung to her husband. But he was not sympathetic.

They hurried on; much stared at by the loungers in the Ope they came to the main street. Outside the post office Inspector Hawken was waiting. “I've got the captain, sir. He has the wind up. He asked to go into the post office to get his letters.” The Inspector winked. “I was willing. One of my men went, too.”

A man came quickly out of the office, a dark, sleek little man. Another appeared at the door and made signs to Inspector Hawken.

The Inspector strode forward and caught the little man. “If you please, sir. I'm a police officer.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I'll have to ask you a few questions.”

The little man looked quickly all round him. He saw the Cleeves and Lomas and the shepherding detectives; he wrenched himself free and pulled out a pistol. The Inspector closed again as he fired. They wrestled together; the street was a turmoil of scrambling men. There was another shot and another. The detectives had him down. But they fell upon a dead man.

“My oath, he's gone,” the Inspector gasped. Blood began to ooze from the sweating face. He rose and stared at Lomas. “I swear I thought I'd got him.”

“Where's that captain?” Lomas frowned. The captain was brought in the grip of a sturdy Cornishman. “Do you know this man?”

“They spoke in the post office. Spoke foreign,” the Cornishman said.

“I know him, yes,” the captain burst out. “He is my owner, he is Mr. Constantine Castro. Why do you shoot him?”

“Your owner. That won't get you off. You'd better come along and tell the truth.” Lomas turned away. “Every one at the station please. Inspector. I shall want you, Cleeve.”

The detectives made a way for them through the gathering crowd.

In a big bare room at the police station the captain was put into a chair opposite Lomas. “Where's Lord Cleeve? Sit at the end of the table, please. Now, my man, you are Captain Janni, master of the Greek ship Apate?”

“I am the captain, yes. Mr. Castro, he was the owner.”

“You've acted under his orders? You know that's no defence on a criminal charge.”

“But I 'ave done no crime. I 'ave done nothing.”

“You know what you're brought here for. You and your men were concerned in kidnapping a little boy, Viscount Stourham, when your ship was in Dover.”

“It is not true, sir. You search my ship in Dover. I 'ave no little boy.”

“Have you ever seen this man before, Cleeve?” said Lomas sharply. Cleeve was looking at Captain Janni with a queer, uneasy stare. “You don't care to say?”

“I don't know,” Cleeve muttered. He turned to Lomas. “I knew this fellow Castro. Met him in Greece.”

“Friend of yours?”

“No. I met him. I didn't like him.”

“Any particular reason for not liking him?”

Cleeve shifted in his chair. “I—I loathed the fellow.”

The captain swore a spitting Greek oath. “And he is to be shot, my owner, because this my Lord does not like him!”

“Your owner started shooting, Janni. If he shot himself, he had his reasons. What were they?”

“He did not shoot himself.” The captain was gathering truculence. “He was shot down like a dog.”

“That won't do.” Lomas smiled. “What was he up to that he tried to shoot a policeman? What was he doing in Falmouth at all? Where's that boy, Janni? Speak out now or you'll have ten years of an English prison —if it isn't the rope. Don't be trying any more lies. I know too much. Castro had your men ashore at Dover and they stole the boy to put him aboard your ship. We watched you so closely they couldn't do it. So you came in to Falmouth to pick him up here. You haven't got him and you won't get him. But we've got you and we'll hold you till he's found and hang you if he's found dead. Now then—where is he?”

“What do I know?” the captain screamed. “I know nothing, nothing, nothing. You 'ave killed the only man who knew.”

“Think!” Lomas bent forward. “Think! It's the rope for you.”

“But I do not know. I cannot tell.” The captain wept and beat at himself.

Lomas watched his paroxysm moment. “So much the worse for you. Take him away. Take him away.”

The wretched man was dragged out screaming. “Now then, Vardon, go aboard that ship and get the men who were drunk at Dover. Quick. Inspector, you'll have to find out where this fellow Castro has been in Falmouth. Get on to it.”

“Have you finished with me?” said Cleeve.

Lomas flung back in his chair. “Damme, Cleeve, you're very disinterested. What do you want to do?”

Cleeve looked at him under heavy brows. “I want to find my wife,” he said.

“What? I suppose she's here.” But she was not.

When the shots were fired, when the detectives ran in upon the dead man, Reggie stepped aside. His hand drew at the sleeve of one. “Sergeant Cator,” he said softly, and Cator fell back to him. Reggie's eyes were on Lady Cleeve. She, too, was out of the crowd; she was hurrying away. “Don't stop her,” Reggie murmured, “don't lose her.” And Cator followed her and Reggie followed Cator. She went fast through the town, past the Swan Pool, and away by a footpath through wild pasture, and Reggie closed on Cator. The roofs of a tiny hamlet were near. Lady Cleeve stopped there and asked the name of it. She made haste on, climbing over rough ground, and they heard the roar of the sea. The hill—side was broken with heaps of stones, and above stood the ruins of the stone chimney and engine—house of an old mine.

“Run for it,” Reggie muttered, but as round as he is, it was he who came first to Lady Cleeve. She had given one glance behind, she ran on, she was at the low wall which guarded the mine shaft.

“Yes. Thanks very much,” Reggie panted. “We'll do the rest.” He gripped her arm. She was pulling at the knots by which a rope hanging down the shaft was fastened. “Mr. Fortune!” Red and dishevelled, she stared at him with wild eyes. “He's here. My Peter's here. I—I heard that man say so.”

“Yes. When?” said Reggie, and reached for her other hand, “Take her, Cator.”

“If you please, ma'am.” Cator embraced her. Reggie began to haul at the rope.

But she fought madly, she broke a hand free, she had a pistol out. Cator wrenched it from her as she fired. She tore herself away from him and sprang at the rope, flinging herself in front of Reggie as he hauled, tearing it out of his hands. He thrust her aside, Cator gripped at her again, but she clung to the rope and threw her weight upon it, lying on the wall, flung herself over. At the jerk, Reggie slid and staggered, but he held fast. The rope was torn from her fingers and she fell into the dark with a shriek that ended in a thud.

He stood a moment, breathing hard and drew at the rope cautiously. It bore a light weight still. Into the daylight rose a little boy. A bandage was bound across his mouth, his white face was wet, his eyes haunted.

“All over now, Peter,” Reggie said, and gathered the boy in his arms. He pulled the bandage away from the wan mouth.

“Ooh! it hurts,” the boy moaned, and his little hands plucked at the rope round his chest. Then they stopped with a quivering spasm. “Oh, I shall fall,” he screamed, and clutched Reggie.

Cator was cutting at the knots. “All right, old man,” Reggie said gently. “You're safe now.”

The child moaned. “Everyfing goes wound and wound.” His head thrust into Reggie's shoulder.

“Oh no. Not now. Nothing goes wound any more. All fixed and firm.”

“What was it vat did fall, all crying and wump? Ooh!”

“That was just the last of it. All over.”

“Is it really?” The haunted eyes sought Reggie's. “You're not like ve bad men. Who are you?”

“I'm Mr. Fortune. Your Mr. Fortune. Come to make you all right and jolly again.”

“Was vat one of the bad men vat fell?”

“Just a badness trying to hurt you. But it didn't and never will: and all the bad men are caught: and everything's going to be all right for Peter.”

“I did say Our Fawer,” the boy said. “But it all went muzzy in my head.” He began to cry. . . .

Some time after the telephone in the police station rang.

“Hello, Lomas. Fortune speaking. From the hospital. Have you got Cleeve?”

“I'm holding him,” said Lomas grimly.

“Told him anything? No? Good. Bring him along.” Reggie came down to a room in the hospital, where, under the cold and curious eyes of Lomas, Cleeve stood waiting with the face of a man in torment.

“We have your boy,” Reggie said gravely. “He's alive. Lady Cleeve isn't. We couldn't save her.”

Cleeve shook, Cleeve gulped. “Peter is all right?” he cried.

