End of the Mildew Gang

by Sydney Fowler

Eyre & Spottiswoode
1944
See prequel The Second Bout With The Mildew Gang
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CONTENTS

I.	INSPECTOR CAULDRON CANNOT REFUSE
II.	MISS WINGROVE REQUIRES A HUSBAND
III.	YOUNG WIFE IN TROUBLE
IV.	POLITENESS OF PETER BOYLE
V.	SECOND RESTAURANT SCENE
VI.	BILLIE DECLINES ARMS
VII.	AN UNFINISHED SENTENCE
VIII.	ABOUT BEING POISONED AT LUNCH
IX.	DIFFICULTY OF LEAVING A ROOM
X.	MISS WINGROVE WAS NOT COMPELLED
XI.	"GO WITH HIM TWAIN"
XII.	MAINLY CONCERNING A PISTOL AWKWARDLY PLACED
XIII.	ATTITUDE OF A SICK MAN
XIV.	BACKWASH TAKES A RISK
XV.	WEBBER DOES IT AGAIN
XVI.	A QUESTION OF LIFE AND DEATH
XVII.	CAULDRON ON COMES ON THE SCENE
XVIII.	INDIGNATION OF SIR JAMES SHORTER
XIX.	WEBBER MAKES CONDITIONS
XX.	WEBBER DECIDES
XXI.	WAS IT TOO LATE?
XXII.	THE STATEMENT OF PETER BOYLE
XXIII.	DECISIVE ACTION OF PETER BOYLE
XXIV.	TROUBLE AT SCOTLAND YARD
XXV.	ORDERS MUST BE OBEYED
XXVI.	BILLIE IS UNFIT TO LIVE
XXVII.	MAINLY CONCERNING ROPES

CHAPTER I

INSPECTOR CAULDRON CANNOT REFUSE

CORNELIUS MILDEW was dead, but Inspector Cauldron, considering a murder which, however criminal in itself, was satisfactory to the police, saw no reason to hope that there would be a consequent end of the Mildew gang. Had he died, as he had surely deserved, at the end of a noosed rope, and by due process of law, it would have been a far different matter; but Mr. Mildew had come to his violent end in undiminished reputation of wealthy and benevolent respectability.

        His connection with the ruthless international gang of drug traffickers from which the bulk of his huge income had been derived remained a police presumption which the inquest did not disclose. The verdict had been that he had died, during the temporary insanity of convention, by a shot from his own hand. So the public record would be; but Inspector Cauldron saw reason for a different opinion. He said confidently, in the official privacy of Superintendent Backwash's room, that the finger of the Hon. Peter Boyle had pulled the trigger, aiming thereby both to avert the disclosures which would have followed the arrest of the murdered man, and himself secure control of the Mildew gang.

        He had acted thus in a confident belief that the police had no knowledge of his connection with its illicit traffic, and that he had only to leave the scene of the crime unnoticed for no suspicion to be directed upon him.

        On these last points he was wrong, and it was an error in which he would remain, if Inspector Cauldron could have his way. "It's the one good card in a pack from which we've lost most of the trumps now that Mildew's dead," he said, with as much optimism as the position allowed; and Superintendent Backwash, who had been discussing the case with the Assistant Commissioner at an earlier hour, replied: "Well, it's to be left in your hands. I've arranged that."

        Inspector Cauldron looked gratified. To a young officer, and one who was aware that his college background was a barrier of distance, if not of hostility, between him and some of his superior officers who were of a different tradition, it was an opportunity such as many years of service might not have won. He knew that it was merit, not favour, which had been rewarded with this assignment; that it marked his superiors' approval of his conduct of that which had already come to his hands by its chance connection with a different, more ordinary crime, and even that investigation, but for the sudden illness of a more experienced officer, would not have been left to him. Yet even so, merit does not always find the recognition that it deserves. He knew that Superintendent Backwash had been his friend. He said: "Thanks. And I shall have Miss Wingrove with me, of course?"

        He saw the look of hesitation on the superintendent's face, and added hastily: "We promised her that." And then, in a changed voice, as a doubt of what that hesitation could mean entered his mind: "She's not backing out, is she?"

        "Not that I've heard. The question is whether we didn't promise too much. There's the fact that they know her already, and, if you put her on to it you may rouse the suspicion you wish particularly to avoid."

        "We should have to be careful about that, but it might be an advantage in other ways."

        "Pigs might fly. I'll tell you this. Tolbooth's dead against our letting her have anything further to do with the case. Said we shall be mugs if we do. . . . And there's her safety to consider as well.

        "It comes to this. I know we promised her, and if she holds us to it we don't want to refuse. But from now on you'll be in charge of the case. If you ask for Miss Wingrove's help, we'll assign her to you. But it will be your responsibility. If anything goes wrong, you've been warned, and you'll get the blame."

        "That's a safe guess; though it doesn't sound fair to me. But, if you put it like that, you know I've got to have her. She's got our word for it, and I couldn't get out of it if I tried."

        "No," the superintendent replied drily. "I don't say you could." He added: "If you're asked to send in your resignations there's no law against getting married afterwards. Not if you're both alive."

        Inspector Cauldron flushed angrily. "I don't know why on earth you should say that. I've never - - And I don't suppose such an idea's ever entered her head. Why, till after she'd gone off to Scotland, we all thought she was engaged to Limbrook."

        "Except Tolbooth. Still, you're the best judge. I always thought she was an extremely sensible girl.

        Inspector Cauldron looked better pleased as he heard this, thinking that it had a complimentary sound, but he thought again and was less sure.

CHAPTER II

MISS WINGROVE REQUIRES A HUSBAND

BILLIE WINGROVE came out of Staccato's and took a taxi to the headquarters of the C.I.D., where Inspector Cauldron was waiting for her report.

        "Yes, I've seen him," she said. "I should know him anywhere now. It isn't a face you'd forget quickly."

        "He didn't notice you?"

        "No. Why should he? I only stood in the doorway for a moment. There were people going in and out all the time."

        "You're sure you'd never seen him before?"

        "Certain. I don't see how or where he should have seen me. It's not likely at all."

        "No. I don't think it is. It might have been worth while, as you were there, to get near him, and see what you could overhear."

        "I couldn't have done that. Not in these clothes."

        "I don't see - - "

        "No. You wouldn't. . . . But," she added more kindly, seeing the hurt expression on the inspector's face which her retorts too frequently produced, "you're quite bright in some ways. . . . You say he often has the same table?"

        "Yes. Sometimes with lady friends. Sometimes alone."

        "There were two with him tonight."

        "Yes. The Misses Midhurst. We're checking up on all his friends. But there's no harm in them. Rich and dull. We might manage to get someone to introduce you to them under another name, and you'd get to know him through them."

        "He's often with them?"

        "Yes. Just at present. Wants to make some use of them, of course."

        "They look decent."

        "So they probably are."

        "Well, that would be one way. But I've thought of something quicker. Could you get me a respectable husband by this time tomorrow?"

        "If you mean this for a proposal - - "

        "Don't be silly. He'd know you more likely than not. I want someone I've never met. Someone who'll look as though he might dine there regularly, and take his

        "Any other qualifications?"

        "Yes. He'll have to be the sort of man who'll leave the table on sudden business - not the first night - without remembering to come back, or that I haven't money to pay the bill."

        "It might succeed." The tone was more doubtful than the words. Inspector Cauldron had to remind himself that the obligations of his office were more important than the pleasure of acting husband to a girl he liked, or the possible danger of what she proposed to do.

        "There's no reason it shouldn't," she answered confidently. "Unless you can think of a better plan."

        But as Inspector Cauldron had no better one to propose, he could only say: "You'll have to sheer off at the first sign of recognition, however slight, or even if you think there's a doubt in his mind. If he started enquiring, he'd be sure to find out who you are, and he'd stick at nothing to - - "

        "Of course. I see that. If he didn't trust me, there'd be no sense in going on. I should be no use at all."

        "I don't think the worst danger's with him. It's that he may introduce you to someone of the gang that you've met before."

        "Or they may see us together. That's why we shall have to work fast. But the first thing is for you to get me the best husband you can."

        Inspector Cauldron did not doubt that this detail could be arranged, but he felt that it required the assistance of higher powers. He went to consult Superintendent Backwash, and met Chief Inspector Tolbooth leaving that gentleman's office.

        "How's it going?" he asked with a friendliness which was more sparingly shown to those of equal rank to his own; and, when he heard what was proposed, he gave it a benediction which Inspector Cauldron was glad to have.

        "It's a thousand to one," he said, "that he won't recognize a girl that it's a hundred to one that he's never seen. He'll have heard all about her, of course; but that's different. And a married woman, and differently dressed, and he not thinking we're on his track at all. . . . No, It's a safe bet, if she does it properly, he'll suspect nothing at all; and you can trust her for that. It's not often you get looks and brains under one hat, but - why don't you get someone to marry her in earnest? It oughtn't to be a hard job, and there'd be no need to have the ring charged to our expenses account."

        Inspector Cauldron said irritably: "Of course, she wouldn't do anything of the kind."

        "No? How do you know she hasn't got someone in mind for the part? That may be what gave her the idea?"

        "Because, if she had, she wouldn't have asked me to find him."

        "How do you know she won't turn him down, and bring out her own exhibit?. . . But," he added, more seriously, "I'll tell you one thing, Boyle isn't likely to have any of his gang at Staccato's, or hanging anywhere round there. He's far too wary for that. If Miss Wingrove only meets him there, I should say there's very little risk that she'll see anyone she'd rather not. It would be another matter if she went about with him in other places. She'd have to be very cautious of that."

        "Then the next thing seems to be to get hold of the right man."

*        *        *        *        *

        Mr. Albert Risdon's blue saloon car halted at the pavement, and Billie Wingrove, coming out of the side exit of the London Pavilion with commendable punctuality, got in, and sat down at her husband's side. She had no need to identify the car with a second glance, for she had its number, which was beyond duplication.

        Inspector Cauldron, watching inconspicuously from the opposite corner, felt that the occasion for jealousy should not arise. To him, the man whom Superintendent Backwash had chosen was of an appearance that no sensible woman would approve. He decided that he lacked charm. Yet such men do continue their species, which implies wives.

        But Mr. Risdon had another quality, more important in the superintendent's eyes than any presence or lack of charm. He lacked curiosity. And what was required of him was of a simplicity which could not easily err, especially as he did not know the full purpose of what he did.

        He could not make the mistake of using Billie's real name, which he did not know. His wife was to be Clara to him. He could, on the reliable authority of the friend of Superintendent Backwash who had brought him upon the scene, be trusted to treat her in the casual manner of an established husband, for he treated all women thus.

        Billie looked at her pseudo spouse with friendly but appraising eyes. His own were on the road, as they ought to be. He said: "I suppose we go straight there?"

        "Yes," hie said, "it's about the right time - Albert. Or should I say Bert?"

        "It's a free country," he said, giving her a half glance which showed little consciousness of the attractions of the wife who had been so curiously thrust upon him. "Most people do."

        "Then it must be right for your wife. . . . Or doesn't she? . . . Or am I the only one?"

        "I'm not married, if you mean that."

        "I expect that makes it a bit simpler. But I don't suppose you'll have me on your hands for more than a few nights - evenings I should have said."

        Billie became aware with a furious inward anger that she was blushing at the implication of an ill-chosen word. Surely she was not such a - - ? But a well-started blush is beyond control.

        However, Albert appeared unconscious alike of her confusion or any occasion for it. He answered with more politeness in the words than the casual tone in which they were said: "If it's dozens, I shan't mind."

        "Well, it wouldn't be as bad as though we were what we pretend. I mean, you won't have to go on paying for me. I suppose the police will be doing that."

