First and most important of the suspects was Odette Rider. That Thornton Lyne had loved her, he did not for one moment imagine. Thornton Lyne was not the kind of man who loved. Rather had he desired, and very few women had thwarted him. Odette Rider was an exception. Tarling only knew of the scene which had occurred between Lyne and the girl on the day he had been called in, but there must have been many other painful interviews, painful for the girl, humiliating for the dead millionaire.

Anyway, he thought thankfully, it would not be Odette. He had got into the habit of thinking of her as "Odette," a discovery which had amused him. He could rule her out, because obviously she could not be in two places at once. When Thornton Lyne was discovered in Hyde Park, with Odette Rider's night-dress round about his wound, the girl herself was lying in a cottage hospital at Ashford fifty miles away.

But what of Milburgh, that suave and oily man? Tarling recalled the fact that he had been sent for by his dead relative to inquire into Milburgh's mode of living and that Milburgh was under suspicion of having robbed the firm. Suppose Milburgh had committed the crime? Suppose, to hide his defalcations, he had shot his employer dead? There was a flaw in this reasoning because the death of Thornton Lyne would be more likely to precipitate the discovery of the manager's embezzlements—there would be an examination of accounts and everything would come out. Milburgh himself was not unmindful of this argument in his favour, as was to be revealed.

As against this, Tarling thought, it was notorious that criminals did foolish things. They took little or no account of the immediate consequences of their act, and a man like Milburgh, in his desperation, might in his very frenzy overlook the possibility of his crime coming to light through the very deed he had committed to cover himself up.

He had reached the bottom of Edgware Road and was turning the corner of the street, looking across to the Marble Arch, when he heard a voice hail him and turning, saw a cab breaking violently to the edge of the pavement.

It was Inspector Whiteside who jumped out.

"I was just coming to see you," he said. "I thought your interview with the young lady would be longer. Just wait a moment, till I've paid the cabman—by-the-way, I saw your Chink servant and gather you sent him to the Yard on a spoof errand."

When he returned, he met Tarling's eye and grinned sympathetically.

"I know what's in your mind," he said frankly, "but really the Chief thinks it no more than an extraordinary coincidence. I suppose you made inquiries about your revolver?"

Tarling nodded.

"And can you discover how it came to be in the possession of——" he paused, "the murderer of Thornton Lyne?"

"I have a theory, half-formed, it is true, but still a theory," said Taxiing. "In fact, it's hardly so much a theory as an hypothesis."

Whiteside grinned again.

"This hair-splitting in the matter of logical terms never did mean much in my young life," he said, "but I take it you have a hunch."

Without any more to-do, Tarling told the other of the discovery he had made in Ling Chu's box, the press cuttings, descriptive of the late Mr. Lyne's conduct in Shanghai and its tragic sequel.

Whiteside listened in silence.

"There may be something on that side," he said at last when Tarling had finished. "I've heard about your Ling Chu. He's a pretty good policeman, isn't he?"

"The best in China," said Tarling promptly, "but I'm not going to pretend that I understand his mind. These are the facts. The revolver, or rather the pistol, was in my cupboard and the only person who could get at it was Ling Chu. There is the second and more important fact imputing motive, that Ling Chu had every reason to hate Thornton Lyne, the man who had indirectly been responsible for his sister's death. I have been thinking the matter over and I now recall that Ling Chu was unusually silent after he had seen Lyne. He has admitted to me that he has been to Lyne's Store and in fact has been pursuing inquiries there. We happened to be discussing the possibility of Miss Rider committing the murder and Ling Chu told me that Miss Rider could not drive a motor-car and when I questioned him as to how he knew this, he told me that he had made several inquiries at the Store. This I knew nothing about.

"Here is another curious fact," Tarling went on. "I have always been under the impression that Ling Chu did not speak English, except a few words of 'pigeon' that Chinamen pick up through mixing with foreign devils. Yet he pushed his inquiries at Lyne's Store amongst the employees, and it is a million to one against his finding any shop-girl who spoke Cantonese!"

"I'll put a couple of men on to watch him," said Whiteside, but Tarling shook his head.

"It would be a waste of good men," he said, "because Ling Chu could lead them just where he wanted to. I tell you he is a better sleuth than any you have got at Scotland Yard, and he has an absolute gift for fading out of the picture under your very nose. Leave Ling Chu to me, I know the way to deal with him," he added grimly.

"The Little Daffodil!" said Whiteside thoughtfully, repeating the phrase which Tarling had quoted. "That was the Chinese girl's name, eh? By Jove! It's something more than a coincidence, don't you think, Tarling?"

"It may be or may not be," said Tarling; "there is no such word as daffodil in Chinese. In fact, I am not so certain that the daffodil is a native of China at all, though China's a mighty big place. Strictly speaking the girl was called 'The Little Narcissus,' but as you say, it may be something more than a coincidence that the man who insulted her, is murdered whilst her brother is in London."

They had crossed the broad roadway as they were speaking and had passed into Hyde Park. Tarling thought whimsically that this open space exercised the same attraction on him as it did upon Mr. Milburgh.

"What were you going to see me about?" he asked suddenly, remembering that Whiteside had been on his way to the hotel when they had met.

"I wanted to give you the last report about Milburgh."

Milburgh again! All conversation, all thought, all clues led to that mystery man. But what Whiteside had to tell was not especially thrilling. Milburgh had been shadowed day and night, and the record of his doings was a very prosaic one.

But it is out of prosaic happenings that big clues are born.

"I don't know how Milburgh expects the inquiry into Lyne's accounts will go," said Whiteside, "but he is evidently connected, or expects to be connected, with some other business."

"What makes you say that?" asked Tarling.

"Well," replied Whiteside, "he has been buying ledgers," and Tarling laughed.

"That doesn't seem to be a very offensive proceeding," he said good-humouredly. "What sort of ledgers?"

"Those heavy things which are used in big offices. You know, the sort of thing that it takes one man all his time to lift. He bought three at Roebuck's, in City Road, and took them to his house by taxi. Now my theory," said Whiteside earnestly, "is that this fellow is no ordinary criminal, if he is a criminal at all. It may be that he has been keeping a duplicate set of books."

"That is unlikely," interrupted Tarling, "and I say this with due respect for your judgment, Whiteside. It would want to be something more than an ordinary criminal to carry all the details of Lyne's mammoth business in his head, and it is more than possible that your first theory was right, namely, that he contemplates either going with another firm, or starting a new business of his own. The second supposition is more likely. Anyway, it is no crime to own a ledger, or even three. By-the-way, when did he buy these books?"

"Yesterday," said Whiteside, "early in the morning, before Lyne's opened. How did your interview with Miss Rider go off?"

Tarling shrugged his shoulders. He felt a strange reluctance to discuss the girl with the police officer, and realised just how big a fool he was in allowing her sweetness to drug him.

"I am convinced that, whoever she may suspect, she knows nothing of the murder," he said shortly.

"Then she does suspect somebody?"

Tarling nodded.

"Who?"

Again Tarling hesitated.

"I think she suspects Milburgh," he said.

He put his hand in the inside of his jacket and took out a pocket case, opened it, and drew forth the two cards bearing the finger impressions he had taken of Odette Rider. It required more than an ordinary effort of will to do this, though he would have found it difficult to explain just what tricks his emotions were playing.

"Here are the impressions you wanted," he said. "Will you take them?"

Whiteside took the cards with a nod and examined the inky smudges, and all the time Tarling's heart stood still, for Inspector Whiteside was the recognised authority of the Police Intelligence Department on finger prints and their characteristics.

The survey was a long one.

Tarling remembered the scene for years afterwards; the sunlit path, the straggling idlers, the carriages pursuing their leisurely way along the walks, and the stiff military figure of Whiteside standing almost to attention, his keen eyes peering down at the little cards which he held in the finger-tips of both hands. Then:

"Interesting," he said. "You notice that the two figures are almost the same—which is rather extraordinary. Very interesting."

"Well?" asked Tarling impatiently, almost savagely.

"Interesting," said Whiteside again, "but none of these correspond to the thumb prints on the bureau."

"Thank God for that!" said Tarling fervently "Thank God for that!"