“I wouldn't say that. Peter's going to be all right—if you're wise. You haven't been very wise, have you? The child has been living in hell for days.”

“Oh, my God!” Cleeve shuddered. “What could I do? I didn't know.”

“No, I believe that,” Reggie said gently.

“You didn't know!” Lomas snapped. “You had a good guess. When Fortune told you there was a Greek ship in it, you suspected your wife. I saw that.”

“Well, well!” Reggie murmured and gazed at him with reverence. “You do see things, Lomas.”

“If you'd told us Lady Cleeve was mixed up with that rascal Castro, We should have stopped this damnable business.”

Cleeve had hidden his face in his hands. “Don't you see, I didn't know,” he groaned. He looked up. “Is Dora dead?”

“Lady Cleeve killed herself when we found the boy.”

Cleeve shuddered. “Well, every one will know everything now, I may as well tell you. Don't you see, I believe Dora—Dora did —Oh, well. We were happy. I used to think she loved Peter, too. All the more as she hadn't a child. Then she met this fellow Castro in Athens. I don't believe there was anything—I wouldn't believe it. But after we came back she was different. I noticed it first with Peter. She made a great deal of him still, but—I can't put it in words—she wasn't kind. And then—this. You see, I had nothing I could tell you. I don't know what she wanted.”

“She wanted to hurt the child,” said Reggie gravely, “ because she hadn't one, because she was jealous you loved him, because—it doesn't matter. She arranged with this scoundrel Castro to carry him off to Greece. I'm afraid they meant Peter to have rather a bad time there. We spoilt their chance at Dover. Castro ordered his ship round to Falmouth and brought the child down here. Castro and his chauffeur. They hid the child hanging on a rope down an old mine shaft. Not a nice man, the late Castro. But ingenious. The chauffeur watched at night, Castro by day. Then the chauffeur read of the reward and wrote to you. You should have told us of that. We might have saved the fellow's life. But perhaps it's as well as it is. Lady Cleeve must have telephoned to warn Castro, and Castro made an end of the chauffeur. I rather wonder he didn't let the child drop down the mine and run for it. I suppose he wanted to keep a hold on Lady Cleeve. When she saw him being taken she shot him.”

“It was Dora!”

“Oh yes. Yes. Didn't you know? I thought you might have guessed then. She made off to the mine. But we were a little too quick. She tried to drop the child down. She missed and went down herself.”

“She was lucky,” said Lomas fiercely.

“I don't know.” Reggie looked at him with dreamy eyes. “I wasn't thinking of her myself. We can manage the thing now.”

“Peter saw her?” Cleeve groaned. “Peter knows?”

“Oh no. No. Peter didn't see. Peter doesn't know anything. Peter isn't going to know. That's your part. You have something to make up to the child, Cleeve.”

Cleeve drew deep breath. “Ah, if I can, if I can!” he muttered. “But everybody has to know the whole cursed thing. Everybody will be —”

“Nobody will. For publication—the late Mr. Castro kidnapped your child and, being caught, shot himself. Lady Cleeve, tryin' to rescue the child from the mine, fell down, and Mr. Fortune and Sergeant Cator couldn't save her. That's all. Now just come to Peter. He wants you.”

Cleeve gripped his hand. Cleeve tried to talk and failed. “All right. In a minute,” said Reggie, and took Lomas away.

“What a fool! What a fool!” Lomas said.

“Yes. Yes. He gets fond of people,” said Reggie. “How clever you are, Lomas.”

SECOND EXPLANATION. THE LITTLE MILLINER

IN moments of bitterness, when work is continuous, Mr. Fortune has been heard to complain that the life of a policeman is an insult to the human reason. It is then his conviction that he was born to be a family doctor: to keep babies blooming, mothers quiet and fathers in a good temper: and he mourns the fate which made him the scientific adviser of the police force, for he compares the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department to an undertaker. This has been resented. But he points out to Lomas that the police, like the undertaker, do nothing until the only thing to be done is clearing up the remains with pomp and circumstance: a procedure fundamentally irrational. His favourite example in this argument is the case of the little milliner.

It began with the card of Lady Jemima St. Lo. No woman since Florence Nightingale has found other people so much work to do. Reggie Fortune was sinking into a doze between tea and dinner when Lady Jemima's card came before his eyes. He blinked. He said “Help!” He became aware that it bore an inscription. He sat up. The writing of Lady Jemima is of the most modern art: it does not resemble anything, it suggests emotions. After some time it appeared to Reggie that Lady Jemima intended to say, “Do help the poor child.”

Reggie moaned and went to his consulting—room. The “poor child” who ran at him was some six feet high. He is not. She was of a stately shape and dressed to show it. She found him less impressive. “Mr. Fortune?” she cried, and stared at him. Her handsome, haughty face became blank and she giggled.

“Yes. That being that, let's sit down,” said Reggie.

“Sorry. I am awful. I thought you'd be big and important and—oo”; again she giggled.

“Like a policeman?” Reggie suggested.

She nodded. She became intensely earnest. “You are really sort of high up in the police force, aren't you? Lady Jemima said you were.” She looked like a tragic goddess. Her speech was Cockney, sharp and strong.

“Yes. Very good of Lady Jemima. I tell the police a few things sometimes.”

“And they take notice of you, Mr. Fortune?”

“Oh yes. I have known it happen.”

“I'm most awfully worried, don't you know,” she said in the drawl of a perfect lady, then relapsed into the twang of London streets. “I don't 'arf know what I'm doing. They all think I'm just potty about 'er.” She gazed at Mr. Fortune and her classic nose wrinkled, her large eyes filled with tears.

“Oh no. No,” said Mr. Fortune gently. “Who is she, though?”

“Of course I am sweet on 'er,” the goddess admitted. “She's a dear. And then going off like this! She was in the 'ats, you know.”

“Where was that?” said Mr. Fortune with anxiety.

“There, I never told you! I'm getting it all wrong, I'm so upset. Look here, my name's Miss Higgs. I'm a mannikin at Amilee's.”

“Of course.” Mr. Fortune sighed satisfaction that he had the goddess classified at last. “Of course,” with her beauty and her accent she would be a mannequin—at Amelie's. Amelie is a dressmaker of distinction, but economical. Just the shop for Lady Jemima. The affair was becoming partially reasonable.

The goddess went on with a rush: “Miss Gray was in the 'ats. Been there a long time. Earning good money, too. She didn't go with anyone, kep' 'erself to 'erself, but we been friends, Mr. Fortune. She liked me, she did. She'd come 'ome with me and 'ave a bit o' dinner o' Sundays, 'er 'aving no people of 'er own, though quite the lady. But she wouldn't take things off you and do nothing herself, Cely wasn't that kind. Let me call 'er Cely, she did and called me Bertha—when we wasn't in the shop. And now she's gone, Mr. Fortune, gone right off ahd never no word. What I say is, there's something wrong. Something's been and 'appened to 'er. She wouldn't go away and not tell me nothing—not Cely.”

“And the alarmin' fact is that she did,” Reggie murmured. “I see.” He considered Miss Higgs with dreamy eyes.

“She never went natural, Mr. Fortune. It's my belief she was took. Kidnapped or something. Like girls are, you know, that's what I told the police. But the Inspector 'e did nothing but grin. Fat'ead!”

“Yes. What was the Inspector's theory?” said Reggie.

“Theory!” The goddess snorted. “I don't know. He said, 'Girls do leave home. Miss Higgs,' he said superior—like, and grinned at me; 'don't you worry, my dear,' he said. I could ha' slapped his nasty face.”

“When did Miss Gray vanish?”

“Last time I saw her was at the shop on Saturday. She never said a word about going away, she was just like usual. Then —”

“One moment. What is usual? What is she like?”

“She's just sweet, Mr. Fortune. A little quiet thing, you wouldn't 'ardly notice 'er.”

“But you want me to, you know,” Reggie protested. “She never gave you a photograph?”