        "You bet. I shouldn't have been likely to take it on else."

        Obviously not. But Billie considered that it might have been better put. She would have agreed with Inspector Cauldron that Albert lacked charm. She said: "Here we are. . . . Yes, but I wasn't sure that you'd know the place. . . . You'd better let me go first. I know where I want us to sit."

        "You'll have to wait in the vestibule a few minutes while I get rid of the car."

        "Very well."

        The dining-room at Staccato's opens directly into the outer hall. Seated there, Billie could see the corner which the Hon. Peter Boyle frequented, and was almost sure that he had not come. That was well, for, if they were in their seats first, there could be no appearance of deliberately getting near him.

        Joined by Bert, she led the way directly to the table where she had seen him before, and the head waiter, observing strangers to enter where most of the customers were known, steered his course as directly to her.

        Offering to seat herself at Boyle's table, she expected to be guided to one of those nearby, which, at this early hour, were equally vacant, but the head waiter made no demur, placing her chair with the bland obsequiousness natural to his kind.

        This seemed even better than she could have reasonably expected. Was she to have the Hon. Peter at her right hand for the many opportunities which a dinner gives? No, she found, she was not, for this evening at least, for the gentleman did not come. And when she rose at last from a prolonged meal, and asked that the seats they had occupied should be reserved for the next night, she was told, with polite regret, that it was impossible, as the table was already engaged. Very well, she said, the next one would do. The name? Mr. and Mrs. Risdon. The waiter wrote it down. She could depend upon the seats being reserved

        She left with some depression, feeling that the evening had been wasted, but Superintendent Backwash thought differently.

        "You've made a good start," he said, "that isn't likely to rouse suspicion. You never know with these gangs. Even one of the waiters there may be in it. Boyle might use him to pass notes to those who would go there at different times. Now, tomorrow you'd better go early. Be sure to get there before Boyle, and come away as soon as your meal's done. Don't linger or take the slightest notice of him. It'll be the surest way in the end."

        Billie recognized the voice of experience, and that there was wisdom in what it said. She went early on the next night, and was already well advanced upon the entré course before the Hon. Peter sat down, this time with two male companions, at the adjoining table.

        The men with whom he came were strangers to her. Fragments of conversation which reached her ears were of a political rather than a business character, and certainly, unless they talked in code, which she was disinclined to believe, were not concerned with illicit traffic of any kind

        Her attention to the next table, which, for this occasion, must be of ears rather than eyes, was rendered easier by the fact that Albert Risdon talked little, his mind being primarily fixed upon what he ate. Yet he talked at times, with an indifference to what went on around him which she must endeavour to equal.

        She found occasion to look closely at Peter Boyle, without attracting his attention. She tried to read what he was, in a woman's way, which it was surely important for her to know.

        She saw a man who was still young, with straw-coloured, short-cropped hair, slightly but not flabbily rotund, with a rather round though otherwise hard-featured face, quietly though expensively dressed - a gentleman by conventional standards, superficially pleasant in manner, and very confident of himself. He was not one whom, had she met him in other ways, would have appeared to her to be of a criminal type, but now she heard a hard note in the pleasant voice, and read cruelty in firm, rather thin lips.

        She noticed also that he was exacting in what he ate, twice sending back plates which were not to his precise requirement. Doubtless he paid freely, but he would have value for what he paid. He attached importance to physical comfort; and to such a man, his own fortune being precarious, the opportunity to acquire wealth, by whatever means, would be hard to resist.

        The fragments of conversation she caught appeared to relate to the position of a parliamentary under-secretary, who might be called upon to resign, which one of Boyle's companions was being persuaded by the other two to use his influence to avert. There might be some connection between that and the activities of the Mildew Gang, but it seemed unlikely to her. Anyway, she did not delay after her companion's meal came to its somewhat protracted conclusion. "I think we ought to be going now, Bert," she said, with a faint asperity in her voice which carried to the next table, and drew the attention of the Hon. Peter, so that their eyes met as she rose, and she was conscious that his remained upon her after her own had turned indifferently away.

CHAPTER III

A YOUNG WIFE IN TROUBLE

MR. AND MRS. RISDON went to Staccato's every night during the next week, twice again seeing Boyle there with different friends, and then, on the next occasion, Billie decided that it was time to try the trick for which such-elaborate preparations had been made. So she told her partner as they drove through Piccadilly, and made one or two final suggestions as to the details of the event, which were rather brusquely received.

        "Yes," he said impatiently, "Superintendent Backwash explained all that."

        "It's just as well in these matters to leave nothing to chance, she retorted, with a sharpness which did not come into her voice for the first time in dealing with this adopted husband, who, in the short period of their association, she had come near to actively disliking. Not that he took any unfair advantage of his position. Rather the other way! Of course, it would have been intolerable if he had; but still there might be some awareness of opportunity. Of course, an oversensitive honour - - But no, she could not delude herself in that way. And now she began to doubt whether Superintendent Backwash might not have made an absolute error in his selection. Would Risdon be equal to doing even the short and simple part which was required of him in a natural manner?

        Actually, he was not; but, all the same, the superintendent's astuteness was not condemned.

        Peter Boyle arrived almost as soon as themselves. He had with him the Misses Midhurst, whom Billie had seen on her first visit to the restaurant. A nearer inspection approved Inspector Cauldron's description of them. If she were any judge of her sex, there were no criminal secrets contained in their bovine heads. She observed, without a direct glance, as most women can, that their dresses were costly in material rather than design, that they wore valuable but old-fashioned jewellery, and that their podgy figures were such as will make the most skilful dressmaker despair.

        She saw also that they were animated beyond what she supposed to be their normal conditions. "I don't suppose," she thought unkindly, "that they could be roused to greater excitement by anything less than a bomb." Two minutes later she had concluded that Peter Boyle was paying serious court to the younger woman, who was obviously flattered by his attentions. What could be the meaning of that? Natural attraction? It was scarcely a possible explanation. Money? He was getting plenty in his own nefarious manner. There must be some other motive, which it might be worth her while to discover. She began to doubt whether she would not do better to abandon her purpose for this occasion, and concentrate on hearing what she could; and while she hesitated, considering what discreet words she could choose to convey her meaning to one who was not always quick to understand an oblique phrase, her chance went, for Albert brought his hand down on the table with a bang that rattled silver and glass, and drew the attention of those around as he exclaimed: "Hang it all! There's a man I've got to meet at the club, and I clean forgot." He pulled out his watch and stared at it with a scared expression. "I'll have to bolt, Clara," he said loudly; "it may mean hundreds to me." He picked up his hat, which he had made a habit of depositing against the rail of his chair, pushed awkwardly past an astonished waiter, and hurried out through the swing-doors, with his eyes fixed on the ground.

        It was a performance which had been carefully rehearsed in his own mind, and which he thought he had done well. So he had. Much better than he was likely to guess.

        The eyes of the head-waiter, hovering near, met those of Peter Boyle, and the eyebrows of that gentleman lifted slightly. As clearly as though they exchanged words, they had agreed that it was a false performance, very clumsily done. Peter Boyle's eyes were directed upon the abandoned wife, and his conclusion was strengthened by signs of anger and confusion which she was not instant to hide.

        Her thought was: "He's ruined everything I never thought he'd be such a fool as that. Why couldn't he do it in a quiet, natural way?" And then, being far from a fool herself, she saw that it was a folly that might be no hindrance to her.

        She was confirmed in this opinion as she heard the waiter's voice at her side, deferential but firm: "Madam would like her bill?"

        It was an insult, however civilly spoken, for she had not finished a normal meal, and she saw that, if the Hon. E Peter should fail to play his allotted part, there might be some real unpleasantness to be faced, though she might have no fear of ultimate legal consequences, being assured of the powerful protection of Scotland Yard.

        "The bill?" she echoed, with an agitation not entirely assumed, and all the more natural in consequence. "Yes, of course. But I haven't finished yet. At least - - Yes, of course."

        She opened her handbag as she spoke, and drew out a notecase the emptiness of which was apparent to a dozen pairs of surrounding eyes, at which she made an effort to look surprised.

        "I'm afraid," she said, "I haven't got that much with me. Mr. Risdon left so hurriedly, I'm sure he didn't think - - I suppose it will be alright if he pays you tomorrow. You won't mind waiting till then?'

        By this time she had so far forgotten the purpose of what she did that she felt a real desire to obtain the consent which would have wrecked the plan so elaborately prepared. But the head-waiter was now at the side of his subordinate, and took control of the conversation.

        "Madam's husband will be sure to return when he recalls that he left her with the bill unpaid."

        "I don't think," she replied, with some recovery of her wits and her self-control, "that we can be sure of that. He's so forgetful. And he wouldn't know that I was so short."

        "Then perhaps Madam would like to telephone to the gentleman's club?"

        "I'm afraid that I don't know what club it is."

        The head-waiter's incredulity showed through the veneer of his habitual deference - a veneer which was wearing thin. "Perhaps Madam will be kind enough to come with me to the office?"

        The polite words were an order not to be disobeyed. There was as much of genuine as simulated appeal in Billie's eyes as she turned them directly toward the Hon. Peter. There was no doubt that his eyes would be upon her. Everyone's were.

        She met a glance which was hard to read. The Hon. Peter had learnt the importance of keeping his thoughts unbetrayed by facial expression. But she judged correctly that she had failed. He appeared gravely interested, but wholly aloof. Well, it must be the manager's office for her, and the best get-out she could contrive! After all, she thought with sudden relief, as she had failed, a call to Inspector Cauldron on the manager's telephone would end any further fuss over the bill. But it would not be pleasant to admit the failure of her elaborate and rather expensive trap. . . .

        It was Boyle's younger companion who interrupted this moment's thought. She was fumbling in her bag, and saying: "If I could be of any assistance - If you would excuse - - " Billie saw that she was apologizing nervously for what she offered to do. "She's a dear," she thought, with an instant's regret of her previous contemptuous judgement; "but it's failure for me, just the same. . . ." And then she saw it was not.

        For the Hon Peter had been roused to action. "No, Bella," he was saying, in his pleasantest voice, "you'd better leave this to me." His own notecase was out. He turned to Billie to say: "Of course, we saw how it was. It s a thing that might happen to any of us. If you'll be kind enough to allow me - - " He held out two one-pound notes. "Oh, of course you can let me have them back."

        "It's very kind of you," Billie responded, with real gratitude in the glance which she gave to the one whose sympathy had been spontaneous and sincere. "It had placed me rather awkwardly. Of course, Mr. Risdon didn't think."

        The Hon. Peter expressed no opinion upon that.

        Billie went on: "If you'll let me have your address, I'll send it to you as soon as I get home."

        The Hon. Peter said that there would be no need to trouble. "I think I've noticed you're often here. Any time you happen to see me will do."

        "Yes, we come here sometimes. But I'm not sure that we shall again." The Hon. Peter did not appear surprised at that. He produced a card. Billie read it as she slipped it into her bag: 17 Rivers Square. Not the address at which he was commonly known. Not that which the telephone book or the directory gave. But it is no crime to have more than one address, or to pass a card so that its face is not visible to a lady seated at your right hand. She said: "My husband shall return it to you himself in the morning. I think he ought to apologize."

        She spoke with the mendacity which her new profession must teach her to practise. She supposed she had done with Albert now. She intended to go herself. The Hon. Peter did not look pleased. "It is to you he should apologize, not to me," he said reasonably. "It will be all right if you post it."

        The face of the head waiter had become expressionless. He still thought it was a fishy affair. But the bill was being paid. There was no more to be said. The Hon. Peter Boyle was a valued guest, and one who tipped well enough. He retired discreetly.