CHAPTER XIX

LING CHU TELLS THE TRUTH

The firm of Dashwood and Solomon occupied a narrow-fronted building in the heart of the City of London. Its reputation stood as high as any, and it numbered amongst its clients the best houses in Britain. Both partners had been knighted, and it was Sir Felix Solomon who received Tarling in his private office.

Sir Felix was a tall, good-looking man, well past middle age, rather brusque of manner but kindly withal, and he looked up over his glasses as the detective entered.

"Scotland Yard, eh?" he said, glancing at Tarling's card. "Well, I can give you exactly five minutes, Mr. Tarling. I presume you've come to see me about the Lyne accounts?"

Tarling nodded.

"We have not been able to start on these yet," said Sir Felix, "though we are hoping to go into them to-morrow. We're terribly rushed just now, and we've had to get in an extra staff to deal with this new work the Government has put on us—by-the-way, you know that we are not Lyne's accountants; they are Messrs. Purbrake & Store, but we have taken on the work at the request of Mr. Purbrake, who very naturally wishes to have an independent investigation, as there seems to be some question of defalcation on the part of one of the employees. This, coupled with the tragic death of Mr. Lyne, has made it all the more necessary that an outside firm should be called in to look into the books."

"That I understand," said Tarling, "and of course, the Commissioner quite appreciates the difficulty of your task. I've come along rather to procure information for my own purpose as I am doubly interested——"

Sir Felix looked up sharply.

"Mr. Tarling?" he repeated, looking at the card again. "Why, of course! I understand that letters of administration are to be applied for on your behalf?"

"I believe that is so," said Tarling quietly. "But my interest in the property is more or less impersonal at the moment. The manager of the business is a Mr. Milburgh."

Sir Felix nodded.

"He has been most useful and helpful," he said. "And certainly, if the vague rumours I have heard have any substantial foundation—namely, that Milburgh is suspected of robbing the firm—then he is assuredly giving us every assistance to convict himself."

"You have all the books in your keeping?"

"Absolutely," replied Sir Felix emphatically. "The last three books, unearthed by Mr. Milburgh himself, came to us only this morning. In fact, those are they," he pointed to a brown paper parcel standing on a smaller table near the window. The parcel was heavily corded and was secured again by red tape, which was sealed.

Sir Felix leaned over and pressed a bell on the table, and a clerk came in.

"Put those books with the others in the strong-room," he said, and when the man had disappeared, staggering under the weight of the heavy volumes he turned to Tarling.

"We're keeping all the books and accounts of Lyne's Stores in a special strong-room," he said. "They are all under seal, and those seals will be broken in the presence of Mr. Milburgh, as an interested party, and a representative of the Public Prosecutor."

"When will this be?" asked Tarling.

"To-morrow afternoon, or possibly to-morrow morning. We will notify Scotland Yard as to the exact hour, because I suppose you will wish to be represented."

He rose briskly, thereby ending the interview.

It was another dead end, thought Tarling, as he went out into St. Mary Axe and boarded a westward-bound omnibus. The case abounded in these culs-de-sac which seemed to lead nowhere. Cul-de-sac No. 1 had been supplied by Odette Rider; cul-de-sac No. 2 might very easily lead to the dead end of Milburgh's innocence.

He felt a sense of relief, however, that the authorities had acted so promptly in impounding Lyne's books. An examination into these might lead to the discovery of the murderer, and at any rate would dispel the cloud of suspicion which still surrounded Odette Rider.

He had gone to Dashwood and Solomon to make himself personally acquainted with that string in the tangled skein which he was determined to unravel; and now, with his mind at rest upon that subject, he was returning to settle matters with Ling Chu, that Chinese assistant of his who was now as deeply under suspicion as any suspect in the case.

He had spoken no more than the truth when he had told Inspector Whiteside that he knew the way to deal with Ling Chu. A Chinese criminal—and he was loath to believe that Ling Chu, that faithful servant, came under that description—is not to be handled in the Occidental manner; and he, who had been known throughout Southern China as the "Hunter of Men" had a reputation for extracting truth by methods which no code of laws would sanction.

He walked into his Bond Street flat, shut the door behind him and locked it, putting the key in his pocket. He knew Ling Chu would be in, because he had given him instructions that morning to await his return.

The Chinaman came into the hall to take his coat and hat, and followed Tarling into the sitting-room.

"Close the door, Ling Chu," said Tarling in Chinese. "I have something to say to you."

The last words were spoken in English, and the Chinaman looked at him quickly. Tarling had never addressed him in that language before, and the Chinaman knew just what this departure portended.

"Ling Chu," said Tarling, sitting at the table, his chin in his hand, watching the other with steady eyes, "you did not tell me that you spoke English."

"The master has never asked me," said the Chinaman quietly, and to Tarling's surprise his English was without accent and his pronunciation perfect.

"That is not true," said Tarling sternly. "When you told me that you had heard of the murder, I said that you did not understand English, and you did not deny it."

"It is not for me to deny the master," said Ling Chu as coolly as ever. "I speak very good English. I was trained at the Jesuit School in Hangkow, but it is not good for a Chinaman to speak English in China, or for any to know that he understands. Yet the master must have known I spoke English and read the language, for why should I keep the little cuttings from the newspapers in the box which the master searched this morning?"

Tarling's eyes narrowed.

"So you knew that, did you?" he said.

The Chinaman smiled. It was a most unusual circumstance, for Ling Chu had never smiled within Tarling's recollection.

"The papers were in certain order—some turned one way and some turned the other. When I saw them after I came back from Scotland Yard they had been disturbed. They could not disturb themselves, master, and none but you would go to my box."

There was a pause, awkward enough for Tarling, who felt for the moment a little foolish that his carelessness had led to Ling Chu discovering the search which had been made of his private property.

"I thought I had put them back as I had found them," he said, knowing that nothing could be gained by denying the fact that he had gone through Ling Chu's trunk. "Now, you will tell me, Ling Chu, did those printed words speak the truth?"

Ling Chu nodded.

"It is true, master," he said. "The Little Narcissus, or as the foreigners called her, the Little Daffodil, was my sister. She became a dancer in a tea-house against my wish, our parents being dead. She was a very good girl, master, and as pretty as a sprig of almond blossom. Chinese women are not pretty to the foreigner's eyes, but little Daffodil was like something cast in porcelain, and she had the virtues of a thousand years."

Tarling nodded.

"She was a good girl?" he repeated, this time speaking in Chinese and using a phrase which had a more delicate shade of meaning.

"She lived good and she died good," said the Chinaman calmly. "The speech of the Englishman offended her, and he called her many bad names because she would not come and sit on his knee; and if he put shame upon her by embracing her before the eyes of men, she was yet good, and she died very honourably."

Another interval of silence.

"I see," said Tarling quietly. "And when you said you would come with me to England, did you expect to meet—the bad Englishman?"

Ling Chu shook his head.

"I had put it from my mind," he said, "until I saw him that day in the big shop. Then the evil spirit which I had thought was all burnt out inside me, blazed up again." He stopped.

"And you desired his death?" said Tarling, and a nod was his answer.

"You shall tell me all, Ling Chu," said Tarling.

The man was now pacing the room with restless strides, his emotion betrayed only by the convulsive clutching and unclutching of his hands.

"The Little Daffodil was very dear to me," he said. "Soon I think she would have married and have had children, and her name would have been blessed after the fashion of our people; for did not the Great Master say: 'What is more worshipful than the mother of children?' And when she died, master, my heart was empty, for there was no other love in my life. And then the Ho Sing murder was committed, and I went into the interior to search for Lu Fang, and that helped me to forget. I had forgotten till I saw him again. Then the old sorrow grew large in my soul, and I went out——"

"To kill him," said Tarling quietly.

"To kill him," repeated the man.

"Tell me all," said Tarling, drawing a long breath.

"It was the night you went to the little girl," said Ling Chu (Tarling knew that he spoke of Odette Rider). "I had made up my mind to go out, but I could not find an excuse because, master, you have given me orders that I must not leave this place whilst you are out. So I asked if I might go with you to the house of many houses."

"To the flat?" nodded Tarling. "Yes, go on."

"I had taken your quick-quick pistol and had loaded it and put it in my overcoat pocket. You told me to trail you, but when I had seen you on your way I left you and went to the big shop."