“She never was took that I know.” Miss Higgs meditated profoundly. “She's fair and her hair's bobbed and she's got grey eyes. Such nice eyes. Moddam says she's very shick. But it's not that. She just looks sweet.”

Reggie sighed. “Last seen—looking sweet—on Saturday.”

Then o' Monday she didn't come to the shop. Moddam 'eard nothing from 'er. So in the evening I went round to 'er lodgings to see if she'd been took ill. And she wasn't there, Mr. Fortune!”

“Where are the lodgings?”

“Camden Town. 7, Navarino Street, Camden Town. Nice, respectable 'ouse. But you know what lodgings are. Not 'omely, poor girl.”

“Miss Gray didn't like them?”

“You wouldn't yourself. Cely did want a place of her own. But what's a girl to do? Well, the old landlady said Cely came in Saturday all right and then she went out again leaving word she was going away for the weekend, but she 'adn't come back. Well then, Tuesday she wasn't at the shop either and no word of 'er. I trapesed off to 'er lodgings again and still she 'adn't come back. Then I went straight to the police. Like I told you. Fat lot of good that was. Now it's Thursday, Mr. Fortune. She's been gone pretty near a week and no one's doing anything to find her and God knows what's 'appening to 'er.”

“Yes. Yes,” Reggie murmured. “Taldn' the landlady as honest —”

“I don't know. She's the usual.”

“Miss Gray meant to go off for the week—end: without telling anybody where. You don't think she often did that.”

“I don't believe she'd ever done it before. Don't you see, Cely's a good girl!” There was a cry of faith in her voice. She blushed, she went on quickly: “She's not like some of 'em, Mr. Fortune. She never would look at a man.”

“Yes. She has a friend,” said Reggie gravely. “Well, well. No other friends—no people of her own?”

“She wasn't one to make friends much. I never 'eard of any. She 'adn't any relations anywhere. She often said that.”

“And yet she meant to go off somewhere without telling you. I wonder.”

“Why, don't you see?” Miss Higgs cried. “If she told the old woman she'd be away for the week—end, she meant just that, just the week —end and no more. She was always straight. And she's stayed on and on. That's what ain't right about it. If you knew her, you'd know she wouldn't never leave us all worrying.”

“Yes. Yes. I thought of that point myself.” Reggie contemplated her with closing eyes. “Quite a good point.”

“Ah, you understand. Don't you? Oh, sir, make 'em find 'er, for God's sake. I can't bear to think of 'er being —being—like she may be.”

“Don't think anything, my dear,” said Reggie gently. “Not till we know.” He stood up. “I'll make the police have a look for her. I can't make 'em find her. There's ten thousand things might have been.” He held out his hand. “But the worst don't often happen.”

“Oo—you're a gentleman,” said Miss Higgs, and wept.

When she was gone Mr. Fortune fell into his deepest chair and moaned. “Missin' from Camden Town: a little woman with fair hair bobbed and nice grey eyes: just sweet. Oh, my aunt! You fall over 'em. Possibilities practically infinite and mainly nasty.” He has an active conscience. He meditated uncomfortably. He wriggled. He reached for the telephone and rang up Scotland Yard. “Mr. Fortune speaking. I want to know if there's any news of Celia Gray, reported missing from Camden Town. You haven't heard? You wouldn't. Let 'em know I want to see the reports in the morning, please.”

Next morning the room of the Hon. Sydney Lomas received him early. Lomas cocked a bright and quizzical eye.

“Hullo,” said Reggie morosely. “Any news?”

“This anxiety is affecting. All my regrets, Reginald. We had no notion you were interested in the girl. I'm afraid there's nothing to give you any encouragement.” He rang for Superintendent Bell. “Speaking as your friend, I can only advise you to think no more about her.”

“We are not amused, Lomas.”

Superintendent Bell came in briskly, greeted him, received a grunt and looked at him with curiosity and apprehension.

“Mr. Fortune isn't pleased with you, Bell,” Lomas chuckled.

“I'm afraid we haven't got much, sir.” Bell frowned at his papers. “But it seems a straight case.”

“Get on, get on. Let's have it.”

“Celia Gray, lodging 7, Navarino Street, Camden Town, employed as milliner at Amelie's. . . . Gray left lodgings Saturday, taking suit —case, destination unknown. Not since heard of. Landlady and employer unable to account for absence. Left some clothes behind and odds and ends of no value. Furniture not her own. No rent owing. Never left work before. Never away from lodgings without notice. Seldom went away. Considered respectable girl. Nothing known of any followers.”

“Our active and intelligent police force,” Reggie mumbled. He swung round to face them. “The Inspector got all that from Bertha. He's done nothing.”

Lomas shrugged. “My dear fellow! What was he to do? The girl said she was going away and she's gone. If we went looking for all the girls who go away for a week—end and stay rather longer we should be busy.”

“Better to do nothing, isn't it?” said Reggie. “You might stop a crime or two before it happened if you took trouble. Much more official to come along afterwards and bury the dead.”

Lomas stiffened. “Taking this matter rather seriously, aren't you. Fortune? Of course, if we had known the little milliner was a friend of yours we'd have seen after her with the whole force.”

Reggie gazed at him. “Bertha wanted to slap your Inspector's face,” he murmured. “I quite understand.”

The respectability of Superintendent Bell was alarmed. The professional instinct of Superintendent Bell was troubled. “Beg your pardon, Mr. Fortune,” he said hastily. “Don't mind my asking. Did you know this Miss Gray?”

“I never saw her.”

“Then I don't understand, sir. You don't know but what she's the sort of girl to go off on the quiet.”

“Oh yes. Yes. I've talked to Bertha. Bertha says she isn't.”

“Good gad!” Lomas gasped. “But, my dear fellow, what does it all come to? A little milliner chose to go away without telling anybody where she was going. There are a thousand possible reasons. She may have gone to get married and don't want these girls at the shop to know about it.”

“Yes. Yes. I thought of that, Lomas. It could be.”

“Of course it could. Happens often enough.”

“But it don't cover all the facts. If she wanted to disappear quietly she wouldn't have made a mystery for Bertha to worry about.”

“My dear Reginald! You want her to be quite reasonable. Girls aren't. She didn't bother about explanations.”

“Oh yes, she did. She said she was going away for the week—end. Just as easy to say she was going for a week or for ever. But she said the week—end. What's happened that she can't send word?”

Lomas leant back in his chair and smiled. “What Bertha says isn't evidence, Reginald.”

“Oh yes, it is. Bertha was telling the truth. Your Inspector didn't believe her. She said he was a fat—head, Lomas. I rather agree with her.”

“Thanks very much.” Lomas shrugged. “It comes to this, then. You want to make a mystery of it because you like the girl's face.”

“I never like anybody's face,” said Reggie with indignation. “And she's taller than any woman has a right to be. I feel small and inadequate still. Bertha is good but depressing. Only she's right, bother her. It is a nasty mess.”

“It's all in the air,” Lomas grumbled. “What do you want to do? Advertise her missing, with description and portrait?”

“There isn't a portrait. Description is small, fair, bobbed, nice grey eyes, just sweet.”

“That would only get you about a million girls.”

“Yes. I had thought of that, Lomas dear. We won't advertise anything yet. The people who've been keeping her might do something hasty.”

“What have you got in your head?” Lomas cried.

“Nothing. Nothing. That's what worries me. You don't feel a vacancy. Well, well. I want some sound fellow to take up the case, some fellow that's a man and a brother.” He smiled on Superintendent Bell. “Yes. Bell is strongly indicated.”

Thank you, sir.” Bell was pleased and uncomfortable. “I'd be very happy. But I don't see my way.”

“Nor do I. Come and have a look at Celia's lodgings and Celia's shop.”

“You're for it, Bell,” Lomas chuckled. “Take him away. Make him buy her a wedding present.”

Reggie gazed at him with melancholy wonder and went out.

“Queer, how it's taken him, sir.” Bell rose. “I'd say there's nothing in it myself—but he has a way of feeling things.”