        Billie sat down while her own waiter went for change. He came back to see her gather it from the plate without leaving the florin which he was accustomed to get. He could hardly be surprised at that!

        "Madam will take coffee?" he asked with renewed obsequiousness.

        "Madam will take nothing more here," she replied sharply, and thought next moment that she was unfair. The incident must have appeared phoney, which was just what, in fact, it had been. She had no right to resent any indignity which she had deliberately brought on herself. She laid a two-shilling piece by her plate as she rose to go.

        She thanked the Hon. Peter again with her eyes, and received his friendliest, smoothest smile.

        "She looks too good for that bounder," he said, as she passed out of hearing. "It's queer how some women marry the men they do. . . . I wonder whether I shall see that two quid again."

        "I don't think," the woman who was infatuated by him replied, "that some women have much judgement where men are concerned. But I feel sure that she'll pay it back."

        "I dare say you're right," he replied carelessly. An idea moved dimly in the back of his mind. "Risdon's the name. I suppose I could find out who they are," he thought. "But it's not likely that it would be worth while. Almost certainly not. . . . And if she does send it back, she'll probably put her address."

CHAPTER IV

POLITENESS OF PETER BOYLE

"THE Rivers Square flat," Inspector Cauldron said, "is a place he's had since his college days. He uses it, on and off, to entertain the less-reputable of his lady friends. We've no reason to suppose that it's being used for the dope business. Probably not. He had it long before he met Mildew. We've had it watched since we've taken him in hand, and he hasn't been there as much as once a week, and no one except the tradespeople have been calling. Besides that, we've had the telephone tapped, and it hasn't been used except that he's rung up the housekeeper once or twice for quite natural reasons. The trouble is that if you call there you won't be likely to find him in."

        "I might telephone to say I'm coming."

        "And you think, if the housekeeper told him, he'd arrange to be in? Well, perhaps he might. But it wouldn't do, because the telephone number's not in the directory, and he'd wonder how you'd got hold of it."

        "Then you've got to watch when he goes there, and let me know."

        "Yes, I suppose we must. And you've got to be ready to go sharp. He's not got the flat in use now, and if he looks in, it will probably be only to pay the housekeeper, and things like that, and he might be gone in an hour."

        "Well, I must just hang about ready. It seems it's the only way."

        "I don't like it.; I wish you could have gone on meeting him at Staccato's."

        "Well, I couldn't. Not after Albert's behaviour there. If you'd got me a better husband - - "

        "You must thank the superintendent for him. But we all think he did splendidly. . . . All the same, I don't like you going alone to that flat."

        "I thought married women could go anywhere. And of course I must go alone. . . . I suppose I might take a baby. It's something that a married woman's quite likely to have."

        "Don't be absurd. I don't think you see how serious the whole thing is."

        "Not after all I've been through before? You must think I'm dense. Of course, we know he's a murderer, and I don't suppose there are many things he wouldn't do. But I'm quite serious when I say that I don't think there's any risk in calling there to pay back the loan. It's not a place he'll want to advertise with any scandal or row, and from what you say nobody who knows me is likely to be going there, and there'll be nothing strange about a lady the housekeeper doesn't know ringing the bell. . . . The curse is that we don't know how long we shall have to wait before I can go."

        This conversation took place at Scotland Yard on the morning after the Hon. Peter had come to Billie's rescue so generously in the presence of the lady he sought to charm, and it turned out that the waiting would not be long. For on the following morning Billie, having finished breakfast an hour before, was idling time in her own rooms, as she had been persuaded reluctantly to do, when the telephone rang, and she heard Inspector Cauldron's voice at the other end of the wire: "Can you be ready to go to Boyle's flat in ten minutes from now?"

        "Say three?"

        "Ten's better. It will be time enough, and we don't want you to leave the house until there's some protection for you outside."

        Billie made no protest at this, though she thought her present danger was not great. It was true that, while the Hon. Peter might not suspect her as Mrs. Risdon, he might still have given orders for the removal of the young woman who had brought his late chief under the notice of the police, and had done so much harm in other directions to the profitable operations of the gang he now ruled. She knew, therefore, that she must walk in a double danger, either that he might identify her in her assumed character, or be arranging for her destruction in her proper person even though he might not suspect the deception which she was practising upon him. But now that Eustace had gone to Paris, where he had the prospect of obtaining an appointment which would remove him to the remote safety of Anatolia, she had gone herself, at Inspector Cauldron's urgent advice, to a little flat in St. John's Wood, the arrangements and transit having been conducted in such a manner that it was certain that she could not have been followed, and probable that she would not be easy to trace.

        She had almost given up calling at Scotland Yard, and had promised not to go out without giving sufficient notice on the telephone to the local police station to allow of her being unobtrusively watched.

        Now she learned that Boyle had telephoned his house-keeper a few minutes earlier to enquire whether she had had any letters or callers, and on receiving a negative reply had said that he would be coming round in an hour's time.

        The enquiry concerning callers was of no certain significance, and the projected visit might have no relation to herself, but there was an opposite probability. Might he not he going to a place which he did not visit frequently for the particular purpose of instructing the woman as to her course of action if a Mrs. Risdon should ring the bell? It was an idea which might have sinister rather than pleasurable implications, but nothing could go beyond an uncertain guess, and her object being to gain the acquaintance and confidence of the Hon. Peter, she must not be less than content that the occasion had come.

        In spite of the slight delay caused by a prudent change of taxis in Oxford Street, she was at Boyle's door within half an hour of receiving Inspector Cauldron's message. As she pressed the bell, she was conscious that she felt nothing of the timidity, approaching panic, which had disturbed her as she had been on the threshold of other, perhaps less dangerous, interviews, and which had only left her as the moment of conflict came.

        She had the confidence of a legitimate errand, however its occasion had been contrived. She knew that, whatever interest Boyle might take in the question of how she would return his loan, he could have no expectation that she would be coming at that particular time. She saw also that it was extremely unlikely that even those members of the gang from which he kept so scrupulously aloof, but with whom he must have an inevitable minimum of personal contact, would be invited to, or perhaps even know of the existence of, this private flat, which he reserved for assignations of another kind. There might, indeed, be few places in which she could procure a surer momentary safety, even though he should know her for whom she was.

        As she indulged herself in this pleasant confidence, the door was opened by an elderly woman of a sour severity of aspect, which did not relax at the sight of her visitor, or in response to the deliberately smiling manner in which Billie asked if she might see Mr. Boyle.

        Billie judged that the Hon. Peter's lady visitors must look to him for any cordiality of reception they might hope to find. Not that the woman appeared hostile. She was of a negative coldness. Not sufficiently alive to have any criminal potentialities. Not likely to be called a lady, but one to whom the invidious "ladylike" might be applied.

        "You have an appointment?" she asked indifferently.

        "Not exactly. My name is Risdon - Mrs. Risdon. Mr. Boyle is expecting me to call - or to hear from me. He'll know what it's about."

        "You'd better come in."

        She showed no sign of recognizing the name, and Billie, assuming the instructions she had received, had a moment's doubt of whether she had made a correct judgement of the masklike face; but it might be natural enough. No doubt Boyle knew her well enough to judge how much or how little should be said to secure his ends.

        The woman led her along a softly carpeted passage, knocked perfunctorily on a closed door, entered with the words, "A Mrs. Risdon to see you, sir," and withdrew as Boyle rose from a low fireside chair to receive his visitor.

        "This," he said, with smiling emphasis, "is an unexpected pleasure."

        "I hope you didn't think that I should forget to return the loan."

        "I didn't know you would come yourself."

        "It seemed the best thing to do. . . . I'm fortunate to have found you in."

        "Yes; you certainly are. It's not often I'm here at this time of day."

        "Then I'm all the more fortunate." Billie had drawn two pound-notes from her bag as these exchanges took place, and laid them on the table. Boyle had drawn forward a chair. "Please don't stand," he said.

        "I don't think I should stay," she replied, but with hesitation in her voice. It was a hesitation deliberately assumed. She had no intention of making an immediate exit. She had seldom felt more at ease, more completely mistress of a situation and of herself.

        He was equally sure that the interview was in his hands, to be controlled as he would. But though equally at ease, he was more puzzled than she. Why, and in what attitude to himself, had this personal visit been made? He had not doubted that her own part in the restaurant scene had been genuine. He had not the faintest suspicion of whom she was. But he was disinclined to believe in the performance which Risdon had put up. Was she unsuitably married to an impecunious bounder? Had she made this needless personal call with some vague hope that a friendship might develop? Was it possible that it would be a relief to her if she could leave with those two notes still in her bag?

        He had seduced several women of his own class, which had been an easier matter among those with whom he associated than would have been the case in more self-respecting circles. He had bought those who had money enough of their own, but desired more. He had learned the power of money rather than its limitations.

        It was not strange that he should be attracted by one who was attractive both by his own standards and better ones than he was accustomed to use. And there was the confusingly alluring fact that she was not acting exactly as one of her nature, whether married or single, would be likely to do.

        He said: "But you sent your taxi away. . . . If you will wait a few minutes I shall be able to drive you home."

        "I'm afraid I can't let you do that. . . . Mr. Risdon doesn't know I have come. . . . In fact, he doesn't know that I had to borrow the money."

        "But he must have wanted to know - - "

        "No. I might have had enough with me. I don't think he thought about it at all."

        Billie had taken this line of explanation under the necessity of instantly finding some plausible excuse for declining the offered lift. Actually, she did not know with exactness where Risdon lived. She went on quickly, in determination to turn the conversation her own way rather than follow his: "I wonder how you knew that I'd sent the taxi away?"

        "I happened to be looking down into the street at the time."

        "I see."

        In an absent-minded manner, as they talked, she had taken the proffered chair, and he had resumed his. He leant forward, offering his cigarette-case, which she declined. "I'm afraid I don't smoke," she said, with a smile.

        "No. I should have remembered noticing that," he replied, surprising her for the first time, for she had not supposed that she had been observed with such particularity from the adjoining table. He added: "Pity. You don't know what you miss."

        "No. How could I?"

        "Then why not try? . . . You'll take a drink, anyway?"

        "Thank you, but it's a bit early for that, isn't it? . . . I really ought not to stay." She had pulled off a glove in an idle gesture as she sat, and she now began to draw it on, as though preparing to go. He said abruptly:

        "What does your husband do? I mean, what occupation is he?"

        "Oh, he's something in the City."

        "Most men are."

        "I don't know more exactly than that."

        "You needn't tell me, if you don't want to. I only thought I might have been able to put something in his way. I know a good many - - "

        "I don't see why you should think of that."

        "I'm not sure that I do myself." He smiled at her as he said this, as one amused if not puzzled by his own mood. There was genuine admiration - friendly, or something more - in the eyes that were fixed upon her. But she thought that the glance was hard and calculating under its geniality. Was she prejudiced, she wondered, by what she knew, or did it enable her to see truly where she might otherwise have been duped? But, anyway, he could be nothing to her. Nothing, at least, but what she meant him to be.

        She rose, feeling that she must not be too obviously responsive to that which his words and manner implied. She saw clearly that to draw back was to draw him on, and on to ground which would be safer for her.

        Like the drawn glove, her motion stirred him to a new verbal advance.

        "I shan't see you at Staccato's? You said you might not go there again?"

        "Well," she replied doubtfully, "after the beastly way they behaved, it's not likely we shall - not unless Albert makes a fuss. Of course, he doesn't know what happened after he left."