"To the big shop?" said Tarling in surprise. "But Lyne did not live in his stores!"

"So I discovered," said Ling Chu simply. "I thought in such a large house he would have built himself a beautiful room. In China many masters live in their shops. So I went to the big store to search it."

"Did you get in?" asked Tarling in surprise, and again Ling Chu smiled.

"That was very easy," he said. "The master knows how well I climb, and there were long iron pipes leading to the roof. Up one of these I climbed. Two sides of the shop are on big streets. One side is on a smaller street, and the fourth side is in a very small-piece street with few lights. It was up this side that I went. On the roof were many doors, and to such a man as me there was no difficulty."

"Go on," said Tarling again.

"I came down from floor to floor, always in darkness, but each floor I searched carefully, but found nothing but great bundles and packing-cases and long bars——"

"Counters," corrected Tarling.

"Yes," nodded Ling Chu, "they are called counters. And then at last I came to the floor where I had seen The Man." He paused. "First I went to the great room where we had met him, and that was locked. I opened it with a key, but it was in darkness, and I knew nobody was there. Then I went along a passage very carefully, because there was a light at the other end, and I came to an office."

"Empty, of course?"

"It was empty," said the Chinaman, "but a light was burning, and the desk cover was open. I thought he must be there, and I slipped behind the bureau, taking the pistol from my pocket. Presently I heard a footstep. I peeped out and saw the big white-faced man."

"Milburgh!" said Tarling.

"So he is called," replied the Chinaman. "He sat at the young man's desk. I knew it was the young man's desk, because there were many pictures upon it and flowers, such as he would have. The big man had his back to me."

"What was he doing?" asked Tarling.

"He was searching the desk, looking for something. Presently I saw him take from one of the drawers, which he opened, an envelope. From where I stood I could see into the drawer, and there were many little things such as tourists buy in China. From the envelope he took the Hong."

Tarling started. He knew of the Hong to which the man referred. It was the little red slip of paper bearing the Chinese characters which was found upon Thornton Lyne's body that memorable morning in Hyde Park.

"Yes, yes," he said eagerly. "What happened then?"

"He put the envelope in his pocket and went out. I heard him walking along the passage, and then I crept out from my hiding place and I also looked at the desk. I put the revolver down by my side, because I wanted both hands for the search, but I found nothing—only one little piece book that the master uses to write down from day to day all that happens to him."

"A diary?" thought Tarling. "Well, and what next?" he asked.

"I got up to search the room and tripped over a wire. It must have been the wire attached to the electric light above the desk, for the room suddenly became dark, and at that moment I heard the big man's footsteps returning and slipped out of the door. And that is all, master," said Ling Chu simply. "I went back to the roof quickly for fear I should be discovered and it should bring dishonour to you."

Tarling whistled.

"And left the pistol behind?" he said.

"That is nothing but the truth," said Ling Chu. "I have dishonoured myself in your eyes, and in my heart I am a murderer, for I went to that place to kill the man who had brought shame to me and to my honourable relation."

"And left the pistol behind?" said Tarling again. "And Milburgh found it!"



CHAPTER XX

MR. MILBURGH SEES IT THROUGH

Ling Chu's story was not difficult to believe. It was less difficult to believe that he was lying. There is no inventor in the world so clever, so circumstantial, so exact as to detail, as the Chinaman. He is a born teller of stories and piecer together of circumstances that fit so closely that it is difficult to see the joints. Yet the man had been frank, straightforward, patently honest. He had even placed himself in Tarling's power by his confession of his murderous intention.

Tarling could reconstruct the scene after the Chinaman had left. Milburgh stumbling in in the dark, striking a match and discovering a wall plug had been pulled away, reconnecting the lamp, and seeing to his amazement a murderous-looking pistol on the desk. It was possible that Milburgh, finding the pistol, had been deceived into believing that he had overlooked it on his previous search.

But what had happened to the weapon between the moment that Ling Chu left it on Thornton Lyne's private desk and when it was discovered in the work-basket of Odette Rider in the flat at Carrymore Mansions? And what had Milburgh been doing in the store by himself so late at night? And more particularly, what had he been doing in Thornton Lyne's private room? It was unlikely that Lyne would leave his desk unlocked, and the only inference to be drawn was that Milburgh had unlocked it himself with the object of searching its contents.

And the Hong? Those sinister little squares of red paper with the Chinese characters, one of which had been found in Thornton Lyne's pocket? The explanation of their presence in Thornton Lyne's desk was simple. He had been a globetrotter and had collected curios, and it was only natural that he should collect these slips of paper, which were on sale in most of the big Chinese towns as a souvenir of the predatory methods of the "Cheerful Hearts."

His conversation with Ling Chu would have to be reported to Scotland Yard, and that august institution would draw its own conclusions. In all probability they would be most unfavourable to Ling Chu, who would come immediately under suspicion.

Tarling, however, was satisfied—or perhaps it would be more accurate to say inclined to be satisfied—with his retainer's statement. Some of his story was susceptible to verification, and the detective lost no time in making his way to the Stores. The topographical situation was as Ling Chu had described it. Tarling went to the back of the big block of buildings, into the small, quiet street of which Ling Chu had spoken, and was able to distinguish the iron rain pipe (one of many) up which the Chinaman had clambered. Ling Chu would negotiate that task without any physical distress. He could climb like a cat, as Tarling knew, and that part of his story put no great tax upon the detective's credulity.

He walked back to the front of the shop, passed the huge plate-glass windows, fringed now with shoppers with whom Lyne's Store had acquired a new and morbid interest, and through the big swinging doors on to the crowded floor. Mr. Milburgh was in his office, said a shop-walker, and led the way.

Mr. Milburgh's office was much larger and less ornate than his late employer's. He greeted Tarling effusively, and pushed an arm-chair forward and produced a box of cigars.

"We're in rather a turmoil and upset now, Mr. Tarling," he said in his ingratiating voice, with that set smile of his which never seemed to leave his face. "The auditors—or rather I should say the accountants—have taken away all the books, and of course that imposes a terrible strain on me, Mr. Tarling. It means that we've got to organise a system of interim accounts, and you as a business man will understand just what that means."

"You work pretty hard, Mr. Milburgh?" said Tarling.

"Why, yes, sir," smiled Milburgh. "I've always worked hard."

"You were working pretty hard before Mr. Lyne was killed, were you not?" asked Tarling.

"Yes——" hesitated Milburgh. "I can say honestly that I was."

"Very late at night?"

Milburgh still smiled, but there was a steely look in his eye as he answered:

"Frequently I worked late at night."

"Do you remember the night of the eleventh?" asked Tarling.

Milburgh looked at the ceiling for inspiration.

"Yes, I think I do. I was working very late that night."

"In your own office?"

"No," replied the other readily, "I did most of my work in Mr. Lyne's office—at his request," he added. A bold statement to make to a man who knew that Lyne suspected him of robbing the firm. But Milburgh was nothing if not bold.

"Did he also give you the key of his desk?" asked the detective dryly.

"Yes, sir," beamed Mr. Milburgh, "of course he did! You see, Mr. Lyne trusted me absolutely."

He said this so naturally and with such assurance that Tarling was staggered. Before he had time to speak the other went on:

"Yes, I can truthfully say that I was in Mr. Lyne's confidence. He told me a great deal more about himself than he has told anybody and——"

"One moment," said Tarling, and he spoke slowly. "Will you please tell me what you did with the revolver which you found on Mr. Lyne's desk? It was a Colt automatic, and it was loaded."

Blank astonishment showed in Mr. Milburgh's eyes.

"A loaded pistol?" he asked, raising his eyebrows, "but, my dear good Mr. Tarling, whatever are you talking about? I never found a loaded pistol on Mr. Lyne's desk—poor fellow! Mr. Lyne objected as much to these deadly weapons as myself."

Here was a facer for Tarling, but he betrayed no sign either of disappointment or surprise. Milburgh was frowning as though he were attempting to piece together some half-forgotten recollection.

"Is it possible," he said in a shocked voice, "that when you examined my house the other day it was with the object of discovering such a weapon as this!"