“Confound him!” said Lomas. “Confound you. Bell! Go away.”

Mr. Fortune's car bore him and Bell into the depths of Camden Town. Navarino Street is shabby genteel houses, all stucco and lace curtains. The inside of number seven fulfilled dismally the promise of the outside. It smelt musty, its landlady was of a dingy and acid propriety, her parlour plush and antimacassars. By the dignity of Superintendent Bell she was unawed. She became shrill with many grievances. She was a respectable woman and kept a respectable house and the police had no right to come bothering her: nothing but botheration; bad enough to have a lodger go off and no notice given: she couldn't afford to keep her rooms empty on the chance my lady was coming back, and she had a right to a week's money, anyhow. So the landlady at length, with repetitions and variations, and the persistence of Bell could extract from her nothing like a fact which they did not know.

“We'll see her rooms, please,” he said.

“Rooms!” The landlady sniffed. “She only had one. Bed—sitting she was. First floor back.” She took them up, lingered, was dismissed, and withdrew, snorting affront.

“She's all right, sir, I'd say,” Bell pronounced.

“Yes. Yes. Only a fool,” Reggie murmured. He wandered round the room. It was drearily uncomfortable.

“Looks like all the cheap lodgings I ever saw,” said Bell.

“Yes. I don't wonder Celia wanted to get out of it,” Reggie mumbled.

“Did she, though? That's rather a point, sir.”

“One of the points, yes.” Reggie looked about him.

On the faded wills there were some pictures, sentimental and religious. A few popular novels stood on a shelf. “Celia's room don't tell us much about Celia.”

“You'd say she wasn't anything in particular.”

“I'd say she was poor and didn't mean to make a home here.” Reggie opened the wardrobe. There were several frocks in it—good frocks.

“Well, well,” he murmured, and went to the chest of drawers. The first that he pulled out was full of dainty clothes. The others also. “I would also say she meant to come back, Bell.”

“I'm sure,” Bell nodded. “No girl would leave these behind. Silk, too. That's where the money went. She's got a regular trousseau.”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. His round face was without expression.

“You mean Mr. Lomas may be right, sir,” Bell smiled. “She's just gone off to get married.”

“Leavin' her trousseau behind. Not much done, is it? No. Don't you feel we're up against something queer?” He rummaged in the drawers, he pulled out a box covered with chintz.

“Hallo, she did have some papers then,” Bell said eagerly. “Landlady's bills. Savings Bank book. Matter of ten pounds she had. List of clothes. What's this. Menu of restaurant dinner. At the ' Bristol,' too. Flying a bit high for once. And a champagne cork. Some theatre programmes. What's this? Picture cut out of a paper. Photograph of a bit of country. And that's the lot. Not a single letter.” Reggie was looking at the picture. “Well. sir, we haven't got much here.”

“I wouldn't say that,” Reggie murmured. “No. I wouldn't say that,” and still he gazed at the picture. It showed the head of a valley among hills crowned with trees. “What did she keep this for, Bell?”

“Good lord, sir, how can you tell? Took her fancy, I suppose. It's cut out of one of the daily papers that publish photos o' landscape. Nice bit o' country.”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured.

“Looks like a bit of the chalk downs to my mind.”

“Oh no. No. Look at the stream. Those slopes ought to be limestone.” He put it away in his pocket. “Let's get on. We'll try Amelie now.” He ran downstairs.

“Why, sir, do you think you're on to something?” said Bell, as he settled himself in the car. “We're where we were to my mind.”

“Oh no. No. Deeper and deeper yet.”

“Well, I don't know why you say so.”

“Oh, Bell! oh, my Bell! We find the girl was gettin' clothes together, apparently for her trousseau. But her best friend didn't know there was a man. And when she vanished, she didn't go to get married. We find also that she'd been dining lavish and she thought a lot of the dinner. And finally there is a bit of country which she's very keen on.”

“If you can make anything of all that!” Bell cried.

“I can't. That's what worries me.”

“You do find such a lot in things,” Bell objected. “About that picture, sir. Lots o' people keep photos of a bit of country they like.”

“She didn't care for pictures. She didn't keep anything to speak of. What she did keep meant something.”

Bell shrugged. “A girl that kept champagne corks!”

“You're so inaccurate. She kept one champagne cork. Which is very suggestive. There was just one dinner and one bottle of champagne which had mattered in her life.”

“That looks like a man, don't it?” said Bell.

“Yes. Yes. One of the unknown quantities is probably a man. And her particular friend had never heard of any man. She kept him very quiet.”

“If some fellow's been playing tricks with the girl that'd account for everything,” Bell pronounced. “Take it like that, and we've got a regular, ordinary case.”

“Oh, my aunt!” Reggie moaned. “Why do you fellows want to make every case an ordinary case? 'Is it weakness of intellect, Birdie? I cried.' Lomas said it was all right, a man was just marrying her; now you say it's all right, a man's just ruining her. It isn't ordinary, it isn't all right. It's all queer and horrid. And we can't get near her. We can't get near.” Bell looked at him curiously. His round face was pale and unhappy, like a child's in pain it cannot understand.

The car turned out of the stream of traffic into a certain by —street where houses which still try to look private have been taken by tailors and discreet, mysterious agents. There Amelie has established what she would like me to call her atelier.

A minute page in apple green opened to them the door of what looked like a drawing—room sparsely furnished with ladies' maids. One of them minced in careful elegance to Superintendent Bell. “You wish perhaps to see Moddam?”

Bell gave her a card. “If you please.”

A languorous hand waved them to chairs. They were left bashful to endure the gaze and the murmurs of the other ministrants.

But not for long. The languorous hand beckoned from the door. They were put into a little office where an ample dark woman sat at her desk. She looked more French than a housewife in a French comic paper. She spoke the English of the City.

“I suppose you want to see me about Miss Gray? Quite at your service. She's left me in the lurch, that's all there is to it. The last girl in the place I'd have thought would do such a thing. Here am I with a hand short in the millinery just as the season is getting busy. Too bad of her.”

“Always a respectable girl, was she?” Bell said.

“I've nothing against her. It's not my business how the girls live, but I should have said Miss Gray was quite straight. No glad—eye work. She's not the type men run after. Too refined, if you know what I mean. Quite chic, oh very chic. But no presence. Still, I'm bound to say she was a good worker. She had a touch, not an artist you know, but she could carry out an idea. Quite skilled. It is a scandal how girls treat you. Off she goes without thinking about the business. I've got to fill her place in the rush and not a day's notice. A pretty thing!” Amelie was eloquent of the wrongs of employers.

“Yes, it's a hard world,” Reggie drawled. “Have you a photograph of Miss Gray?”

“Is it likely?” Amelie glared at him.

“I suppose not.” Reggie sighed and turned over some drawings on her desk, drawings of frocks.

“What do you want a photograph for?” said Amelie with contempt.

Reggie looked up. “Sorry to disturb you. I'm thinking about Miss Gray, you see.”

“I can't do anything more for you.”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured, and looked again at the drawings.

“What do you mean?” Amelie said fiercely.

“You wouldn't actually mind if we could trace Miss Gray?” Amelie was crimson and spluttered. “Thanks very much. The artist who drew these frocks seems to be able to draw. If she's seen Miss Gray she might draw us a portrait.”

“I'm sure I don't know.” Amflie was subdued. “You're welcome to try.”

“Yes, I thought we should be.” Reggie stared at her without respect. “Give me her address. Give me your Miss Higgs, too. I'll take her to help the artist.”

“I'll fetch her at once.” Amelie hurried out.

“You've put the wind up, sir,” Bell said.

“Yes. Yes. Probably means nothing. I should say she's only a brute. But she annoyed me.”

The large Miss Higgs fluttering with emotions was an uncomfortable companion in a car. She told them everything all over again, passionately incoherent.

The door of the artist's flat was opened by a buxom girl with a mop of black hair. “Hallo, Bertha”—she made eyes. “What's doing? Who are the little men?”