        It was not quite, she felt, what her reply should have been. But she was confused between obtruding facts and the fictions she sought to build. She was finding the difference between outlining a lie and elaborating it in convincing detail. But her excuse for not being driven home, and her evasion of her husband's occupation, had roused no doubt in his mind. No man is so easily deceived as one whose own aim is to deceive, or to overreach. Now he held to the suggestion he had purposed to make, without regard to the fact that she had not said with any certainty that she would not go to Staccato's again.

        "Carter's," he said, "Carter's, in Piccadilly, isn't a bad place. I go there sometimes myself. Wednesday nights more often than not."

        "I don't know Carter's," she said, with the satisfaction of uttering a truthful word. "But I've no doubt, if you say so, there's a good meal to be got there. . . . But I must go now."

        He looked hesitantly at the money on the table, and decided that it might be a mistake to make a difficulty of its acceptance.

        He played a more cautious card. "I hope you didn't have to come far to bring that money. . . . You see, I've no idea where you live."

        "Perhaps," she said enigmatically, "it's just as well that you don't." He could make what he would of that! "But if I should happen to try Carter's, you say Wednesday's a good night to choose?"

        "Yes. I don't think you could do better than that. Shall we make it a promise for Wednesday next?"

        "No. I couldn't promise. But I don't say that I shan't be there."

        She left with a feeling that she had done well enough, though she had become more conscious of the difficulty, and of some distasteful features, of the part she had elected to play.

CHAPTER V

SECOND RESTAURANT SCENE

THERE could be few things surer than that Billie would be at Carter's Restaurant on the next Wednesday evening, though neither she nor those to whom she made her report were blind to the danger of what she did.

        "You've got to work fast now," Superintendent Backwash said, with the slow deliberation which so delusively concealed the agility both of body and mind of which he would be capable when a moment for action came. "You can't say that Carter's is a place of bad reputation. A lot of the best people go there, and its management wouldn't allow any loose conduct. Their licence is worth too much to them for that. But a lot of others go there, whom they couldn't keep out if they would. Mayfair playboys, and - well, a lot of those we haven't handled till now, but may be inviting to give us a call here tomorrow if not today.

        "It's just the place he might choose for a cloakroom word, or a slipped note to a man he didn't meet anywhere else, and the fact that he's most often to be found there on a particular day - if that's true - makes it more likely still.

        "You can't work too fast now, if you mean to get us the goods, or come through with a whole skin. . . . We don't want you to take any more risks than you can help, or go on a minute more than you must. But if you can gain his confidence enough to get us a single link - a name or the method by which he keeps in touch with his brother thugs - we'll call you off and work on it our own way."

        "I don't mind doing anything really necessary. It sounds silly to talk about dropping it just when I should have - -

        "I don't care how silly it sounds. I wasn't only thinking of you. Don't you see that if he tumbles to who you are it tells him we're on his track, and the job's going to be twice as hard as it is now? That's why Tolbooth told us we might be mugs to put you on it at all. . . . But I don't say even he really thinks that. You've done well so far - done well every time, and it's more likely than not that you will now."

        Billie, hearing this, wished she were equally sanguine, but though she was normally of a buoyant mind, she did not like the way in which she had been praised. It was good in itself, and yet had an ominous sound. No one always succeeds. She must hope that the law of averages would not intrude. . . .

        She entered Carter's with eyes that were as alert for the presence of others as for the man whom she went to meet, though there was little protection in that, for she was too likely to be known by those whom she did not know. But all the faces were strange to her, until she saw Boyle seated at a table for two in a far corner of the room. The vacant chair was tilted forward, as for an expected guest, which was a dubious invitation to her; but they recognized each other at the same instant, and he rose to adjust the chair to a more hospitable angle. There being unmistakable meaning in that, she went forward confidently.

        "You made sure I should come?" she said lightly, as she took the seat, with no more formal greeting.

        "I thought you would be glad of a change."

        She admired the neatness of the reply, with its suggestion that her husband was one of whom it must be easy to tire; and other implications, of which she could make more if she would. She was most alert at this moment to judge whether he had any suspicion of her, but she was foiled by one who was practised to control expression. Her thought was: "I can tell what he wants me to think; but I don't know what he's thinking. I never should." Perhaps it would be better, even if more dangerous, so. It would be beastly to establish any real intimacy with a man, and then betray him to the law, though he were the worst criminal walking loose in the London streets. As it was, the question could not arise. They both played for their own hands. However near they might draw, there would still be a space that they could not bridge. She said: "Oh, I suppose we all get bored at times, more or less," and became absorbed in the menu card which the waiter offered.

        She might have been somewhat less fearful of Boyle, if not of the suspicions of other eyes, had she known how little his thoughts during recent days had been directed to the evil gang which Mildew's end had left in his control.

        For the time, a prudent policy had reduced its activities, even to a point at which its income languished and many of its customers suffered the pangs of deprivation from their accustomed drugs. It was a position which had allowed him more leisure to think of her.

        He had a fixed and well-pondered purpose, if she should come, as he thought she would, of questioning her concerning the conditions of her present life sufficiently to judge whether he would find it easy to persuade her to leave an unsatisfactory husband - or, at least, to be unfaithful to him - on any terms he would think it worth while to make. He did not suppose that their encounter, which had the aspect of utter chance, was likely to have roused any passion for himself, though he did not underrate his own attractions; but there was the fact that she had come herself to return the loan, for which the post would have been a sufficient medium. If she should come to Carter's also, he might reasonably conclude that parley, if not surrender, was in her mind.

        And seeing her sitting opposite to him now, with smiling lips, and a hint of controlled excitement in her eyes, of the true cause of which he had no suspicion at all, he might still feel that she was enigmatic, but could not doubt that he was less than disagreeable to her.

        On her side she was better prepared than had been the case at their last meeting for the attack that she had had to meet. She had constructed a detailed picture of life with Albert, sordid and dreary, which, had that gentleman been of a more alluring type, it might have been less easy to do.

        The Hon. Peter skirmished lightly for a while as the meal proceeded. He learned that she disliked Widowers' Houses. They exchanged opinions upon the dancing of Fred Astaire. She found that he had no knowledge of classical music. Then she faced a sudden frontal assault: "I hope that Mr. Risdon won't be missing you tonight? It was very good of him to let you come."

        "Albert," she answered deliberately, "doesn't know anything about it. I told him I shouldn't meet him tonight."

        "You usually dine out?"

        "Albert has never dined at home since we lost the cook."

        "An irreplaceable loss?"

        "Yes. So far. Albert isn't very easy to please."

        "Well, it has been good fortune for me."

        She roused herself to the game that she had to play. Her eyes lied their best as she answered: "It's nice of you to say that."

        "I always say what I think."

        "That," she thought, "is about the biggest lie that you ever told." But who was she to condemn mendacity while she studied hard in the same school? She answered lightly: "That's a bit more than I'd like to say. I reckon few women would."

        "You mean that we should be too much praised for our own good?"

        "Oh, it might be the other way! But - - "

        Her voice broke off abruptly, as her eyes met those of a lady who had just seated herself at the next table. She controlled herself to make no response to the friendly smile she received. Her first impulse, instinctive rather than reasoned, was to deny an inopportune acquaintance. But was it no more than that? It was hard to hope.

        "Something gone wrong?" he asked. The tone was of the casual interest that the moment's confusion required, but she felt that his curiosity had been aroused.

        "No. It wasn't anything really. I thought for a moment that a crumb had gone the wrong way."

        He did not believe her. He made the correct guess that she had seen someone there whom it was annoying to meet. But that was natural enough. Anyone known to her husband might make trouble by repeating that he had seen her there. Seeking to draw her confidence, he said: "It's a small world."

        "Yes. I suppose it is. I learnt its size once. And its weight. But I'm afraid I've forgotten both. What made you say that?"

        "I thought perhaps there was someone here you weren't anxious to meet."

        "Oh, because of Albert? No, I shouldn't care if he knew. Not enough to lose any sleep. But there's no one here that I know. It isn't a place where I ever come. They're all strangers to me."

        He still did not believe, but he saw that she had no intention of treating him with a greater confidence. He led the conversation back to the light verbal fencing which had been its tenor before, and she must sustain her part as she best could while considering the implications of the fact that a woman whom she had met in association with a particularly loathsome member of the Mildew Gang was now seated at a table less than three yards away.

        It might - it seemed a poor possibility - but it just might mean nothing at all. It was true that Mrs. Ashbarton's hotel was not three hundred yards away. Many American visitors to London prefer to dine elsewhere than in the monotony of their own hotels. But she had denied an acquaintance which at any moment might be awkwardly claimed - with a use of her own name which, whether she should deny it or not, must have a deadly suggestiveness to her companion's ears.

        It was, indeed, almost certain that Mrs. Ashbarton would try to speak to her - perhaps all the more probable for the blank gaze that she had received. For there was a business bargain outstanding between them. Professor Ashbarton's posthumous MSS. should have arrived by now from the Princeton University, and she had agreed to edit them for the press. She realized that the lady, though she might be no more than an ignorant and comparatively innocent purchaser of the illicit goods in which Mildew's myrmidons dealt, might still wish to use this opportunity of meeting one with whom she had a business arrangement, and whose disappearance, on that supposition, might be inexplicable to her.

        If it were no more than a chance encounter, such an enquiry might be made, even in the hearing of her host, without any fatal revelation resulting, providing that she could be so quick to disclose her marriage - her change of name - that her own would not be mentioned. But that might not be easy to do! It would have been better to say that she had recognized an acquaintance, and then gone over to her table to speak to her. But she had made that impossible by her ill-judged denial that she knew anyone there. Now it seemed that there was no better course than to finish the meal quickly and withdraw, if possible, before the lady should make any further advance.

        With a stubborn effort of will, she concentrated her attention upon a host who was now looking at her with speculative eyes. The game might be lost or not, but it was her business to make sure that it should not be so by her further fault.

        "You will take coffee?" he was saying. She knew that he had asked he that once already, and made haste to answer with deliberately laughing eyes. "Yes, thank you. The fact is I ought to be getting back, and it's something I should be quite glad to forget. Have you noticed that the less you want time to pass, the faster it seems to go?"

        The Hon. Peter avoided a problem in relativity which even Einstein has left unsolved. "I hoped," he said, "that we could have had an evening together. It's not too late for a show."

        "Oh, I wish I could! But it's impossible for tonight. I'm simply bound to get back. Perhaps some other time - - "

        "Perhaps you could find your way to see me again some afternoon? I've got some old things that I should like to show you. There's a necklace that's just your style. A bit old-fashioned, but perhaps of no less value - and certainly of no less beauty - for that."

        It was a confident approach, almost insolent in the crudity of the reason it gave, and the hinted bribe, and it confused its hearer's mind with a doubt of how it would be most natural for her to react if she were of the disposition that her conduct must seem to show, further complicated by the doubt of whether Boyle's suspicions had been aroused, and whether she were being invited to anything less than a deadly trap. Even if he had not understood the cause of her confusion - even if Mrs Ashbarton were, a stranger to him - how, she asked her self, could she be sure that she would not be denounced in the next hour But against that risk she recalled Inspector Cauldron's opinion that Boyle's private flat would be about the last place which he would be likely to use for, any act of criminal violence - that it was against his practice to be physically concerned in such episodes, so that, if he should know her for whom she was, it might be one of the few places when at least a momentary safety might be secured - and, finally, that the acceptance, of the invitation would not compel her to go! Showing no sign of these crowding thoughts, and with no longer pause than such, an invitation would be likely to meet, she answered: "Oh, I don't know that I could! But the afternoon - if it weren't long. Yes, perhaps I might manage that. . . . I'm always interested in old-fashioned things.