"It's quite possible," said Tarling coolly, "and even probable. Now, I'm going to be very straightforward with you, Mr. Milburgh. I suspect you know a great deal more about this murder than you have told us, and that you had ever so much more reason for wishing Mr. Lyne was dead than you are prepared to admit at this moment. Wait," he said, as the other opened his mouth to speak. "I am telling you candidly that the object of my first visit to these Stores was to investigate happenings which looked very black against you. It was hardly so much the work of a detective as an accountant," he said, "but Mr. Lyne thought that I should be able to discover who was robbing the firm."

"And did you?" asked Milburgh coolly. There was the ghost of a smile still upon his face, but defiance shone in his pale eyes.

"I did not, because I went no further in the matter after you had expressed your agreement with Mr. Lyne that the firm had been robbed by Odette Rider."

He saw the man change colour, and pushed home his advantage.

"I am not going to inquire too closely into your reasons for attempting to ruin an innocent girl," he said sternly. "That is a matter for your own conscience. But I tell you, Mr. Milburgh, that if you are innocent—both of the robbery and of the murder—then I've never met a guilty person in my life."

"What do you mean?" asked the man loudly. "Do you dare to accuse me——?"

"I accuse you of nothing more than this," said Tarling, "that I am perfectly satisfied that you have been robbing the firm for years. I am equally satisfied that, even if you did not kill Mr. Lyne, you at least know who did."

"You're mad," sneered Milburgh, but his face was white. "Supposing it were true that I had robbed the firm, why should I want to kill Mr. Thornton Lyne? The mere fact of his death would have brought an examination into the accounts."

This was a convincing argument—the more so as it was an argument which Tarling himself had employed.

"As to your absurd and melodramatic charges of robbing the firm," Milburgh went on, "the books are now in the hands of an eminent firm of chartered accountants, who can give the lie to any such statement as you have made."

He had recovered something of his old urbanity, and now stood, or rather straddled, with his legs apart, his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, beaming benignly upon the detective.

"I await the investigation of that eminent firm, Messrs. Dashwood and Solomon, with every confidence and without the least perturbation," he said. "Their findings will vindicate my honour beyond any question. I shall see this matter through!"

Tarling looked at him.

"I admire your nerve," he said, and left the office without another word.



CHAPTER XXI

COVERING THE TRAIL

Tarling had a brief interview with his assistant Whiteside, and the Inspector, to his surprise, accepted his view of Ling Chu's confession.

"I always thought Milburgh was a pretty cool customer," Whiteside said thoughtfully. "But he has more gall than I gave him credit for. I would certainly prefer to believe your Chink than I would believe Milburgh. And, by the way, your young lady has slipped the shadow."

"What are you talking about?" asked Tarling in surprise.

"I am referring to your Miss Odette Rider—and why on earth a grown-up police officer with your experience should blush, I can't imagine."

"I'm not blushing," said Tarling. "What about her?"

"I've had two men watching her," explained Whiteside, "and whenever she has taken her walks abroad she has been followed, as you know. In accordance with your instructions I was taking off those shadows to-morrow, but to-day she went to Bond Street, and either Jackson was careless—it was Jackson who was on the job—or else the young lady was very sharp; at any rate, he waited for half an hour for her to come out of the shop, and when she didn't appear he walked in and found there was another entrance through which she had gone. Since then she has not been back to the hotel."

"I don't like that," said Tarling, a little troubled. "I wished her to be under observation as much for her own protection as anything else. I wish you would keep a man at the hotel and telephone me just as soon as she returns."

Whiteside nodded.

"I've anticipated your wishes in that respect," he said. "Well, what is the next move?"

"I'm going to Hertford to see Miss Rider's mother; and incidentally, I may pick up Miss Rider, who is very likely to have gone home."

Whiteside nodded.

"What do you expect to find out from the mother?" he asked.

"I expect to learn a great deal," said Tarling. "There is still a minor mystery to be discovered. For example, who is the mysterious man who comes and goes to Hertford, and just why is Mrs. Rider living in luxury whilst her daughter is working for her living at Lyne's Store?"

"There's something in that," agreed Whiteside. "Would you like me to come along with you?"

"Thanks," smiled Tarling, "I can do that little job by myself."

"Reverting to Milburgh," began Whiteside.

"As we always revert to Milburgh," groaned Tarling. "Yes?"

"Well, I don't like his assurance," said Whiteside. "It looks as if all our hopes of getting a clue from the examination of Lyne's accounts are fated to be dashed."

"There's something in that," said Tarling. "I don't like it myself. The books are in the hands of one of the best chartered accountants in the country, and if there has been any monkey business, he is the fellow who is certain to find it; and not only that, but to trace whatever defalcations there are to the man responsible. Milburgh is not fool enough to imagine that he won't be found out once the accountants get busy, and his cheeriness in face of exposure is to say the least disconcerting."

Their little conference was being held in a prosaic public tea-room opposite the House of Commons—a tea-room the walls of which, had they ears, could have told not a few of Scotland Yard's most precious secrets.

Tarling was on the point of changing the subject when he remembered the parcel of books which had arrived at the accountant's office that morning.

"Rather late," said Whiteside thoughtfully. "By Jove! I wonder!"

"You wonder what?"

"I wonder if they were the three books that Milburgh bought yesterday?"

"The three ledgers?"

Whiteside nodded.

"But why on earth should he want to put in three new ledgers—they were new, weren't they? That doesn't seem to me to be a very intelligent suggestion. And yet——"

He jumped up, almost upsetting the table in his excitement.

"Quick, Whiteside! Get a cab while I settle the bill," he said.

"Where are you going?"

"Hurry up and get the cab!" said Tarling, and when he had rejoined his companion outside, and the taxi was bowling along the Thames Embankment: "I'm going to St. Mary Axe."

"So I gathered from your directions to the cabman," said Whiteside. "But why St. Mary Axe at this time of the afternoon? The very respectable Dashwood and Solomon will not be glad to see you until to-morrow."

"I'm going to see these books," said Tarling, "the books which Milburgh sent to the accountants this morning."

"What do you expect to find?"

"I'll tell you later," was Tarling's reply. He looked at his watch. "They won't be closed yet, thank heaven!"

The taxi was held up at the juncture of the Embankment and Blackfriars Bridge, and was held up again for a different reason in Queen Victoria Street. Suddenly there was a clang-clang of gongs, and all traffic drew to one side to allow the passage of a flying motor fire-engine. Another and another followed in succession.

"A big fire," said Whiteside. "Or it may be a little one, because they get very panicky in the City, and they'll put in a divisional call for a smoking chimney!"

The cab moved on, and had crossed Cannon Street, when it was again held up by another roaring motor, this time bearing a fire escape.

"Let's get out of the cab; we'll walk," said Tarling.

They jumped out, and Whiteside paid the driver.

"This way," said Tarling. "We'll make a short cut."

Whiteside had stopped to speak to a policeman.

"Where's the fire, constable?" he asked.

"St. Mary Axe, sir," was the policeman's reply. "A big firm of chartered accountants—Dashwood and Solomon. You know them, sir? I'm told the place is blazing from cellar to garret."

Tarling showed his teeth in an unamused grin as the words came to him.

"And all the proof of Milburgh's guilt gone up in smoke, eh?" he said. "I think I know what those books contained—a little clockwork detonator and a few pounds of thermite to burn up all the clues to the Daffodil Murder!"



CHAPTER XXII

THE HEAVY WALLET

All that remained of the once stately, if restricted, premises of Messrs. Dashwood and Solomon was a gaunt-looking front wall, blackened by the fire. Tarling interviewed the Chief of the Fire Brigade.

"It'll be days before we can get inside," said that worthy, "and I very much doubt if there's anything left intact. The whole of the building has been burnt out—you can see for yourself the roof has gone in—and there's very little chance of recovering anything of an inflammable nature unless it happens to be in a safe."

Tarling caught sight of the brusque Sir Felix Solomon gazing, without any visible evidence of distress, upon the wreckage of his office.

"We are covered by insurance," said Sir Felix philosophically, "and there is nothing of any great importance, except, of course, those documents and books from Lyne's Store."

"They weren't in the fire-proof vault?" asked Tarling, and Sir Felix shook his head.