“Let's come in, may we, Miss Grant?” She bent to the girl's ear. “They're police.”

“The constables came in two by two.” She led the way to a little untidy room. “What's up, Bertha? Have you been getting pinched?”

“It isn't me. It's about Cely.”

“The little milliner? Search me!”

“They wanted you to draw 'er, Miss Grant.”

Miss Grant whistled. “Can do. What was she wearing?”

“The clothes she would wear for a longish journey by rail or car,” said Reggie, and Bell looked at him curiously.

“That'd be her grey coat—and the grey 'at,” Bertha cried, and explained technically.

“Right—o. Plain or coloured, constable?”

“Colour for choice,” said Reggie. “General likeness, please.”

“Hold your breath.” Miss Grant sat down to her desk... “Not so bad" —she drew back from the damp portrait. “I do best when I dash it.”

“It's 'er!” Bertha cried.

Superintendent Bell surveyed it with a professional eye. “It's somebody all right.”

“Yes. That's real,” Reggie murmured. The little woman in it had a charming shy dignity. He bit his lip. “Thanks very much. Miss Grant. Good—bye.” He hurried out.

“What are you going to do now, Mr. Fortune?” Bertha panted after him.

“Look for her,” said Reggie. “Run away back to Amelie. I'll let you know as soon as we know anything. Come on, Bell.” He directed the car to Scotland Yard. “Better get this photographed.”

“What, you want to send copies to the papers? They'll splash it. 'Pretty young milliner missing! When did you see this face?' I don't like these stunts myself. But it's the only way.”

“Oh no. We'd better get ready for it, that's all. When the photograph's taken, you can go up to Paddington with the original.”

Bell breathed hard. “That beats me,” he said. “Why would I go to Paddington?”

“You would go to ask the fellows on the trains to Worcester and Cheltenham last Saturday if they'd seen that girl: and who was with her and where she got off.”

“It's like dreaming, sir.” Bell stared at him. “How do you come to know she went that way?”

“I don't. It's the best bet. Remember the picture. That's Cotswold scenery. The inference is she had some particular interest in the Cotswolds. So the first hypothesis is she's gone there. And if she went by rail she'd go by a Worcester train or a Cheltenham train.”

“All right, sir. It's wonderfully clever. But I'd say it's a chance of a chance.”

Reggie wriggled. “I want to be quick. Bell. Don't you see we've got to be quick.”

So Superintendent Bell went to try his luck with the railwaymen at Paddington. Reggie's car took him on to the office of the Daily Recorder. In the files of that paper he found the picture. The description which Celia had not cut out informed him that it was a landscape in the heart of the Cotswold Hills, between Stow—on—the —Wold and Ford. He went home and spent the afternoon in his library over books about the Cotswold country, drearily conscious of futility.

In the evening Lomas surprised him bent over a map. He started up. “Hallo! Any news from Bell?”

“Ingenuous youth!” Lomas chuckled. “No, Reginald. The wretched Bell labours in vain. The Great Western Railway declines to know your little milliner. Most respectable line. He has put her picture before all that can be found of the guards and dining—car men and what not on Worcester and Cheltenham trains and they plead not guilty. Over the telephone he sounds disgruntled. He proposes to wait at Paddington to see one crew more, one lone last hope, but I infer he hasn't any. A faithful fellow. He spoils you, Reginald. You abuse his simple trust. Speaking frankly, this is chasing one of your wildest geese.”

“It was a chance,” Reggie mumbled.

“My dear fellow! You don't really think so?” Lomas stared. He observed the open map. It displayed the Cotswold country on a large scale. Reggie had marked off a tract; some of the highest ground in which valleys were cut deep and with steep sides: a tract in which villages were small and few. “What is this selected desert?”

“That's where her bit of landscape is. If Bell can't trace her, I'll go down there tomorrow.”

“Great heavens!” said Lomas. “My dear fellow, you're not yourself in this case. From every scrap of a fact you make a wild conjecture and take that for evidence. All your theories about the girl are outside reason. This hunt in the Cotswolds is simply fantastic.”

“Oh no. No. I'm quite rational, Lomas,” Reggie said wearily. “What's the higher intelligence want to do? Nothing?”

“We have to look for the girl, of course. We shall probably disturb her on her honeymoon. But that's her own fault. I came round to speak to you about putting her portrait in the morning papers.”

“Send it out, yes. We must try everything.” His parlourmaid came in. “What is it?”

“Miss Higgs to see you, sir.”

Reggie nodded. “All right. This is the faithful friend, Lomas.” And Miss Higgs came tempestuously.

“Mr. Fortune, I've 'eard from Cely. I've 'ad a letter. Waiting for me tonight when I got 'ome. 'Ere, look. Didn't I say she wouldn't never leave me without a word?”

Reggie took the letter. It was addressed in a sketchy, jerky hand. The envelope bore the postmark LONDON, W.2. “This is Miss Gray's writing?” he said.

“Why, Mr. Fortune, of course it is. As if I wouldn't know! It does look a bit splashy. She's kind of flustered, poor dear. But it's 'er. She's all right, thank God.” Miss Higgs wiped her eyes.

The letter was written on a sheet torn from a pad. It had no address. Twice the pen made a blot. The writing was spasmodic in short uneven lines which ran downhill.

Thursday. DEAR BERTHA,—

Don't worry about me. I was wanting to write before. Just a line to tell you not to worry. I'm all right, I'm perfectly all right, dear. I want you to tell Madame and my rooms I shan't be coming back. Can't explain now. It's like being in a dream, all that's happening. Going to be wonderful. Must stop now. I want to see you soon.

Yours ever, CELIA.

Reggie was a long time reading it. He gave it to Lomas. He looked at Miss Higgs. “That's like her, is it? Sort of letter you'd expect?”

“We was always such friends. I knew she wouldn't chuck me,” said Miss Higgs affectionately. “Of course, she don't say much. You can see something's come to her. She's that excited.”

“Quite,” Lomas smiled. “I should say the lady's making a good marriage. Miss Higgs.” He gave her back the letter.

“Well, I never did!” Miss Higgs cried. “It does sound like that, sir. But I 'adn't a notion. She was that close! Might be some gentleman what wouldn't want it known he was marrying in the shop.”

“Nothing more likely,” Lomas agreed. “Anyhow, you're quite satisfied?”

“I should say I was! She did ought to 'ave all the best. She's a lady. And look 'ow she thinks o' me!” Miss Higgs again wept.

“Very nice, very nice.” Lomas was paternal. “I hope she always will. So glad it's come to a happy ending. Miss Higgs.”

“Thank you, sir.” She looked at Reggie, silent and solemn, sunk in his chair. “Thank you, Mr. Fortune. I've give you a lot of trouble for nothing. And you been so kind.”

“Oh no. No,” Reggie mumbled. “Good night, my dear.” He heaved himself up, he got rid of her.

Lomas slapped him on the shoulder. “My poor Reginald!Are we downhearted?”

“Yes. We are,” said Reggie, and stared at him with contemptuous dislike.

Lomas chuckled. “This bitterness is very painful, Reginald. I'm afraid you're spoilt. Not one of our good losers. The little milliner must be a lesson to you. Learn to respect the simple mind.”

“Have you a mind?” said Reggie. “Then why not use it? You told that girl it was a happy ending. It isn't happy. And it isn't the end.”

“My dear fellow! You have a letter which her friend recognizes as the girl's own writing. Do you doubt that?”

“Oh no. She wrote it.”

“Good. We return to the world of reason. She said she was all right. She suggested extreme happiness. Isn't that dear?”

“No. No. She said it was 'going to be wonderful.' In the future; the present seemed to be rather hectic.”

“Quite. The girl was wildly excited.”

“You did notice that? Well, well. Rather vague too, wasn't she? Striking absence of information. She didn't say where she'd gone or why she'd gone or what she was doing.”

“What is the theory now?”