        "Shall we say tomorrow? . . . As soon after lunch as you care to come?" He smiled, with an appearance of genuine pleasure, and genuine of its kind it might probably be. She noticed, as she had done before, the hardness of the mouth, that no smile could change, but that might have no sinister meaning for her. And her prompt acceptance appeared to have gained her immediate purpose. The Hon. Peter had already called for the bill, scrutinized it with a quick, competent glance, and was settling it with a sufficient though not generous tip, while she was about to rise, when she knew that her effort to retire unchallenged had become vain, if no more than that, for Mrs. Ashbarton stood beside her chair, and said cordially: "I hope you'll forgive me bothering you, but I've been trying to get in touch with you for several days, and I don't want to miss the chance now. I've just got the manuscripts from Princeton, and if you could spare a few hours tomorrow, Miss - - "

        She paused over the name - had she actually forgotten? - it was a mere second, but it was a chance that Billie did not miss. "Mrs. Risdon," she said lightly, glancing down at a ringed hand. "I should have let you know before now."

        "Then you must allow me to congratulate you both."

        It might be no more than a natural error. Billie thought it best to ignore it. She said hurriedly: "I'm sorry I can't manage tomorrow. But I'll ring you up, and let you know what I can do."

        She moved away as she spoke, leaving Mrs. Ashbarton feeling vaguely puzzled, vaguely rebuffed.

        The Hon. Peter, watching keenly a skirmish to which he lacked the clue, concluded that Billie was annoyed at an inopportune recognition, but saw no cause for any dissatisfaction thereat. If she were annoyed, it must, he thought, be because she considered that there was impropriety in her being there, or serious reason that it should not come to her husband's ears. The more she was conscious of that the more significant her presence became, and doubly so her acceptance of the invitation to visit him again at his own rooms.

        When he put her into a taxi at her request, and, in response to the question of what address he should give the driver, received a hesitant, "Oh, Paddington Station," he concluded that she was elaborating caution. He thought that he was embarked on a particularly interesting intrigue, which was likely to be of no great expense, and practically no trouble at all.

        But Billie was left with more doubts than it was pleasant to have.

CHAPTER VI

BILLIE DECLINES ARMS

"WE don't think," Superintendent Backwash said, with the note of official finality in his voice which suggested that if "we" didn't think anything it would be waste of time, if no worse than that, for anyone else to do so - "we don't think it's at all likely that Boyle would know Mrs. Ashbarton, or she him; and the fact that she seems to have assumed that he was your husband after you'd called yourself Mrs. Risdon supports that view.

        "Mrs. Ashbarton' has' been buying drugs for the last two years, not for herself, we believe, but for an invalid brother who's desperate to get them, as these addicts become. She paid a high price, so that it was worth Wellard's while to supply her himself, which he could do without risk or trouble, as they frequented the same hotels. We think you've done very well, and you can just put the woman out of your mind.

        Billie received this information with no evidence of gratitude or relief. "I wish," she said, "I didn't know differently."

        "What do you think you know?"

        "Oh, not that! I expect you're right about Mrs. Ashbarton. I meant about having done well. What you say only makes me feel sillier than I did before."

        "I don't see way it should."

        "I wish I didn't. Don't you see that I ought to have gone to a show with him, as he proposed? And ought not to have let myself be rushed into saying I'd go to his flat today? I ought to have got friendly slowly, and made him run after me. I just lost my head or my nerve - unless you can't lose something you haven't got."

        Superintendent Backwash was surprised by the bitterness in her voice. He saw that she was seriously disturbed by the direction in which the event was developing, and he could not deny that there was reason in what she said. He had a passing thought that it was well that Inspector Tolbooth was not there. His manner changed as he said: "You've got plenty of both. You were confronted by a very difficult and unexpected position. I still say you did very well. But if you feel it's too risky to go to his flat today, you've no need to. It might do him good to wait and find you didn't turn up."

        "Oh, I shall go now! I won't shirk facing the mess I've made. I might lose my nerve worse than; I have if I should do that. I've got to find a way through."

        Superintendent Backwash made no further protest. He opened a drawer in his desk, and drew out a small silver-mounted revolver.

        "It looks a toy," he said, handing it across the desk, "but you're bound to have something you can put into your bag without making it bulge. I can't offer you the weapon we serve out to the flying squads. And it isn't quite what it looks. If you're having trouble you'll find it will change the subject quickly enough. I ought to tell you it's loaded now."

        "It's awfully good of you," Billie answered, with a suitably grateful smile, but holding out no receptive hand, "but I don't think I will. I never handled such a thing in my life, and it would go off at the wrong time, more likely than not. Besides, look how it would give me away if it should fall out of the bag!"

        The superintendent put it back into the drawer without argument. "I've always said," he remarked, "that you're a sensible girl."

        Feeling less assurance on that point than she would have been glad to have, Billie got up to go. "I'll 'phone you first thing in the morning," she said, "how I got on. Unless you want me to, I shan't come here again till I've got something worth while to tell you, or thrown it up."

        Superintendent Backwash observed in his own mind that there was a third possibility, but it was not a thing to be spoken. He said: "The telephone's the best way. And you can rely on us not to be far off, even though we mayn't be easy to see. . . . Good-bye, and good luck."

        "Thanks. I expect I shall wriggle through. It's getting something worth having that's going to be the tough job," Billie answered lightly, as she went out. She left a very experienced officer feeling more confidence in her prospects of success than she would have been able to share.

        "It's nice of him to wish me luck," she thought, "for there can't be many young women in London this morning who need it more."

CHAPTER VII

AN UNFINISHED SENTENCE

FEW things happen in accordance with anticipations. It is improbable that anyone will observe the course of their own lives, or surrounding circumstance, without endorsing this conclusion. But Billie, even had she accepted the abstract truth, would for some time have regarded it as inapplicable to her present experience.

        When she rang the bell at the flat, the door was opened by the housekeeper as before, but this time there was no hesitation in her reception. Scarcely looking at her, the woman held the door wide for her to enter, closed it, and with no more words than "This way, please," and still without a direct glance, led her to the room where she had met Boyle before. Subtly, her attitude seemed to say: "I have no part in these matters. I am deaf and blind. I merely open and shut the door."

        Billie saw that such an attitude might be consistent either with loyalty to her employer which rendered her indifferent to the interests of those whom he might ensnare, or acute disapproval of what he did. Or mere stupidity might be an equally probable explanation. But there was nothing to suggest alliance or sympathetic support, be her predicament what it might. Practically, she would be alone with Boyle in the flat.

        And now the Hon. Peter was holding out his hand with his most ingratiating smile, and his voice was almost gaily triumphant as he exclaimed: "And how good of you to come so early! I was afraid you wouldn't be here for half an hour yet - even if you hadn't forgotten to come at all!"

        "I'm afraid I made a rather rash promise. I was bothered lest you might think me rude, going off so quickly after dinner. But if I make one, I like to keep it."

        "Well, anyway, you're here now." His tone said more than his words. It was exultant, possessive, giving her presence a significance which she emphatically did not wish it to have. She saw that the interview was likely to be quite as difficult as her fears had forecast.

        He went on: "I'm afraid Mrs. Jepson's made the room rather warm. she always is one for a good fire. But you can slip your coat off in the guest-room - it's the second door down the passage on this side. You'll find everything you're likely to want there. And I'll have something to show you when you come back."

        "Oh, I don't feel it so hot as all that! I don't think I need take anything off. I shan't be here long enough - - "

        "You'll stay for a cup of tea, anyway. I told Mrs. Jepson to have it ready for us for four o'clock. I couldn't face her if you went off before."

        Billie thought: "What a clumsy liar you are!" - which may have been unfair, for her own conduct was of a misleading kind. But in the next second she recalled the purpose for which she had come. How could she be sure that there was nothing she might discover by a quick search of a guest-room where she could expect at least a few minutes' privacy? - where it was almost certain that she would be able to lock or bolt the door? Not, perhaps, a particularly likely place for the discovering of anything such as it would be useful to her to find - but still, you never know!

        "Well," she said hesitantly, "I didn't think of staying that long, but I don't see why I shouldn't. Bert won't be likely to be 'phoning me before six. . . . And the room is rather hot."

        He stepped to the door to open it for her. He thought: "She's a bit awkward. I doubt whether she's ever done anything like this before. And she isn't sure either of herself or me. It's a case of making up her mind for her, and I don't know that I need lose overmuch time about that."

        His eyes went to the inexpensive, well-chosen coat which he had proposed that she should discard. He said boldly: "I was always puzzled by the contrast between how you and your husband dress. It's one of the biggest puzzles of life how some girls marry the men they do."

        "It cost just three guineas at a small shop in Poland Street - if you know where that is," Billie answered, with a sharp note in her voice, as she passed through the door. She believed, as most women do, and with more reason than most, that she dressed well, but she had contrasted the cost of her own clothes with that of those which Boyle's other feminine dinner-guests had worn, and she asked herself, with as near an approach to envy as it was her nature to feel, why it was always the women with the worst figures who have the most money to spend upon them. She was not even sure of his sincerity. She thought: "He thinks he's just flattering a fool for his own ends." No one likes to be thought a fool, even though their own actions appear to invite the word. . . . Thank heaven, there was a bolt to the door.

        The room she entered was a very comfortable bedroom, rather overfurnished, and evidently laid out to meet the needs of feminine guests - particularly such as might have no luggage, and perhaps no purpose of staying when they arrived.

        So she saw, as she threw off her coat and hat, and gave a tribute to the mirror, which was little more than a glance, for her mind was on other things, more urgent, if not more important, than that.

        For some swiftly moving minutes she searched with the barren result which reason might have warned her to expect. She opened drawers which were filled with underwear of attractive patterns and qualities, and rummaged through them with an abrupt disregard for their welfare such as they would not often receive from feminine hands. But what of Peter Boyle, and particularly of his criminal activities, could she expect to discover here? It was absurd, she told herself, with angry impatience, as the search proceeded. "The fact is," she thought, as her hand went into the empty pockets of half a dozen dressing-gowns, of various sizes and colours, that a wardrobe contained, "I'm trying something that I'm not equal to do. I don't even know what I ought to try at, or how to begin."

        She finished at the dressing-table, pulling out drawers which contained toilet-requisites in abundant variety, with an action which had become perfunctory, and eyes that strayed to the glass, when her hand encountered a half sheet of writing paper, folded over and creased, as though it had been hurriedly thrust in, or pushed about among other things.

        It was blank on the outside, but she saw some words in a rather large, ill-formed writing: "Don't trust Mr Boyle. He will promise anything and then dr - - " So the scrawl ended with an unfinished word, as though the writer had been interrupted and put the paper hastily out of sight. Interrupted, evidently, as she had been writing a warning for anyone who might be in danger of an experience through which she had gone.

        But what was the unfinished word? Drench - drain - drivel - dress - no, all absurd. Drink? Drug? Yes, that was it. And suddenly there came to Billie an appalling realization, and a sharp fear. Head as Peter Boyle was of a great gang of traffickers in illicit drugs, what opportunities of acquiring these subtle poisons must be his! Not only drugs that produced death or insensibility, but those that would loosen self-control, that would break the power of the will, or from which criminal ten-dencies, all forms of moral degradation, even insanity, might result. Drugs which could reduce a man or woman to conditions that were literally worse than death. And he had asked her to stay to tea.

        It was with some difficulty that she controlled an instinct for instant flight, which would have been to fail with ignominy, perhaps with no cause at all. The warning might be no more than the delusion - perhaps the self-persuasion in self-defence - of a hysterical girl. And she was warned now. She would be on the alert, as he would have no cause to suspect.

        Besides, why should he try to drug her, if she seemed likely to be complaisant on easier and more satisfactory terms? She must control herself to play this game in the right way. After all, her search had not been fruitless. It had justified her decision to use the room. . . . She thrust the scrap of paper into her bag, and came back to the mirror. She raised her hands to her hair.