"No," he said, "they were in a strong-room; and curiously enough, it was in that strong room where the fire originated. The room itself was not fire-proof, and it would have been precious little use if it had been, as the fire started inside. The first news we received was when a clerk, going down to the basement, saw flames leaping out between the steel bars which constitute the door of No. 4 vault."

Tarling nodded.

"I need not ask you whether the books which Mr. Milburgh brought this morning had been placed in that safe, Sir Felix," he said, and the knight looked surprised.

"Of course not. They were placed there whilst you were in the office," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"Because in my judgment those books were not books at all in the usually understood sense. Unless I am at fault, the parcel contained three big ledgers glued together, the contents being hollowed out and that hollow filled with thermite, a clockwork detonator, or the necessary electric apparatus to start a spark at a given moment."

The accountant stared at him.

"You're joking," he said, but Tarling shook his head.

"I was never more serious in my life."

"But who would commit such an infernal act as that? Why, one of my clerks was nearly burnt to death!"

"The man who would commit such an infernal act as that," repeated Tarling slowly, "is the man who has every reason for wishing to avoid an examination of Lyne's accounts."

"You don't mean——?"

"I'll mention no names for the moment, and if inadvertently I have conveyed the identity of the gentleman of whom I have been speaking, I hope you will be good enough to regard it as confidential," said Tarling, and went back to his crestfallen subordinate.

"No wonder Milburgh was satisfied with the forthcoming examination," he said bitterly. "The devil had planted that parcel, and had timed it probably to the minute. Well, there's nothing more to be done to-night—with Milburgh."

He looked at his watch.

"I'm going back to my flat, and afterwards to Hertford," he said.

He had made no definite plan as to what line he should pursue after he reached Hertford. He had a dim notion that his investigation hereabouts might, if properly directed, lead him nearer to the heart of the mystery. This pretty, faded woman who lived in such style, and whose husband was so seldom visible, might give him a key. Somewhere it was in existence, that key, by which he could decipher the jumbled code of the Daffodil Murder, and it might as well be at Hertford as nearer at hand.

It was dark when he came to the home of Mrs. Rider, for this time he had dispensed with a cab, and had walked the long distance between the station and the house, desiring to avoid attention. The dwelling stood on the main road. It had a high wall frontage of about three hundred and fifty feet. The wall was continued down the side of a lane, and at the other end marked the boundary of a big paddock.

The entrance to the grounds was through a wrought-iron gate of strength, the design of which recalled something which he had seen before. On his previous visit the gate had been unfastened, and he had had no difficulty in reaching the house. Now, however, it was locked.

He put his flashlight over the gate and the supporting piers, and discovered a bell, evidently brand new, and recently fixed. He made no attempt to press the little white button, but continued his reconnaissance. About half-a-dozen yards inside the gateway was a small cottage, from which a light showed, and apparently the bell communicated with this dwelling. Whilst he was waiting, he heard a whistle and a quick footstep coming up the road, and drew into the shadow. Somebody came to the gate; he heard the faint tinkle of a bell and a door opened.

The new-comer was a newspaper boy, who pushed a bundle of evening papers through the iron bars and went off again. Tarling waited until he heard the door of the cottage or lodge close. Then he made a circuit of the house, hoping to find another entrance. There was evidently a servants' entrance at the back, leading from the lane, but this too was closed. Throwing his light up, he saw that there was no broken glass on top of the wall, as there had been in the front of the house, and, making a jump, he caught the stone coping and drew himself up and astride.

He dropped into the darkness on the other side without any discomfort to himself, and made his cautious way towards the house. Dogs were the danger, but apparently Mrs. Rider did not keep dogs, and his progress was unchallenged.

He saw no light either in the upper or lower windows until he got to the back. Here was a pillared-porch, above which had been built what appeared to be a conservatory. Beneath the porch was a door and a barred window, but it was from the conservatory above that a faint light emanated. He looked round for a ladder without success. But the portico presented no more difficulties than the wall had done. By stepping on to the window-sill and steadying himself against one of the pillars, he could reach an iron stanchion, which had evidently been placed to support the framework of the superstructure. From here to the parapet of the conservatory itself was but a swing. This glass-house had casement windows, one of which was open, and he leaned on his elbows and cautiously intruded his head.

The place was empty. The light came from an inner room opening into the glass sheltered balcony. Quickly he slipped through the windows and crouched under the shadow of a big oleander. The atmosphere of the conservatory was close and the smell was earthy. He judged from the hot-water pipes which his groping hands felt that it was a tiny winter garden erected by the owner of the house for her enjoyment in the dark, cold days. French windows admitted to the inner room, and, peering through the casement curtains which covered them, Tarling saw Mrs. Rider. She was sitting at a desk, a pen in her hand, her chin on her finger-tips. She was not writing, but staring blankly at the wall, as though she were at a loss for what to say.

The light came from a big alabaster bowl hanging a foot below the ceiling level, and it gave the detective an opportunity of making a swift examination. The room was furnished simply if in perfect taste, and had the appearance of a study. Beside her desk was a green safe, half let into the wall and half exposed. There were a few prints hanging on the walls, a chair or two, a couch half hidden from the detective's view, and that was all. He had expected to see Odette Rider with her mother, and was disappointed. Not only was Mrs. Rider alone, but she conveyed the impression that she was practically alone in the house.

Tarling knelt, watching her, for ten minutes, until he heard a sound outside. He crept softly back and looked over the edge of the portico in time to see a figure moving swiftly along the path. It was riding a bicycle which did not carry a light. Though he strained his eyes, he could not tell whether the rider was man or woman. It disappeared under the portico and he heard the grating of the machine as it was leant against one of the pillars, the click of a key in the lock and the sound of a door opening. Then he crept back to his observation post overlooking the study.

Mrs. Rider had evidently not heard the sound of the door opening below, and sat without movement still staring at the wall before her. Presently she started and looked round towards the door. Tarling noted the door—noted, too the electric switch just in view. Then the door opened slowly. He saw Mrs. Rider's face light up with pleasure, then somebody asked a question in a whisper, and she answered—he could just hear her words:

"No darling, nobody."

Tarling held his breath and waited. Then, of a sudden, the light in the room was extinguished. Whoever had entered had turned out the light. He heard a soft footfall coming towards the window looking into the conservatory and the rattle of the blinds as they were lowered. Then the light went up again, but he could see nothing or hear nothing.

Who was Mrs. Rider's mysterious visitor? There was only one way to discover, but he waited a little longer—waited, in fact, until he heard the soft slam of a safe door closing—before he slipped again through the window and dropped to the ground.

The bicycle was, as he had expected, leaning against one of the pillars. He could see nothing, and did not dare flash his lamp, but his sensitive fingers ran over its lines, and he barely checked an exclamation of surprise. It was a lady's bicycle!

He waited a little while, then withdrew to a shrubbery opposite the door on the other side of the drive up which the cyclist had come. He had not long to wait before the door under the portico opened again and closed. Somebody jumped on to the bicycle as Tarling leaped from his place of concealment. He pressed the key of his electric lamp, but for some reason it did not act. He felt rather than heard a shiver of surprise from the person on the machine.

"I want you," said Tarling, and put out his hands.

He missed the rider by the fraction of an inch, but saw the machine swerve and heard the soft thud of something falling. A second later the machine and rider had disappeared in the pitch darkness.

He re-fixed his lamp. Pursuit, he knew, was useless without his lantern, and, cursing the maker thereof, he adjusted another battery, and put the light on the ground to see what it was that the fugitive had dropped. He thought he heard a smothered exclamation behind him and turned swiftly. But nobody came within the radius of his lamp. He must be getting nervy, he thought, and continued his inspection of the wallet.

It was a long, leather portfolio, about ten inches in length and five inches in depth, and it was strangely heavy. He picked it up, felt for the clasp, and found instead two tiny locks. He made another examination by the light of his lantern, an examination which was interrupted by a challenge from above.

"Who are you?"

It was Mrs. Rider's voice, and just then it was inconvenient for him to reveal himself. Without a word in answer, he switched off his light and slipped into the bushes, and, more as the result of instinct than judgment, regained the wall, at almost the exact spot he had crossed it.