“Somebody's breaking her. Ever seen a letter like that before?”

“Oh, it looked a little drunk, of course.”

“Drunk. Yes. Drunken writing, wasn't it? Drunken thought: even to repeating she was quite all right. But I don't think she'd been drinking, Lomas. Say disorder of the nervous system.”

“By all means,” Lomas laughed. “Great nervous excitement. It does happen to girls when they're just married or just going to be.”

Reggie was not amused. “Call it fright, then,” he said sharply. “Can't you see that letter was written to order? Whoever has got her wants to make sure nobody shall worry about what's happening to her.”

“Good gad! This is an obsession. You got it into your head that the girl had had foul play and now you can't bear to be proved wrong. Look at the facts, man.”

“Which?”

“The letter will do, thank you. Your wonderful theory was the girl had been carried off to the wilds of the Cotswolds. Did you see the envelope? Postmark, London.”

“Yes. W.2. I did notice it. That made me quite sure. I'm going to the Cotswolds tomorrow.”

Lomas cocked his eyebrows. Lomas stood up. “That is the limit,” he said. “Good—bye. Thank you for a very pleasant evening. When symptoms of sanity return, let me know.”

“Sanity! Oh, my aunt!” Reggie laughed drearily. “Don't you see the people that wouldn't let her put her address on the letter couldn't let it be posted where she was. This little game is being played very carefully.”

“Oh, you can spin theories till all's blue. Why should they let her write at all?”

Heavy steps ran up the stairs. Superintendent Bell came in. “I've got her at last, sir,” he cried. “She is down there in the Cotswolds.”

Reggie turned to Lomas. “Yes. That's that,” he said.

Bell continued: “She went on the Cheltenham express last Saturday night. One of the dining—car men knew her picture at once. Knew the man she was with, too. It's a young sportsman who lives down there; they often have him on the Cheltenham trains. Name of Smith—Marner. Mr. Harry Smith—Marner. He took the girl off in his own car at Cheltenham. I 'phoned the police there about him. He has a place out in the hills—Marner Grange. Lives there with his mother.”

“Oh, there's a mother,” Reggie murmured. “I wonder.”

“That don't look so bad, sir. This young fellow, he's a well —thought—of good sportsman. Very old family, the Marners. His pa was called Smith—made a pot of money out of soap or something. He married the Miss Marner who was heiress to this old estate and he took her name and got a knighthood. Dead a long while. Lady Smith—Marner runs the place. She's all right, they say. Don't forget she's somebody. No children but this young man.”

“I see no sign of crime, Reginald,” Lomas smiled. “The heir of all the Marners wants his wife to get away from the shop, that's all.”

“You think so? Well, well. I wonder what Celia thinks by now?”

“Meaning to go down, sir?” said Bell. “No more trains tonight.”

“No. No.” Reggie looked at his watch. “My only aunt!” he moaned. “I've had no dinner. One small swift dinner and early to bed. And then the car at dawn. Oh, my hat! You'd better sleep here, Bell.”

“What on earth do you want to do?” Lomas cried.

“I want to see the girl.” Reggie looked up with a certain ferocity on his amiable face. “Any objection? I'm going to see the girl—alive or dead.”

“Still at it!” Lomas sighed. “All right. If you will go mare's —nesting!” In the doorway he turned. “Try to keep him out of trouble, Bell—but should Lady Smith—Marner tell him off, let her rip.”

Pale and glum in the early morning light Reggie climbed into his car and slid deep under rugs. Superintendent Bell tucked him up paternally and. the big car purred away through the shut, silent town. . . . Bell's pipe fell from an opening mouth. Bell was soothed to massive slumber. but Reggie fidgeted, Reggie watched the fleeting miles, drearily wakeful. . . . Spring sunshine broke through the grey sky, the towers of Oxford stood clear, the car slowed for the High Street amidst a ringing of chapel bells. Bell woke and gaped. “Ah! Bless my soul! Here already. Rare fine town, sir.”

“Go to sleep,” Reggie growled. “We aren't anywhere.”

The sprawling suburbs were left behind, they made speed through flat meadowland and climbed on a ridge above the hurry of a stream. The mellow stone of a little town glowed in the sunshine and was left behind; they came upon the hills, long miles of rolling bare land where no smoke stained the air, no house broke the green curves, there was no sound but of the birds and the wind. “Lonely!” Bell grunted.

Reggie fumbled for a map. “After the next village turn right,” he called to the chauffeur.

The village slept forlorn about a noble church. They turned away north and the hills broke into deeper valleys, steep slopes falling to clear, swift brown streams edged with gold, and here and there beech —woods covered hollow and ridge.

Reggie came out of his rugs. “Look! There's Celia's picture,” he said.

“Bless my soul!” Bell cried. “It is, absolutely. You've hit that off, Mr. Fortune.”

“Yes. I think so. And it's quite close to Marner Grange.”

Through solitude they came to the stone wall of a park, to ancient gates of wrought iron. “A wolf's head. Crest of the Marners. Well, well.”

Bell looked at him. “Right out of the world they've got her, too.”

“Yes. Yes. Very neatly managed. Some brains among the Smith —Marners.”

Marner Grange was built under the hill, a Tudor Manor House of kindly grace in the mellow Cotswold stone. A small car stood by the porch and its chauffeur looked at them curiously. An antique butler opened the door. He was given the card of Superintendent Bell of the Criminal Investigation Department.

“Take that to Mr. Harry Smith—Marner. Tell him that I have come down from London to see him.”

“I will see if Mr. Harry is at home.”

“Tell him he is,” said Bell.

“This way, if you please.” The butler took them out of the hall into a room which was the study of a man who did not study.

They had time to examine it before anyone came to them. At last appeared a slim youth of a pleasant, simple countenance, very fair by nature, which had become of an ashen pallor.

“I say. What's all this?” he cried.

“Mr. Harry Smith—Marner?” said Bell heavily.

“That's my name. What do you want?”

“The police have received information that Miss Celia Gray, employed by Amelie, Rye Street, London, disappeared in suspicious circumstances. Miss Gray was traced travelling with you to Cheltenham. I want to know where she is.”

“She's here, of course. There's nothing suspicious.” The young man flushed. “My mother's here. I don't know what you mean. My mother asked her down and she's been staying on.”

“Is that so? Then we want to see her.”

The young man's colour faded again. “See her?” he cried. “I say, you can't talk about a lady like that. I don't know if she ought—if she'd like —I'll have to ask my mother. I —”

The door opened. “If you please, sir,” the old butler spoke. “Dr. Whinney wishes to speak to you.”

The young man hurried out.

“Looks queer,” Bell said. “He's got very cold feet.”

“Yes. Yes. Severe mental disturbance. Him also. That's very interesting. You never know, you know. Actions and reactions. And there's a doctor about. Well, well. I wonder if Dr. Whinney will like speaking to me.”

Bell stared at him. “You're cheering up, sir. Do you reckon you see your way through it?”

“Oh no. No. It's opening out. But they're playing with souls. Bell. Not a nice game. Not at all a nice game.” He wandered away to the books, looking at one and another. “This won't do, Bell,” Reggie said. “Dr. Whinney has too much to say. Come on.”

In the hall the butler confronted them. “Mr. Smith—Marner is engaged, sir.”

“Where?” Reggie snapped. The butler's chill horror rebuked him in silence. But through the silence he heard the young man's voice. It rose high. Bell swept the butler away. They crossed the hall to Lady Smith—Marner's drawing—room.

The door opened upon emotions. The young man sat huddled; his hands hid his face and he muttered in a broken voice. His mother had her arm about his shoulders. “My dear Harry,” she was saying, “my dear boy.”

Two men watched with sympathy: a small sleek one who was murmuring, “My dear fellow, I am most distressed ”; another, lanky and military, who barked, “A sad business. A sad business. Have to face it. Harry. What the devil! Who are you, sir?”