CHAPTER VIII

ABOUT BEING POISONED AT LUNCH

"I THOUGHT," Boyle said, rising with mechanical courtesy as she returned to the lounge, "that you would never come." His tone implied that the waiting had been hard to endure. She had no reason to doubt that his pleasure in having her there was genuine of its kind. Indeed, unless he knew who she was, what possible motive could he otherwise have? The essential false-hood, with whatever justification, was hers, not his. But she was subtly conscious of a difference in his voice. Of a disquiet, as from a discomfort of body or mind, which was distracting him from full concentration upon the pleasure the moment held. It was as though he might have heard some bad news on the telephone while she had been out of the room. Or was it that he was aware that the moment approached for some act of treachery or violence towards one whom he knew for the fool she was, and that his nerves were not entirely under control? It was a disquieting thought, but it did not greatly disturb her mind. She did not think it was that.

        He took no further notice of her for the moment, beyond slightly adjusting a chair for her toward the fire. He sat down on the other side of the hearth. He said abruptly: "I've asked Mrs. Jepson to bring in tea as soon as she can. We'll look at the jewellery after that, if you don't mind. I thought you might prefer it."

        "Yes. I shall like it that way."

        It was early for tea, but she was not likely to worry about that. If he would continue to sit on the further side of the fire while the minutes passed, she was well content. Perhaps she could lead conversation in ways which would draw him out to talk of his own affairs. It as for that she had come, and so far, toward any real intimacy, she was conscious that she had made no progress at all.

        Had it been her mistake that she had not tried to lead the conversation in directions she would like it to take? But it would not be easy to do! She saw clearly that he was one of those who might go far with a woman without exposing his own affairs. His inclination would be to reward her in what he would suppose to be the expected way - not in confidence, but in cash. Was it not equally likely that she would learn more if she should appear incurious of his affairs? To act the ill-mated fluttering fool that he thought her now? Probably it might - if she could play her part in a sufficiently leisurely manner, and were prepared to go much further than she was. But, as the facts were, she saw that she must use opportunities which might not recur.

        She had time enough for this doubt while he remained silent for a long minute, gazing into the fire; and she was considering how she could open conversation which might lead him to talk of his own affairs when he asked abruptly: "You don't get on well with Risdon?"

        "I haven't found him to be very considerate."

        He moved uneasily, as though seeking a more comfortable position in a chair in which comfort should not have been hard to find. And then, after another pause and still without looking toward her, asked, with some abruptness: "Ever thought of making a change?"

        This was a different approach from anything Billie had expected to have to meet. But it was not only surprising. It was puzzling in a vaguely disquieting way. It was not natural. Not natural, at least, from the man that she believed Peter Boyle to be. But she answered lightly: "Oh, I don't know! One thinks of all sorts of things."

        He turned his eyes on her as she said that, and it seemed to her that they were those of a man who struggled with a great fear. "Yes," he said, "one thinks of all sorts of things."

        As he spoke, Mrs. Jepson entered the room. She drew up a small table, and set it out, putting the teapot on Boyle's side, and he turned slowly, and poured out the cups with no more words than: "You take sugar? Yes, I remember that. As he passed her the cup, a telephone rang at the other side of the room.

        He rose, as though reluctantly, or still with some rheumatic complaint, and she heard him answer: "Yes. . . . No, I don't think I can. . . . Wait a moment. I might hear you better on another line." With a murmured word of apology, he went out.

        It was simple to guess that he did not wish her to hear the conversation. But that might easily be, without implying that it was in reference to her. She had a more puzzling problem in his behaviour during the last half-hour. The fear of the warning she had received returned to her mind. Had he been trying awkwardly to pass the time till she should be poisoned or otherwise drugged? No, she told herself, that was no - certainly not the full explanation. There was something going on that she could not grasp. It might have been evident to the omniscience of Superintendent Backwash, but it was not so to her!

        Still, there could be no harm in a simple precaution. It was true that both cups had been poured from the same pot. But something might have been inserted in hers too adroitly for her to see. Or there might have been something in the lump of sugar he chose from the bowl. Or suppose he should leave his own untasted while she would drink hers? Anyway, it would be no harm if he hadn't, and if he had it would serve him right! Quietly and quickly she leaned forward and changed the cups. . . . She had noticed that he took sugar himself. What difference could he detect?

        He came back a moment later, looking even less animated than before. He said: "I'm sorry I was called away. You shouldn't have waited." The words came in an impersonal mechanical tone, as though he spoke to the room rather than to her.

        He sat down, picked up the substituted cup of tea, and drank greedily. He choked as though it were of some noxious quality. He seemed to find difficulty in swallowing, but persisted in the attempt until he put down the empty cup.

        She saw his face turn grey with terror. He was looking straight at her now with the eyes of a hunted beast. Her own may have held an almost equal horror. It was fair, of course; but she hadn't really meant to do that!

        He said: "I've been poisoned. I know the signs. There's no hope, unless - - " He looked at her in a speculative way, as though he saw her for the first time. She thought that a flicker of doubtful hope came to his eyes. She said foolishly: "You must have had my cup."

        He stared at her, as though not comprehending what she could mean. "Your cup?" he echoed. "There's nothing wrong with the tea. But I'm getting unable to swallow. I'm finding it isn't easy to move. I tell you I know the signs. I've been afraid for the last hour. I shan't be able to move soon. I shan't be able to talk. I shall be dead by ten o'clock, unless something's done. And there's only one thing - - "

        "I'd better get a doctor at once."

        "It wouldn't be any use. Shorter's done it, and there's only one man besides him who's got the antidote. In this country, anyway. There's plenty of it in the wilds of Brazil, and Indians who know what it is. But that's no help to me."

        "You'd better give me this man's address, and I'll put the police on him at once."

        "It wouldn't be any good. And they wouldn't believe. Or if they did, do you suppose he'd admit it to them? We must think of a better way."

        "I should say that's the best there is. He wouldn't want to be hanged. When he knows they're on his track, he'll turn up with the antidote quickly enough. I'd better ring them at once."

        "Give me a minute first. Let me think. There may be a better way."

        He became silent, and she saw that it would be well to give him the time he asked. Certainly there was none to lose if he were to be saved from the fate of which he seemed to have so exact a knowledge, for she had observed that he already spoke, as he had moved, with an unnatural effort, as though a gradual paralysis were already oppressing every bodily function. But certainly also it was well to listen to anything he could still say. To any information he could supply. As much for his own sake (though he might be saved for no better fate) as for the purpose that brought her there.

        "Listen," he said. "Do what I ask, and I'll give you any money you want. I'll marry you, if you like, as soon as we can get Risdon out of the way. If you've got the sense and the nerve! But you're the one hope that I have. Jepson wouldn't do it. She'd clear out, if she knew, more likely than not. And there isn't time to - - Listen! There's a man who has offices in Bright's Passage - it's off Fenchurch Street on the left. He's an analytical chemist. Webber's his name. But he might be leaving any time now. You'd better 'phone at once. Royal 4322. Say these words, just as I tell you. Never mind whether they make sense. He'll understand, and wait in: Mr. Simpson's asked me to say that he'd like the report, if possible, before five o'clock. Got that? Nothing more. Don't use my name. Only make sure you've got Webber at the other end of the wire.'

        "Very well. I'll do that."

        She crossed the room to the telephone, and got the connection without difficulty. Next moment she heard: "Yes. This is Royal 4322. Yes. Webber speaking." She repeated the words she had been told, and got the reply, after an instant's pause: "Yes. He can have that."

        She repeated this as she put back the receiver, and saw, as she went back to the fireside, a faint hope in the eyes of the doomed man. "That means," he said, "that he'll wait to see you. He'll wait till after five, if necessary; but he'll expect you before then."

        "He didn't sound at all pleased."

        "He wouldn't be. But that doesn't matter. He'll be pleased enough when he sees what you've got to hand over.

        With some difficulty, he drew a bunch of keys from his hip-pocket, and passed them to her, selecting one as he did so. "I want you to open that bureau. Luckily there's a cheque-book there. Hurry! There's no time to lose. One of the pigeon-holes on the left-hand side. Yes, that's it."

        With the stiffness of movement which was becoming increasingly evident in all he did, he drew out a fountain pen and slowly wrote a cheque. She saw, as he handed it to her, that it was made out to E. Rice Webber, Esq., for £5,000. It was uncrossed.

        "You will give him this," he said, "and tell him that I was poisoned by Shorter at lunch today, between one and one-thirty. Tell him the state I'm in, and he'll know the drug that was used. This is his fee, if he saves my life, as I know he can. If he doesn't, it won't be much use to him. I shall make sure that the bank will know before opening time if I'm not alive, and they won't meet the cheque of a dead man. When I've made sure of that, and one or two other things that there's still time to do, I shall get to bed. You'll find me there when you come back, and it rests with you to make sure that I get up."

        "I'll be as quick as I can."

        "Don't forget to tell him I'll deal with Shorter. He'll have no cause to be frightened of him."

        "You think he may be?"

        "I know he will. But not as much as he'll be afraid of missing £5,000. It ought to bring him here at a run."

        "I'll do all I can."

        "Yes. I'm sure you will." He was looking at her with a blending of anxiety, confidence, and appeal, which could not fail to win some pity, even for him. She wondered how he would look if he knew the truth! But she was sincere in her determination to save him, should it lie in her power - and at a risk to herself that he did not know.

        As she was passing from the room the telephone rang.

She was at the side of the instrument, and said, "I'll just

answer this for you," as she picked it up, taking no

notice of his "It doesn't matter. It'll only be the man

who was on before. You'd better leave it to me."

        She heard a man's voice: "Mr. Boyle gone yet?"

        "No. But he's resting."

        The explanation brought a ribald response: "Resting, my eye! Well, tell him we were right about St. John's Wood, and we're dealing with the matter at once."

        "Yes."

        Conscious of the passing minutes, she hung up hurriedly, repeating the message as she did so.

        "Yes," he answered slowly, but with a show of impatient irritation, "they'll know how to deal with her"; and then would have withdrawn or explained his words. But she had already left him for the guest-room, where she caught up her hat and coat, and went out on her errand of mercy.

        "So it seems," she thought, as she looked round for a passing taxi, "that they've found out my address, and will know how to deal with me!"

CHAPTER IX

DIFFICULTY OF LEAVING A ROOM

MR. WEBBER'S outer office was vacant. Any staff he may have kept must have left before Billie arrived; but he must have heard her enter, for she had stood for no more than two or three seconds of uncertainty as to how she should announce her presence when the inner door opened, and a man appeared who began to say "Come in," and then pulled himself up, in surprised uncertainty of whom he saw.

        "I've come from Mr. Boyle," she said quickly, guessing the cause of his hesitation, that it was someone else he had expected to see. She did not doubt that it was Mr. Webber himself to whom she spoke, though his clothes were shiny with wear, and he was meagre both of form and features. ("Skinny little beast," was her own description of this first impression, when she was able to tell the tale.) Sinister he might be, and physically contemptible in appearance, but he had the air of a man who was on his own ground. Beyond that, she recognized a voice she had heard before.

        He looked at her with suspicious eyes. "I don't know you," he said sharply. "I'm not sure that I know anyone of that name. You've brought a message, of course?"

        "I spoke to you for him on the telephone less than an hour ago.

        "You didn't say so, if you did."

        "No. I didn't mention his name. I gave a message that I expect you understood."

        "Well, what do you want?"

        "Mr. Boyles been poisoned by Mr. Shorter. He wants your help urgently. He says that you're the only one who can save his life. He's willing to pay a fee of five thousand pounds."