The road was empty, and there was no sign of the cyclist. There was only one thing to do and that was to get back to town as quickly as possible and examine the contents of the wallet at his leisure. It was extraordinary heavy for its size, he was reminded of that fact by his sagging pocket.

The road back to Hertford seemed interminable and the clocks were chiming a quarter of eleven when he entered the station yard.

"Train to London, sir?" said the porter. "You've missed the last train to London by five minutes!"



CHAPTER XXIII

THE NIGHT VISITOR

Tarling was less in a dilemma than in that condition of uncertainty which is produced by having no definite plans one way or the other. There was no immediate necessity for his return to town and his annoyance at finding the last train gone was due rather to a natural desire to sleep in his own bed, than to any other cause. He might have got a car from a local garage, and motored to London, if there had been any particular urgency, but, he told himself, he might as well spend the night in Hertford as in Bond Street.

If he had any leanings towards staying at Hertford it was because he was anxious to examine the contents of the wallet at his leisure. If he had any call to town it might be discovered in his anxiety as to what had happened to Odette Rider; whether she had returned to her hotel or was still marked "missing" by the police. He could, at any rate, get into communication with Scotland Yard and satisfy his mind on that point. He turned back from the station in search of lodgings. He was to find that it was not so easy to get rooms as he had imagined. The best hotel in the place was crowded out as a result of an agricultural convention which was being held in the town. He was sent on to another hotel, only to find that the same state of congestion existed, and finally after half an hour's search he found accommodation at a small commercial hotel which was surprisingly empty.

His first step was to get into communication with London and this was established without delay. Nothing had been heard of Odette Rider, and the only news of importance was that the ex-convict, Sam Stay, had escaped from the county lunatic asylum to which he had been removed.

Tarling went up to the commodious sitting-room. He was mildly interested in the news about Stay, for the man had been a disappointment. This criminal, whose love for Thornton Lyne had, as Tarling suspected rightly, been responsible for his mental collapse, might have supplied a great deal of information as to the events which led up to the day of the murder, and his dramatic breakdown had removed a witness who might have offered material assistance to the police.

Tarling closed the door of his sitting-room behind him, pulled the wallet from his pocket and laid it on the table. He tried first with his own keys to unfasten the flap but the locks defied him. The heaviness of the wallet surprised and piqued him, but he was soon to find an explanation for its extraordinary weight. He opened his pocket-knife and began to cut away the leather about the locks, and uttered an exclamation.

So that was the reason for the heaviness of the pouch—it was only leather-covered! Beneath this cover was a lining of fine steel mail. The wallet was really a steel chain bag, the locks being welded to the chain and absolutely immovable. He threw the wallet back on the table with a laugh. He must restrain his curiosity until he got back to the Yard, where the experts would make short work of the best locks which were ever invented. Whilst he sat watching the thing upon the table and turning over in his mind the possibility of its contents, he heard footsteps pass his door and mount the stairway opposite which his sitting-room was situated. Visitors in the same plight as himself, he thought.

Somehow, being in a strange room amidst unfamiliar surroundings, gave the case a new aspect. It was an aspect of unreality. They were all so unreal, the characters in this strange drama.

Thornton Lyne seemed fantastic, and fantastic indeed was his end. Milburgh, with his perpetual smirk, his little stoop, his broad, fat face and half-bald head; Mrs. Rider, a pale ghost of a woman who flitted in and out of the story, or rather hovered about it, never seeming to intrude, yet never wholly separated from its tragic process; Ling Chu, imperturbable, bringing with him the atmosphere of that land of intrigue and mystery and motive, China. Odette Rider alone was real. She was life; warm, palpitating, wonderful.

Tarling frowned and rose stiffly from his chair. He despised himself a little for this weakness of his. Odette Rider! A woman still under suspicion of murder, a woman whom it was his duty, if she were guilty, to bring to the scaffold, and the thought of her turned him hot and cold!

He passed through to his bedroom which adjoined the sitting-room, put the wallet on a table by the side of his bed, locked the bedroom door, opened the windows and prepared himself, as best he could, for the night.

There was a train leaving Hertford at five in the morning and he had arranged to be called in time to catch it. He took off his boots, coat, vest, collar and tie, unbuckled his belt—he was one of those eccentrics to whom the braces of civilisation were anathema—and lay down on the outside of the bed, pulling the eiderdown over him. Sleep did not come to him readily. He turned from side to side, thinking, thinking, thinking.

Suppose there had been some mistake in the time of the accident at Ashford? Suppose the doctors were wrong and Thornton Lyne was murdered at an earlier hour? Suppose Odette Rider was in reality a cold-blooded——. He growled away the thought.

He heard the church clock strike the hour of two and waited impatiently for the quarter to chime—he had heard every quarter since he had retired to bed. But he did not hear that quarter. He must have fallen into an uneasy sleep for he began to dream. He dreamt he was in China again and had fallen into the hands of that baneful society, the "Cheerful Hearts." He was in a temple, lying on a great black slab of stone, bound hand and foot, and above him he saw the leader of the gang, knife in hand, peering down into his face with a malicious grin—and it was the face of Odette Rider! He saw the knife raised and woke sweating.

The church clock was booming three and a deep silence lay on the world. But there was somebody in his room. He knew that and lay motionless, peering out of half-closed eyes from one corner to the other. There was nobody to be seen, nothing to be heard, but his sixth sense told him that somebody was present. He reached out his hand carefully and silently to the table and searched for the wallet. It was gone!

Then he heard the creak of a board and it came from the direction of the door leading to the sitting-room. With one bound he was out of bed in time to see the door flung open and a figure slip through. He was after it in a second. The burglar might have escaped, but unexpectedly there was a crash and a cry. He had fallen over a chair and before he could rise Tarling was on him and had flung him back. He leapt to the door, it was open. He banged it close and turned the key.

"Now, let's have a look at you," said Tarling grimly and switched on the light.

He fell back against the door, his mouth open in amazement, for the intruder was Odette Rider, and in her hand she held the stolen wallet.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE CONFESSION OF ODETTE RIDER

He could only gaze in stupified silence.

"You!" he said wonderingly.

The girl was pale and her eyes never left his face.

She nodded.

"Yes, it is I," she said in a low voice.

"You!" he said again and walked towards her.

He held out his hand and she gave him the wallet without a word.

"Sit down," he said kindly.

He thought she was going to faint.

"I hope I didn't hurt you? I hadn't the slightest idea——"

She shook her head.

"Oh, I'm not hurt," she said wearily, "not hurt in the way you mean."

She drew a chair to the table and dropped her face upon her hands and he stood by, embarrassed, almost terrified, by this unexpected development.

"So you were the visitor on the bicycle," he said at last. "I didn't suspect——"

It struck him at that moment that it was not an offence for Odette Rider to go up to her mother's house on a bicycle, or even to take away a wallet which was probably hers. If there was any crime at all, he had committed it in retaining something to which he had no right. She looked up at his words.

"I? On the bicycle?" she asked. "No, it was not I."

"Not you?"

She shook her head.

"I was in the grounds—I saw you using your lamp and I was quite close to you when you picked up the wallet," she said listlessly, "but I was not on the bicycle."

"Who was it?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"May I have that please?"

She held out her hand and he hesitated.

After all, he had no right or title to this curious purse. He compromised by putting it on the table and she did not attempt to take it.

"Odette," he said gently and walked round to her, laying his hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" she asked, without looking up.

"Tell me all there is to be told," he said. "I could help you. I want to help you."

She looked up at him.

"Why do you want to help me?" she asked simply.

He was tongue-tied for a second.

"Because I love you," he said, and his voice shook.

It did not seem to him that he was talking. The words came of their own volition. He had no more intention of telling her he loved her, indeed he had no more idea that he did love her, than Whiteside would have had. Yet he knew he spoke the truth and that a power greater than he had framed the words and put them on his lips.

The effect on the girl seemed extraordinary to him. She did not shrink back, she did not look surprised. She showed no astonishment whatever. She just brought her eyes back to the table and said: "Oh!"

That calm, almost uncannily calm acceptance of a fact which Tarling had not dared to breathe to himself, was the second shock of the evening.

It was as though she had known it all along. He was on his knees by her side and his arm was about her shoulders, even before his brain had willed the act.

"My girl, my girl," he said gently. "Won't you please tell me?"