They all became aware of Reggie and Superintendent Bell. The lad's pallor showed drawn and blotchy. He waved them away as if they were wraiths in the air. Lady Smith—Marner started up, a tall woman in black, white hair piled above a gaunt bloodless face. She bit her lip. Her lean bosom heaved. She swept upon them. “An outrage,” she said hoarsely and her voice found strength. “This is an outrage.”

“Oh no. No.” Reggie met her. “You've made it necessary. You know who we are.”

“I know nothing, sir.”

“Why say so?” Reggie sighed. “Dr. Whinney!” The smaller of the two men stood up. “My name's Fortune, Reginald Fortune. You may have heard it. The discomfort of Dr. Whinney made plain that he had. “I'm here to make a medical report on the case of Miss Gray for the Criminal Investigation Department. Any objection?”

The young man's face was distorted with fear, horror, shame. “My God! Oh, my God!” he groaned, and rushed out.

“What has affected your son, madam?” Reggie said coldly.

“How dare you!” she muttered.

The military man swung forward. “Steady, Agnes, steady. May as well tell him. Can't be a secret, you know, damn it. Doing his duty, what? Sit down, Mr. Fortune. This is a very painful affair, sir. Sad thing for the family. Now—”

“See what the boy's up to, Bell,” said Reggie over his shoulder, and Bell strode away. “Now who are you?”

“Colonel Marner, sir. I'm Lady Smith—Marner's cousin.”

“Oh yes. Yes. Are you managing this affair for her?”

“Damme, sir, I'm the only man in the family. Now.”

“Except her son,” Reggie murmured. “Oh yes.” He swung round on the unhappy little doctor. “Now, Dr. Whinney, what are you going to tell me?”

“Really, Mr. Fortune”—the doctor made mouths—“you see my position. Professional confidence—good gracious, what's that?”

It was a thudding crash, the noise of a scuffle, a gunshot, a fall. Reggie ran out. The smell of powder met him. Bell called, “Mr. Fortune, sir.” In the room across the hall Bell was kneeling beside a young man's body.

“Came here and locked the door, sir. So I broke in. He was getting one of his guns fixed to fire into his face. See the rod there to shove the trigger. I went for him, but he had his shot. Took him somewhere up here by the neck. I don't know if he's gone, there's such a mess. These shot—gun wounds —”

A hoarse cry tore through his talk. The mother had seen that wound.

She caught at Reggie bent working on the senseless body. “Is he dead?” she muttered.

“No. No.” For a quick moment Reggie looked up at her. “But he's tried hard. You're in the way, madam. The room dear, please. Dr. Whinney!” The little doctor came shaking. . . . The wound was dressed and bound. . . .

“That'll do now. I want him taken to a trustworthy nursing home. Go and telephone.”

“Really, I don't know, Mr. Fortune-” the doctor stammered. “Lady Smith—Marner—couldn't he remain here?”

“A nursing home I can trust. Tell 'em to send an ambulance.”

“Well, of course it is a very nasty case.” The little doctor was torn with anxieties.

“Yes. Quite nasty. For everybody. And I'm in charge.”

“Certainly, Mr. Fortune. Quite so, yes. I—I will tell Lady Smith —Marner.”

“Go and telephone,” said Reggie sharply. Dr. Whinney fled.

The young man lay, decently and in order now, waking to half —consciousness. “Stand by, Bell,” Reggie murmured. “Don't let anybody talk to him. Tell him not to worry. Ah!” A light step was moving outside. He went to the door.

Behind it appeared the brown face of Colonel Marner. “How goes it, what?”

Reggie came out and shut the door behind him. “The boy is still alive,” he said.

“You don't like the look of it, do you? Whinney's telephoning for nurses, I hear.”

“No. For a room in a nursing home.”

“Quite so. Let's know how we stand. What's going to happen to the boy? Looked a nasty thing to me. I remember a poor chap in India, love affair don't you know, went out shooting, put a shot into himself. Didn't look such a mess as this. But they couldn't do anything. Called it accident, of course, for the sake of his people. Only decent, what?”

“Oh! You've been in India,” Reggie murmured, and his eyes opened. “Oh yes. Well, this boy ought to pull through. If he's properly cared for. That's why he's going to a nursing home.”

He turned away, he sought Dr. Whinney... The telephone was still in action...

Dr. Whinney gushed apologies: very sorry for the delay: difficult to get through to Cheltenham. Unfortunately Miss Ablett's nursing home was full. But he had been offered a choice of rooms at Miss Dumaresq's: really very good: Mr. Fortune could have every confidence in her: and the ambulance should arrive in half an hour, well, an hour at most. He did hope —

“Do you?” said Reggie. “What about the girl? Come on.” He opened the door of Lady Smith—Marner's drawing—room. It appeared that the Colonel's explanations with her had been stormy. Some swift, vehement talk was suddenly hushed; she stood very close to him, gripping his arm.

She swept round upon Reggie. “Is my boy going to live?” she cried.

“I think he will live if he wants to live, madam,” said Reggie slowly. “Why did he want to die?”

She bit her lip. “It is this woman,” she said.

“A most painful affair, sir,” the Colonel barked. “Most distressing, begad. The boy was infatuated with the poor creature. And she—well, well, the doctor will tell you.”

“One moment. One moment. You can tell me something, madam. Why did Miss Gray come to your house?”

“My boy wished to marry her. I had never seen her. You know what she is. A girl in a milliner's shop. Harry is all I have. I told him to bring her here.”

“Very generous, too,” the Colonel grunted.

“The boy had your consent to marry her, madam?”

“Nothing was decided. When the girl came here we saw she—she wasn't well.”

“Which the boy hadn't noticed before. She came on Saturday night. How soon was she ill?”

“On Sunday we thought she wasn't quite normal.” Lady Smith—Marner spoke as if each word hurt her. “Very excited and noisy.”

“Might have been feverish, don't you know?” the Colonel explained.

“After that she got very strange. Sometimes in wild spirits and then depressed and sullen. She—she puzzled us very much.”

“Took to seeing things, if you know what I mean,” the Colonel put in. “Poor girl, she'd say 'What's that?' all of a sudden, when there wasn't really anything.”

“Yes. Very painful for the boy. When did you have the doctor?”

“I sent for Dr. Whinney on Tuesday.”

Reggie turned to the doctor. “Your case from Tuesday. Well?”

“I—I—it has been a very distressing case, Mr. Fortune,” the little man stammered. “I thought possibly some nervous strain—in the circumstances—a hysterical condition. I found the symptoms—the symptoms Lady Smith—Marner describes. I ordered the patient to bed —complete rest. But her condition has grown worse. The senses are disordered. There is grave mental disturbance. There are hallucinations. Her judgment of time and distance and sound is quite uncertain. I was forced to the conclusion it is a case of paranoia. I had to tell the poor boy this morning.”

“You told him the girl was mad. Yes, I thought so. And now I'll see her.”

“Certainly, Mr. Fortune. Of course, I shall be very glad-” Reggie pointed to the door.

The room to which he was taken was vast and dim, so closely its casements were curtained, so dark the panelled walls, so gloomy the ancient furniture. In a corner he made out a four—poster bed hung with crimson. He looked at Dr. Whinney without affection. “Nice wholesome mausoleum,” he muttered. He went to the window and dragged back all the curtains.

From the bedside a nurse arose, rustled forward with an important show of moving quietly and spoke in a penetrating whisper. “She's very low. Doctor. The light's bad for her.”

“I'll call you when I want you,” said Reggie, and she retired dwindling.

In the wide expanse of the four—poster there was a little mound. Celia lay with her knees drawn up to her body, burying her face in the pillow. “Well, well.” Reggie bent over her. “Good morning, Miss Gray. Harry wants me to have a look at you. My name's Fortune. A doctor, you know. All the way from London.”

“Harry sent for you?” She turned to look at him. He saw the charming shy face of the portrait, wan and anxious, with fear haunting dull eyes.