        He heard the commencement of the statement with a sharp glance of suspicion, but his manner changed as she mentioned the offered fee.

        "Mr. Shorter?" he echoed doubtfully. And then, with the hint of a sneer in his voice: "I suppose you've brought the money along?"

        She was quick of ear and wit enough to catch the slight stress on the Mr., and to reply quickly: "He said Shorter. I don't know any more than that."

        "Sir James Shorter is a client of mine. You can't mean him. It's absurd. He wouldn't poison a fly."

        "I don't know what he'd do to flies. He's poisoned Mr. Boyle at lunch today between one and half-past, and if you don't help him the police will be told that he got the poison from you. It's between that and getting five thousand pounds."

        "If that isn't blackmail," he answered shrewdly, "it's a near thing." But the boldness of her reply may have had effect, for he stepped back and said curtly: "You'd better come in, and tell me all you've been told to say, and how you come to be sent here on such an errand. You look to me as though you're asking for trouble, if ever a woman was.

        "I'm not asking for anything more than for you to save a man's life. And I've got the cheque here. Mr. Boyle says the bank will pay it in the morning, if he's alive; but they don't pay cheques for dead men."

        "You think it's as simple as that! If I do what you want tonight, what do you suppose I shall be doing tomorrow?"

        "I've no idea. But it seems to me it's a good fee. It might be worth while thinking it out while you come along."

        "I'd better have a look at the cheque."

        She passed it over, and saw avarice shine in his eyes. But it was still evident that he was unwilling to do what she asked, and puzzled and suspicious of her, so that he would say nothing that could not be interpreted innocently.

        "Suppose," he said, "what you say is correct, and not just a silly idea that your friend's got because his liver's upset by a big meal. Just suppose it is - and I butt in as you want me to do. What do you suppose Sir James would do to me on the next day?"

        "I don't think you need worry much about that, even if you know he poisons people more lunches than not. He's going to have his mind full of other things. Mr. Boyle would see to that, even if the police don't have a few words to say. The thing that matters is that we shouldn't lose any time now."

        They had been standing as this conversation proceeded, for she had followed him no further than a couple of yards into the inner room, expressing in her attitude the urgency of his coming without delay. But he left her, and crossed over to the further side, where there stood a large safe, the most prominent object in a dingily furnished room, unlocked it, and put the cheque away in a cash drawer. She judged by that, perhaps too readily, that the first round of the game was won.

        "We can get a taxi outside," she said urgently. "We can be there in about ten minutes."

        He was still standing with his back to her, looking through an array of bottles and sealed packets on the upper shelf of the safe, which it might be expected to hold in view of the occupation which he professed.

        "In ten minutes?" he echoed. "We shall be longer than that."

        "It's only to Rivers Square."

        There was a new suspicion in the sharpness of his reply: "You mean Boyle isn't at home?"

        "He's at his own flat. One he uses when he entertains friends."

        He had turned round now, and was putting some white packets and other articles into a small suitcase. He looked up with a glance of comprehension which was an insult she could not resent. "Oh yes. I understand now. Where he entertains - friends."

        He seemed to be able to place her for the first time, and to have one cause of hesitation removed from his mind. But he went on: "I haven't said that I'm coming yet. I'm just getting ready, in case I decide I will. But you mustn't talk about the police. I must have your word that, even if your friend dies, there'll be no dealings with them. . . . It would do too much harm in my business for me to be mixed up in a scandal of any kind."

        The motives that prompted Billie's reply were not clear to herself when she attempted to analyse them afterwards, and to explain them to the friendly but critical consideration of Inspector Cauldron; and where she failed, others are unlikely to be more successful.

        It may have been partly that she was reluctant to give a deliberate pledge which she would not keep. It may have been partly that resentment at the imputation conveyed in his previous remark - the slightly derisive stress on the word friends - inclined her to present herself in a more accurate character. It may have been partly her perception of the nature of the man, equally cowardly and avaricious, with whom she dealt. Yet, when considered afterwards, none of these reasons had a sound of sufficiency, nor was the course she chose easy to reconcile with the obligations of the oath which she had taken when, at her earnest desire, she had been taken on to the staff of the C.I.D. What she did - seeing clearly, as she did not subsequently deny, all that it must lead to in the next minute - was to answer boldly: "I can't possibly promise that. You may almost say that they're here now.

        His startled glance was half-frightened; and wholly venomous, as he replied: "I don't know who you are, or what you're talking about. It all sounds nonsense to me. But you'd better clear out before I call the porter, who might be rough."

        "It's no use talking like that," she went on, with no less assurance than before, "unless you want trouble for yourself that you needn't have. You can save Mr. Boyle's life, and get a big reward, or you can stand back, and what happens? Either he gets well without your help or he dies. If he dies the police will have your name as the man from whom the poison was bought. You can guess what that will mean for you, and if he lives - well, you can't be surprised if he gives you a reward of another kind!"

        "I won't have anything to do with the matter unless I know what you mean about calling in the police."

        "I mean the police are in this already. If they weren't I shouldn't be here. The only question is whether you're to come under their notice as the man who does his best to save Mr. Boyle's life, or the one who sold Shorter the poison.

        "I never sold Shorter anything."

        "Well, gave it him, if you prefer. But I can't talk here for ever. I only want to know whether you're coming or not. But I think you will. You've got too much sense not to. And, besides, the reward's too big."

        "I'm not coming because I believe anyone's been poisoned, or for the money. I'm coming to get at the truth, and see whether you know Boyle at all."

        He moved round his desk as he spoke, towards where a coat-hanger stood, with the evident purpose of reaching his hat, and for a moment she thought that her boldness had gained its end. But he glanced down on papers with which the desk was littered, and paused to gather some of them together, and thrust them into a drawer, which he locked.

        There was nothing in that to reduce her confidence. Rather, it was a sign that he was preparing to leave. But his action uncovered a newspaper cutting, which she recognized as a photograph of herself which had appeared in a Sunday paper a few weeks before, when her dramatic escape from Maurice Beal's burning menagerie had made it of interest to a million readers.

        He glanced at the picture, and then at her. It was plain that the idea of likeness had entered his mind. And the significance of it being on his desk was unpleasant.

        Yet there was little in that which she did not already know. She had already judged him to have a confidential and criminal part in the operations of the Mildew gang. She already knew that they were, at that moment, actively seeking her, with probably no less than a deadly purpose. But did he recognize her now? Had he shown that he did, she would have gone further upon the path of candour she had begun to tread, with what result it is hard to guess; but she would always maintain that, had he not uncovered that picture, her bold avowal of police connection would have succeeded. She considered that he weighed cupidity against fear, and she had sought to put some of the fear into cupidity's scale.

        But he gave no sign of recognition. He put on his hat, saving, as he did so: "We shall have to go out from this door." His hand motioned toward one at the further side of the room, which opened into the passage. "But I must lock the door of the outer office first from the inside."

        He passed through the door which divided the two rooms as he spoke. It sounded natural enough, but the smoothness of his tone gave her a vague disquiet. She would have followed him through the door, but it was closed too quickly against her. She could hear him moving in the outer room, and called: "Mr. Webber, don't be a fool! It's better to help us than not. Let's talk it over. You can't fight the police."

        But she got no answer. Evidently he had recognized her, and cupidity had become less than fear.

        Well, she wouldn't waste time with him. There was the telephone. She wouldn't be shut up there for many minutes after she had called Scotland Yard! But unfortunately it couldn't be done.

        He had thought of that as quickly as she, and had switched the connection outside, so that it stopped at the outer office, where she could hear that he was now using it to more successful purpose.

        There was one thing in her favour. He had had the service installed in such a manner that he could overhear conversations carried on in the outer office, and that which he had intended as a check on his staff now operated against himself.

        She had not been quick enough to hear the number he called, but she heard the agitated excitement of his voice as he said: "You remember that picture you sent me? Well, I've got the original."

        "You've got what?" came the answer, in a voice that was harsh and hard. "Where do you mean she - it is?"

        "It's locked up in my office. What do you want me to do?"

        "There'll be someone coming round soon. Is there a mat outside the door?"

        "Yes. Why?"

        "Leave the key there, and you needn't stay."

        "You're not going to - make a mess in my office?"

        There was a second's pause, and then the voice, with a harsher note than before: "I suppose I haven't got to tell you I'm not a fool. . . . You'd better go. There must be plenty of sociable ways in which you can spend the evening."

        "The speaker hung up as he said this, and she heard Webber leave the office, heedless of her appeals for a further argument.

        She noticed his steps halt as he stopped to push the key under the mat.

        Her imagination was, lively enough to appreciate the significance of the hint that he should be "sociable" during the evening hours. He was to provide himself with an alibi if there should be murder done in his office before he should return next morning. And those who had such an object in their advice might be already upon their way!

        It was an emergency which might put a spur to the dullest wit, and Billie's wits were not dull. She looked round alertly. The telephone had failed her, but other methods of attracting attention must surely remain! To break the glass of a door! But both these doors were of solid wood. The windows? There were two, side by side. Old-fashioned, small-paned windows, dingy with London grime.

        She smashed a pane. Fresher air came into the room than it may often have had. Broken glass tinkled faintly in an area far below. Nothing happening in consequence, she lost no time in continuing the operation. The smashing of one might arouse no acute curiosity, but surely, if they should continue to fall - - ! She went on rapidly until neither window had a whole pane.

        As there was still no sign of any resulting excitement, she did what she might more wisely have tried at first. She pushed up one of the windows, and looked out.

        Opposite, not more than twelve feet away, was a blank wall. She could see, when she leant out, the projecting sills of windows beneath and above. Below was a narrow stone-paved yard, containing dustbins, and a short ladder - too short to have been of any assistance to her, even had it been erected against the wall.

        She did not hear or see any sign of life, and recognized, with a tremor of fear, that the other offices in the building might have been left for the day.

        If there were a resident caretaker he would most probably be on the highest or lowest floor, and she was distant from both. And there might be none. The fact that no one had been roused by the falling glass... She withdrew from the window, by which there was clearly no means of escape, and looked round the room again. Surely there must be some means of forcing the door. If there were, it was not easy to find. An electric heater requires no fireirons. A man who works at a desk requires no tools that are formidable in weight or point.

        She might start a fire. She had done that once before in an anaconda's cage. It would be poetic justice to use Webber's papers for such a flare. But when you can't tell how long you may be locked in with the fire - - ! (It showed how sure of her they were, and of themselves, leaving her locked up with all his private papers. It was not a comforting thought.).

        There was a clothes cupboard at the side of the room opposite to the door. It had a lock, but the key was in it. Exploration discovered a dusty, probably long discarded, overcoat, and a walking-stick.

        She tried the key in the locked door. It was useless, but it fitted sufficiently to remain in it. Left thus, it would be at least a temporary obstacle to an attempt to open it from the outside. And that was the door of which she supposed that Webber had left the key under the mat. As to the one that opened into the outer office, she could do nothing, the key being in the lock on the further side. But they might not be able to get to that.

        The stick was not heavy or large. Webber was a small man. But it was better than nothing. Driven hard into the mouth, or used with vigour across the eyes - Billie was in a vicious mood, as most of us may become if we know that our own lives are at stake.

        She took down the overcoat. Might it be possible to throw it over the head of anyone coming in, and escape before he could see what she did? He would be more than half-choked by the dust! What a filthy old thing it was! She supposed correctly that Webber had been too great a miser to throw or give it away.

        But it did not seem a very satisfactory plan, even if there should be only one man at the door, and it was probable that there would be more. . . . Next moment it became certain, for she heard the steps of those who talked as they came along the passage.       