Her head was still bent and her voice was so low as to be almost inaudible.

"Tell you what?" she asked.

"What you know of this business," he said. "Don't you realise how every new development brings you more and more under suspicion?"

"What business do you mean?"

He hesitated.

"The murder of Thornton Lyne? I know nothing of that."

She made no response to that tender arm of his, but sat rigid. Something in her attitude chilled him and he dropped her hand and rose. When she looked up she saw that his face was white and set. He walked to the door and unlocked it.

"I'm not going to ask you any more," he said quietly. "You know best why you came to me to-night—I suppose you followed me and took a room. I heard somebody going upstairs soon after I arrived."

She nodded.

"Do you want—this?" she asked and pointed to the wallet on the table.

"Take it away with you."

She got up to her feet unsteadily and swayed toward him. In a second he was by her side, his arms about her. She made no resistance, but rather he felt a yielding towards him which he had missed before. Her pale face was upturned to his and he stooped and kissed her.

"Odette! Odette!" he whispered. "Don't you realise that I love you and would give my life to save you from unhappiness? Won't you tell me everything, please?"

"No, no, no," she murmured with a little catch in her voice. "Please don't ask me! I am afraid. Oh, I am afraid!"

He crushed her in his arms, his cheek against hers, his lips tingling with the caress of her hair.

"But there is nothing to be afraid of, nothing," he said eagerly. "If you were as guilty as hell, I would save you! If you are shielding somebody I would shield them because I love you, Odette!"

"No, no!" she cried and pushed him back, both her little hands pressing against his chest. "Don't ask me, don't ask me——"

"Ask me!"

Tarling swung round. There was a man standing in the doorway, in the act of closing the door behind him.

"Milburgh!" he said between his teeth.

"Milburgh!" smiled the other mockingly. "I am sorry to interrupt this beautiful scene, but the occasion is a desperate one and I cannot afford to stand on ceremony, Mr. Tarling."

Tarling put the girl from him and looked at the smirking manager. One comprehensive glance the detective gave him, noted the cycling clips and the splashes of mud on his trousers, and understood.

"So you were the cyclist, eh?" he said.

"That's right," said Milburgh, "it is an exercise to which I am very partial."

"What do you want?" asked Tarling, alert and watchful.

"I want you to carry out your promise, Mr. Tarling," said Milburgh smoothly.

Tarling stared at him.

"My promise," he said, "what promise?"

"To protect, not only the evil-doer, but those who have compromised themselves in an effort to shield the evil-doer from his or her own wicked act."

Tarling started.

"Do you mean to say——" he said hoarsely. "Do you mean to accuse——?"

"I accuse nobody," said Milburgh with a wide sweep of his hands. "I merely suggest that both Miss Rider and myself are in very serious trouble and that you have it in your power to get us safely out of this country to one where extradition laws cannot follow."

Tarling took one step towards him and Milburgh shrank back.

"Do you accuse Miss Rider of complicity in this murder?" he demanded.

Milburgh smiled, but it was an uneasy smile.

"I make no accusation," he said, "and as to the murder?" he shrugged his shoulders. "You will understand better when you read the contents of that wallet which I was endeavouring to remove to a place of safety."

Tarling picked up the wallet from the table and looked at it.

"I shall see the contents of this wallet to-morrow," he said. "Locks will present very little difficulty—"

"You can read the contents to-night," said Milburgh smoothly, and pulled from his pocket a chain, at the end of which dangled a small bunch of keys. "Here is the key," he said. "Unlock and read to-night."

Tarling took the key in his hand, inserted it in first one tiny lock and then in the other. The catches snapped open and he threw back the flap. Then a hand snatched the portfolio from him and he turned to see the girl's quivering face and read the terror in her eyes.

"No, no!" she cried, almost beside herself, "no, for God's sake, no!"

Tarling stepped back. He saw the malicious little smile on Milburgh's face and could have struck him down.

"Miss Rider does not wish me to see what is in this case," he said.

"And for an excellent reason," sneered Milburgh.

"Here!"

It was the girl's voice, surprisingly clear and steady. Her shaking hands held the paper she had taken from the wallet and she thrust it toward the detective.

"There is a reason," she said in a low voice. "But it is not the reason you suggest."

Milburgh had gone too far. Tarling saw his face lengthen and the look of apprehension in his cold blue eyes. Then, without further hesitation, he opened the paper and read.

The first line took away his breath.

"THE CONFESSION OF ODETTE RIDER."

"Good God!" he muttered and read on. There were only half a dozen lines and they were in the firm caligraphy of the girl.

"I, Odette Rider, hereby confess that for three years I have been robbing the firm of Lyne's Stores, Limited, and during that period have taken the sum of L25,000."

Tarling dropped the paper and caught the girl as she fainted.



CHAPTER XXV

MILBURGH'S LAST BLUFF

Milburgh had gone too far. He had hoped to carry through this scene without the actual disclosure of the confession. In his shrewd, clever way he had realised before Tarling himself, that the detective from Shanghai, this heir to the Lyne millions, had fallen under the spell of the girl's beauty, and all his conjectures had been confirmed by the scene he had witnessed, no less than by the conversation he had overheard before the door was opened.

He was seeking immunity and safety. The man was in a panic, though this Tarling did not realise, and was making his last desperate throw for the life that he loved, that life of ease and comfort to secure which he had risked so much.

Milburgh had lived in terror that Odette Rider would betray him, and because of his panicky fear that she had told all to the detective that night he brought her back to London from Ashford, he had dared attempt to silence the man whom he believed was the recipient of the girl's confidence.

Those shots in the foggy night which had nearly ended the career of Jack Tarling had their explanation in Milburgh's terror of exposure. One person in the world, one living person, could place him in the felon's dock, and if she betrayed him——

Tarling had carried the girl to a couch and had laid her down. He went quickly into his bedroom, switching on the light, to get a glass of water. It was Milburgh's opportunity. A little fire was burning in the sitting-room. Swiftly he picked the confession from the floor and thrust it into his pocket.

On a little table stood a writing cabinet. From this he took a sheet of the hotel paper, crumpled it up and thrust it into the fire. It was blazing when Tarling returned.

"What are you doing?" he asked, halting by the side of the couch.

"I am burning the young lady's confession," said Milburgh calmly. "I do not think it is desirable in the interests——"

"Wait," said Tarling calmly.

He lowered the girl's head and sprinkled some of the water on her face, and she opened her eyes with a little shudder.

Tarling left her for a second and walked to the fire. The paper was burnt save a scrap of the edge that had not caught, and this he lifted gingerly, looked at it for a moment, then cast his eyes round the room. He saw that the stationery cabinet had been disturbed and laughed. It was neither a pleasant nor an amused laugh.

"That's the idea, eh?" he said, walked to the door, closed it and stood with his back to it.

"Now, Milburgh, you can give me that confession you've got in your pocket."

"I've burnt it, Mr. Tarling."

"You're a liar," said Tarling calmly. "You knew very well I wouldn't let you go out of this room with that confession in your pocket and you tried to bluff me by burning a sheet of writing-paper. I want that confession."

"I assure you——" began Milburgh.

"I want that confession," said Tarling, and with a sickly smile. Milburgh put his hand in his pocket and drew out the crumpled sheet.

"Now, if you are anxious to see it burn," said Tarling, "you will have an opportunity."

He read the statement again and put it into the fire, watched it until it was reduced to ashes, then beat the ashes down with a poker.

"That's that," said Tarling cheerfully.

"I suppose you know what you've done," said Milburgh. "You've destroyed evidence which you, as an officer of the law——"

"Cut that out," replied Tarling shortly.

For the second time that night he unlocked the door and flung it wide open.

"Milburgh, you can go. I know where I can find you when I want you," he said.

"You'll be sorry for this," said Milburgh.

"Not half as sorry as you'll be by the time I'm through with you," retorted Tarling.

"I shall go straight to Scotland Yard," fumed the man, white with passion.

"Do, by all means," said the detective coolly, "and be good enough to ask them to detain you until I come."

With this shot he closed the door upon the retreating man.

The girl was sitting now on the edge of the sofa, her brave eyes surveying the man who loved her.

"What have you done?" she asked.