He took her hand. “Now we're friends.” His fingers moved to the pulse. “You see, I know Bertha. So I know something about Bertha's friend. And I ought to be able to find out what's gone wrong with her.” He was looking close into the sunken, dark—rimmed eyes. “Tell me all about things.”

“You know Bertha?” she said, as if she could not believe it. A little colour came into her face.

“Oh yes. Yes. Bertha's rather a dear, isn't she? Well, how have you been feeling down here?”

She frowned. “What was that noise?”

Dr. Whinney coughed. Dr. Whinney touched Reggie's arm. “Yes, ignorin' the doctor's silly cold,” said Reggie, “ which noise do you mean?”

“It was this morning. I'm sure it was this morning.”

From her banishment the nurse spoke with prim satisfaction: “I told Miss Gray it was nothing, doctor.”

“She thinks I'm mad,” Celia cried. “I know she thinks I'm mad.”

“Oh, my dear!” said the nurse. “You mustn't talk like that.”

Reggie looked over his shoulder. “I've heard all I want of you,” he said sharply and came back to the girl. “It don't matter what nurse thinks. If she can think. There was a noise, of course: an awful crash. Somebody hit a door and things fell down.”

“There was! Oh, I'm so glad. I've heard things before and they said there wasn't a sound. And afterwards I thought really there wasn't.” She thrust her tumbled hair back from her brow. “Then seeing things, too: they couldn't really be real.”

“Nice things?” Reggie said gently.

She blushed. “Oh—oh, yes.” Her voice was faint. “Only like dreams. Sort of gorgeous. Like a big scene in a theatre.”

“And you were happy while you saw them?”

“Awfully happy. Only when they're gone it's dreadful. Sort of being dead while you're alive,” She looked at him and he saw the fear in her eyes darker. “Oh, that's ghastly. Do you know?”

“Yes, I think so,” Reggie said gently. “Now just shut your eyes a minute.” His hand moved upon her. “Do you feel me touch you? Tell me if I do. Tell me where.” Sometimes she knew, sometimes she felt nothing. “Eyes open. All over.” He took her hand. “Well, I'm going to look after you. I'm going to take you away from this gloomy old room into a nursing home where you can be comfy. And you're going to be quick and get well. Now just curl up and be peaceful. I'll be back soon.”

“Oh, you are nice,” she said faintly.

Reggie moved to the door, beckoning the nurse after him. “Don't talk to her,” he said in a low voice. “Don't give her anything. If anything more happens to her in this house, I'll make you responsible.” He turned to the little doctor. “Now I'll talk to you. Where's a room?”

Dr. Whinney babbled: “Certainly, Mr. Fortune, if you please. I am sure we may use this.” They went into an old sun parlour. “I hope you don't think —”

“What have you been giving her?”

“Why, really—nothing but a sedative. Just a little bromide.”

“Who brought that nurse in?”

“Really, Mr. Fortune. I thought it quite necessary—and Lady Smith —Marner asked me to get a nurse who could control the poor girl—be firm with her, you know, in her delusions. I was bound to agree.”

Reggie contemplated the little man without affection. “Lady Smith —Marner told you she wanted a firm nurse and you agreed. Yes. Did Lady Smith—Marner tell you she wanted the girl found mad?”

“Good heavens, Mr. Fortune! Upon my word. I don't understand you.”

“I was wondering if you agreed to that, too.”

“This—this is really intolerable,” the little man stammered. “I'm not to be treated so. Mr. Fortune. I—I —”

“Yes. You're very uncomfortable. You ought to be. You told that boy the girl was mad and he went and shot himself. And she's not mad. She's been drugged.”

“Drugged?” The little man gasped. “It's not possible. What drug?”

“Don't you know?” said Reggie. “I do.”

“I swear I never thought of such a thing.”

“Yes. You haven't thought much, have you?” The sound of a car was heard. Reggie looked out of the window. “Well, here's the ambulance. We'll deliver you of your patients, Doctor.” He ran downstairs.

The lad lay conscious, staring at the grave, paternal presence of Superintendent Bell. “Well, young man.” Reggie felt about his wrist. “Yes. I've seen your Celia. She's going to be all right, you know. Nothing to worry about. Now then.” The men from the ambulance carried the lad away. “That'll do nicely. You'll take him to Miss Dumaresq's home. Tell her Mr. Fortune will be there soon. And I want another room for a lady, a nice room. Then come back here with the ambulance for her.”

The ambulance drove off. “Mr. Fortune, if you please,” Dr. Whinney twittered. “Mr. Fortune, just a word —”

Reggie stared at him. “I don't want you any more. You may go home —and think.” Reggie drew Bell into the house. “Anything happen while I was upstairs?”

“The boy's mother came in, sir. I said not to talk. She just looked at him, kind of ghastly. He must have seen her, but he didn't seem to. She gave a sort of groan and went away. I reckon it's hit her hard.”

“I wonder,” Reggie murmured. He drew a long breath. “Well, let's deal with 'em.” He took Bell into the drawing—room.

Lady Smith—Marner was by the window staring out. She did not choose to see him. The Colonel was more affable. “Well, Mr. Fortune, got poor Harry comfortably provided for? That's good. You've made your examination of the girl, what? Formed an opinion?”

“Oh yes. Yes. Quite a clear case. There's only one point.” He stopped. “Lady Smith—Marner!” he said sharply.

The gaunt face turned to him. The eyes were dim.

“Was it part of the scheme that Harry should be made to kill himself?”

“What the devil do you mean, sir?” the Colonel roared.

“Oh, don't be noisy. I can see it would suit you very well if Lady Smith—Marner were left without a son. You're quite obvious. I did wonder whether his mother was ready at that, too.”

“I never meant—I never thought-” Lady Smith—Marner gasped. “Oh, my God, what have you told Harry?”

“Damme, Agnes, don't let the fellow bully you!” the Colonel barked.

Reggie watched her. “Yes. I shall have to tell him something. You couldn't bear him to marry a girl out of a shop. When you found that he wouldn't give the girl up, you asked the girl to the house in order to drug her till she seemed mad. I might tell Harry that.”

Lady Smith—Marner gazed at him and her lips moved, but she did not speak. “Drugs, sir?” the Colonel barked. “Damme, you're mad yourself. The girl's had a doctor. He knows all about her. He —”

“Oh, the doctor.” Reggie shrugged. “ He was very nice and tame, wasn't he? I suppose you had reckoned up the doctor beforehand. And, as you say, it wasn't an English drug, Colonel. You mentioned you'd been in India. Very kind of you. That explained the case before I saw the girl. Do you use the stuff yourself?”

“What stuff, sir? Damme, what do you dare to suggest?”

“Cannabis indica. I suppose you call it Bhang or Hashish.”

“Never heard of it,” the Colonel growled.

“Oh yes. They eat it in India. Very excitin'. You're rather excited, aren't you? We call it—hemp. Used here for other purposes, Colonel Marner.”

The Colonel's eyes swelled bloodshot. He made throaty noises. “Confounded impudence—don't you bully me, sir—infernal trick—know nothing about it.”

“Oh—you coward,” the woman cried. “Mr. Fortune—he did it—we did it. It's my fault. God knows it's my fault. I hated the girl so. But he thought of this way. He had this thing—he used it. He said if we gave her enough it would make her so wild and strange Harry would think she was out of her mind and have to break it off. And the drug wouldn't hurt her really—only make her so strange that even a doctor couldn't tell, and we could trust Dr. Whinney. So I gave her the stuff. It's me, me. And Harry—oh, I wish I'd died first. I wish I were dead. I never thought it would make him-” Her voice failed.

Reggie swung round on the Colonel. “ That's all. When we want you, we'll find you,” he said, and the Colonel slunk out.

“Mr. Fortune,” the woman said faintly. “I never meant —”

“Not the boy's death, no. I believe that,” Reggie frowned. “Only breakin' the girl's life.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“I'm not thinkin' about you.”

“Oh, God, if I could die!” she sobbed. “What are you going to tell Harry?”