CHAPTER X

MISS WINGROVE WAS NOT COMPELLED

INSPECTOR CAULDRON looked worried.

        "She was in Boyle's flat," he said, "for about an hour, and then came out alone, and got straight into a taxi that was passing - - "

        "Which was just about what you might expect, if she kept control of the interview, as I felt sure that she would. But I suppose you think the taxi was planted to pick her up?"

        "No. We've seen the man since."

        "Then she probably meant to baffle any attempt of Boyle's gang to follow her, and she's baffled you too. I think she's a useful girl."

        It was plain that Superintendent Backwash was unimpressed by his subordinate's anxiety. Actually, his thought was that Cauldron was reducing his own efficiency, and even making it of doubtful expediency to allow him to remain in charge of the Mildew case, by this excessive fussing over a young woman who was particularly well able to look after herself. Conscious of this attitude, the inspector went on, with irritation added to the anxiety in his voice:

        "She didn't try to give anyone the slip, as far as I know. We shouldn't have minded that. She drove straight to some offices in Bright's Passage, Fenchurch Street. She told the man to go fast, so that we had some difficulty in keeping him in sight. She paid him off, and went in. That was more than two hours ago. There's no way in or out of that building except the street door, and a fire-escape on to the roof, and we should see her if she used that. Up to twenty minutes ago she hadn't come out."

        "Then we may assume that she's still there. . . . Is that all you've learned?"

        "We've had a watch kept on who has gone in or out of the building. A man named Webber, who occupies offices there, left soon after Miss Wingrove went in, and two men went in half an hour later."

        "Know anything about them?"

        "No. But Riddell said that you'd remember Webber."

        For the first time, the superintendent looked interested. "Webber?" he repeated. "That must be the chemist who was mixed up in the Campion case. You may have got something here."

        "I'm glad you agree at last. I don't know anything about the Campion case. Must have been before my time. But there's something going on in Bright's Passage we ought to have stopped before now."

        "Perhaps you're right," the superintendent conceded, "but it's quite as likely she's got the situation in hand, and we shall just spoil it by bursting in. You've got the place watched, of course? . . . Well, then, we'd better go together, and if nothing's happened by when we get there we'll go through it."

        With these words he rose, though with no appearance of haste, and added, as he pulled on his coat: "Oh, the Campion case! You never heard of it before? How soon these things get forgotten. Doctor in Liverpool charged with murder. Abortionist. No doubt of that. But the case was unusual. No operation. Said to have used a new drug. Woman took it, and died. May have taken too much. No doubt he'd given it to others. Question was what it was, and what it was supposed to be for. Prosecution said there was no doubt about that either. Strange drug used by Brazilian Indians to procure abortion, and obtained from Webber. Webber said he'd only supplied quinine."

        "And I suppose it couldn't be proved?"

        "I wouldn't go that far. There was no conviction. Tried by Clements, and he gave a very clever benefit-of-the-doubt summing-up, and the jury followed his lead."

        "Clements was the judge who went mad and shot himself, wasn't he?"

        "Yes. It was about that time that he told a woman at Leeds, when he was giving her the lightest sentence he could, that he didn't think abortion was a matter about which there was any need to make overmuch fuss. But he wasn't certified then. We don't often get a man on the High Court bench like him."

        Inspector Cauldron judged that the superintendent was still bitter over the failure of the Campion prosecution, but he was not interested in that. He asked what sort of a man Webber was.

        "Webber? Oh, you needn't be getting hot about him. He's the mean, miserly type. Owns about forty houses in Woking, and gave evidence in a coat he might have worn for ten years. He'd steal a crust from a starving child, if he felt safe. But not violence. He's not the sort to knock Miss Wingrove over the head, if that's the worry."

        "What about drugs?"

        "Oh, I'll give you that! We're after a drug-trafficking gang. But you mustn't overlook that she seems to have gone to him - if she really did go to his office - quite on her own, and he wouldn't be prepared to see her, more likely than not."

        They were in a police car by this time, travelling rapidly city-wards, and it was only a few minutes later that they drew up at the western side of Fenchurch Street, where a man who had the aspect of a typical stockbroker's clerk got in beside them.

        "Anything happened?" Inspector Cauldron asked, as they began to move, more slowly than before, towards the further end of the street, where Bright's Passage is situated.

        "Yes, sir. A few minutes after you left the two men came out again, and Miss Wingrove was with them. They called a taxi, and got in together. Sergeant Riddell followed them. He told me to let you know. I 'phoned, and was told you were on the way here."

        "Did Miss Wingrove seem to be going at her own will?"

        "Yes, sir. If she'd wanted to, she could have left them quite easily."

        "Sure there wasn't a gun poked into her back?"

        "There was no doubt about that. She wasn't under any restraint at all."

        "Anyone with Riddell?"

        "Yes. He took Doyle and Rogers. He's gone in the private car.

        "And we," the superintendent added, speaking for the first time, "can't do better than go back by the way we came.

CHAPTER XI

"GO WITH HIM TWAIN"

BILLIE heard the two men stop outside the door. It was too thick and well set for the hearing of lighter sounds, but in a few moments she was aware that a key was being inserted, and that it had met the obstacle of the one that was already there.

        She stood close to the door, wishing to hear all she could, keeping very still lest they should become aware of her presence. "If they did," she thought, "they might try shooting me through it. It would be hard to identify anyone who did that! . . . But the snag would be that they couldn't be sure that they'd done the job properly. Not unless they could have a look afterwards. . . . No, they'll try something surer than that.. I shall be silly if I don't hear all I can." So she recruited courage, but it was not a pleasant idea for a girl to have. She did not move away from the door, but she kept very still.

        The men were talking now. It sounded like a dispute though the voices were very low. She could hear nothing of what the one said, but the other was clearer. With her ear pressed to the door she heard: "He wouldn't be such a damned swine." And then: "I tell you, he wouldn't dare. He hasn't got the pluck of a louse." She may have made a good guess that they were discussing whether Webber had fooled them about the key, and that the more audible of her unwelcome visitors was arguing that he would not have dared, in a phrase he was using now, "to make monkeys of us." But to a further remark from his companion, which was as inaudible as before, he answered: "Yes, we can try that first, but you'll find mine's the best way."

        She heard their steps recede along the passage, and thought for a moment that they were withdrawing, leaving her in the doubtful security of a room that she could not leave. But they did not go.

        She heard them next at the door of the outer office, to which she supposed that they had no key. But she was wrong on that point, for what Webber had put under the mat had been a ring on which both keys had been hung. Their delay in trying it may have arisen from the fact that they had no key to the inner door, which they would know must be locked, without being aware that the key was in it. But now she heard the key turn, and knew that the next five seconds must decide the attitude in which she would meet them.

        She made no conscious decision, though her eyes rested for a moment upon a heavy chair, the back of which, tilted under the door-knob, would at least have delayed their entrance, but she showed more wit when she sat down upon it, putting the stick, as she did so, into an umbrella stand, where it would be natural for it to be.

        She looked up with a smile as the two men entered the room. "I'm glad you've come," she said gratefully. "But I thought you wouldn't be long. Of course, I heard all that Mr. Webber said on the phone. I think he's just a bit on the silly side. I should have been glad to wait to see you without being locked in. . . . And he didn't tell you the one thing that matters. I hope he hasn't gone where you can't find him now."

        The men she addressed in this easy manner may have been equally surprised, but they reacted differently. The one who had come in first was a plain brute, an outsize in bullies, with cunning eyes grotesquely small in a broad, fleshy face. His nose was a thick beak over heavy lips and large, prominent teeth. As she met a malignant gaze, she realized how foolish it would have been to have relied upon physical self-defence against such an antagonist. She saw also that the attitude she had chosen might have been equally futile had he been the only one with whom she must deal, for his eyes did not change their hostility as she spoke, while his upper lip rose in an ugly sneer.

        But the man behind him, of little more than half his size, was of a different kind. Whatever he had expected to meet, and however willing he may have been for his heftier companion to be the first to enter the room, he took charge of the proceedings now, with a ready adaptation to her own tone, though his suavity may have had no more sincerity than hers, or perhaps less.

        "We were afraid you'd feel rather sore, being locked in the way you were, but I'm glad you take it the way you do. We got here as quick as we could, and of course you're free to go now any time you like. But what is it we ought to know?"

        He pulled forward a chair and sat down opposite to her as he asked this question, and, as she looked at him, she both hated and feared him more than the bully who still stood menacingly between her and the door. He was regarding her with coldly probing eyes in a white, pock-marked face. They were dull eyes of a neutral colour, neither green nor brown, but she did not think him to be dull. She thought that his wits were alertly awake, cruel and cold.

        She did not believe that he would let her go, as he said, nor foolish enough to put it to a test which might have brought immediate crisis upon her. But she judged that he was quite willing to hear her talk before they should disclose their own purpose, and it must be her business to say that which would make that purpose more comfortable for herself than it was likely to have been when they entered the room.

        "He didn't tell you why I came here. Mr. Boyle's dying, and he's the only man who can save him. If you can't get hold of him, and make him do what's necessary, Mr. Boyle will be dead in about four hours from now."

        It was a random shot, which would miss any useful mark, more likely than not. They might know already. They might be indifferent. Or it might even be welcome news. Yet it was her one chance to divert their minds from plans which she felt with a sound instinct were now as bad for her as it was possible for them to be. But she saw now that it was something they had not known, and different from anything they had expected to hear.

        The big man spoke at once, while his companion regarded her for a moment in critical silence, as though weighing the probable truth and the implications of what she said. She heard: "Who's Boyle? And what the devil is that to us?" But she kept her eyes on the one on whom her fate, as she felt sure, primarily depended. She remembered the secrecy which Mildew had maintained as to his own identity. Was it possible that these men did not know Boyle? But she remembered that Webber had not been ignorant, and they seemed to be over him. Or at least the one did who was seated opposite to her. He said: "Never mind that now, Humphries. Miss Wingrove has got more to tell us. . . . What's this about Mr. Boyle? He was all right this morning. And may I ask, Miss Wingrove, what Mr. Boyle is to do with you?"

        "Mr. Boyle was taken ill after lunch. He says Sir James Shorter poisoned him. Anyway, he's very ill now. He won't live many hours unless Mr. Webber goes to him at once with an antidote which he's got in his bag."

        "I'm not saying I believe you or not. What I'm asking is how you come to know this, and what it's to do with you?"

        "I was with Mr. Boyle at his flat when he was taken ill, and I'm doing my best to help him. If you'd only do something, and not waste time!"

        She saw as she spoke how confusing it must be to them. They had instructions, probably from Boyle himself, to hunt her down and destroy her, as one who was bringing trouble upon the gang. They could not know that she had introduced herself to Boyle in another name. Could it sound probable that he would be relying upon her in such an emergency? Yet the very fact of such confusion might incline them to delay action against herself until some explanation should be obtained.

        "What do you want us to do?"

        "I want you to find Mr. Webber, and make him go to Mr. Boyle before it's too late."

        "You're very anxious to save Mr. Boyle's life?"

        "Anyone would be. When you see a man being poisoned - - "

        "What makes you think he was? You know it's a very serious charge to make."

        "I haven't made it. I've only told you what Mr. Boyle says."

        "And Mr. Boyle is your friend?"

        "You might say more than that. He was asking me to marry him when he fell ill."

        Up to this point she had watched the faces of the two men, and knew that the one who stood silently over her was suspicious and unconvinced. But she had been able to make no guess at whether she were believed by the one who sat opposite, questioning her with such quiet rapidity, or what effect her answers were having upon him. Only now, as she ventured this bold assertion incredulity came into his eyes.

        "I don't think I can believe that. I happen to know he had other plans. Su