"I've destroyed that precious confession of yours," said Tarling cheerfully. "It occurred to me in the space of time it took to get from you to my wash-stand, that that confession may have been made under pressure. I am right, aren't I?"

She nodded.

"Now, you wait there a little while I make myself presentable and I'll take you home."

"Take me home?" said the startled girl. "Not to mother, no, no. She mustn't ever know."

"On the contrary, she must know. I don't know what it is she mustn't know," said Tarling with a little smile, "but there has been a great deal too much mystery already, and it is not going to continue."

She rose and walked to the fireplace, her elbows on the mantelpiece, and her head back.

"I'll tell you all I can. Perhaps you're right," she said. "There has been too much mystery. You asked me once who was Milburgh."

She turned and half-faced him.

"I won't ask you that question any more," he said quietly, "I know!"

"You know?"

"Yes, Milburgh is your mother's second husband."

Her eyes opened.

"How did you find out that?"

"I guessed that," he smiled, "and she keeps her name Rider at Milburgh's request. He asked her not to reveal the fact that she was married again. Isn't that so?"

She nodded.

"Mother met him about seven years ago. We were at Harrogate at the time. You see, mother had a little money, and I think Mr. Milburgh thought it was much more than it actually was. He was a very agreeable man and told mother that he had a big business in the city. Mother believes that he is very well off."

Tarling whistled.

"I see," he said. "Milburgh has been robbing his employers and spending the money on your mother."

She shook her head.

"That is partly true and partly untrue," she said. "Mother has been an innocent participant. He bought this house at Hertford and furnished it lavishly, he kept two cars until a year ago, when I made him give them up and live more simply. You don't know what these years have meant, Mr. Tarling, since I discovered how deeply mother would be dragged down by the exposure of his villainy."

"How did you find it out?"

"It was soon after the marriage," said the girl. "I went into Lyne's Store one day and one of the employees was rude to me. I shouldn't have taken much notice, but an officious shop-walker dismissed the girl on the spot, and when I pleaded for her reinstatement, he insisted that I should see the manager. I was ushered into a private office, and there I saw Mr. Milburgh and realised the kind of double life he was living. He made me keep his secret, painted a dreadful picture of what would happen, and said he could put everything right if I would come into the business and help him. He told me he had large investments which were bringing in big sums and that he would apply this money to making good his defalcations. That was why I went into Lyne's Store, but he broke his word from the very beginning."

"Why did he put you there?" asked Tarling.

"Because, if there had been another person," said the girl, "he might have been detected. He knew that any inquiries into irregularities of accounts would come first to my department, and he wanted to have somebody there who would let him know. He did not betray this thought," said the girl, "but I guessed that that was the idea at the back of his mind...."

She went on to tell him something of the life she had lived, the humiliation she suffered in her knowledge of the despicable part she was playing.

"From the first I was an accessory," she said. "It is true that I did not steal, but my reason for accepting the post was in order to enable him, as I thought, to right a grievous wrong and to save my mother from the shame and misery which would follow the exposure of Milburgh's real character."

She looked at him with a sad little smile.

"I hardly realise that I am speaking to a detective," she said, "and all that I have suffered during these past years has been in vain; but the truth must come now, whatever be the consequences."

She paused.

"And now I am going to tell you what happened on the night of the murder."



CHAPTER XXVI

IN MRS. RIDER'S ROOM

There was a deep silence. Tarling could feel his heart thumping almost noisily.

"After I had left Lyne's Store," she said, "I had decided to go to mother to spend two or three days with her before I began looking for work. Mr. Milburgh only went to Hertford for the weekends, and I couldn't stay in the same house with him, knowing all that I knew.

"I left my flat at about half-past six that evening, but I am not quite sure of the exact time. It must have been somewhere near then, because I was going to catch the seven o'clock train to Hertford. I arrived at the station and had taken my ticket, and was stooping to pick up my bag, when I felt a hand on my arm, and turning, saw Mr. Milburgh. He was in a state of great agitation and distress, and asked me to take a later train and accompany him to the Florentine Restaurant, where he had taken a private room. He told me he had very bad news and that I must know.

"I put my bag in the cloak-room and went off with him, and over the dinner—I only had a cup of tea, as a matter of fact—he told me that he was on the verge of ruin. He said that Mr. Lyne had sent for a detective (which was you), and had the intention of exposing him, only Mr. Lyne's rage against me was so great, that for the moment he was diverted from his purpose.

"'Only you can save me,' said Milburgh.

"'I?' I said in astonishment, 'how can I save you?'

"'Take the responsibility for the theft upon yourself,' he said. 'Your mother is involved in this heavily.'

"'Does she know?'

"He nodded. I found afterwards that he was lying to me and was preying upon my love for mother.

"I was dazed and horrified," said the girl, "at the thought that poor dear mother might be involved in this horrible scandal, and when he suggested that I should write a confession at his dictation and should leave by the first train for the Continent until the matter blew over, I fell in with his scheme without protest—and that is all."

"Why did you come to Hertford to-night?" asked Tarling.

Again she smiled.

"To get the confession," she said simply "I knew Milburgh would keep it in the safe. I saw him when I left the hotel—he had telephoned to me and made the appointment at the shop where I slipped the detectives, and it was there that he told me——" she stopped suddenly and went red.

"He told you I was fond of you," said Tarling quietly, and she nodded.

"He threatened to take advantage of that fact, and wanted to show you the confession."

"I see," said Tarling, and heaved a deep sigh of relief. "Thank God!" he said fervently.

"For what?" she asked, looking at him in astonishment.

"That everything is clear. To-morrow I will arrest the murderer of Thornton Lyne!"

"No, no, not that," she said, and laid her hand on his shoulder, her distressed face looking into his, "surely not that. Mr. Milburgh could not have done it, he could not be so great a scoundrel."

"Who sent the wire to your mother saying you were not coming down?"

"Milburgh," replied the girl.

"Did he send two wires, do you remember?" said Tarling.

She hesitated.

"Yes, he did," she said, "I don't know who the other was to."

"It was the same writing anyway," he said.

"But——"

"Dear," he said, "you must not worry any more about it. There is a trying time ahead of you, but you must be brave, both for your own sake and for your mother's, and for mine," he added.

Despite her unhappiness she smiled faintly.

"You take something for granted, don't you?" she asked.

"Am I doing that?" he said in surprise.

"You mean—" she went redder than ever—"that I care enough for you—that I would make an effort for your sake?"

"I suppose I do," said Tarling slowly, "it's vanity, I suppose?"

"Perhaps it is instinct," she said, and squeezed his arm.

"I must take you back to your mother's place," he said.

The walk from the house to the station had been a long and tedious one. The way back was surprisingly short, even though they walked at snail's pace. There never was a courting such as Tarling's, and it seemed unreal as a dream. The girl had a key of the outer gate and they passed through together.

"Does your mother know that you are in Hertford?" asked Tarling suddenly.

"Yes," replied the girl. "I saw her before I came after you."

"Does she know——"

He did not care to finish the sentence.

"No," said the girl, "she does not know. Poor woman, it will break her heart. She is—very fond of Milburgh. Sometimes he is most kind to mother. She loves him so much that she accepted his mysterious comings and goings and all the explanations which he offered, without suspicion."

They had reached the place where he had picked up the wallet, and above him gloomed the dark bulk of the portico with its glass-house atop. The house was in darkness, no lights shone anywhere.

"I will take you in through the door under the portico. It is the way Mr. Milburgh always comes. Have you a light?"

He had his electric lamp in his pocket and he put a beam upon the key-hole. She inserted the key and uttered a note of exclamation, for the door yielded under her pressure and opened.

"It is unlocked," she said. "I am sure I fastened it."

Tarling put his lamp upon the lock and made a little grimace. The catch had been wedged back into the lock so that it could not spring out again.

"How long were you in the house?" he asked quickly.

"Only a few minutes," said the girl. "I went in just to tell mother, and I came out immediately."

"Did you close the door behind you when you went in?"

The girl thought a moment.

"Perhaps I didn't," she said. "No, of course not—I didn't come back this way; mother let me out by the front door."

Tarling put his light into the hall and saw the carpeted stairs half-a-dozen feet away. He guessed what had happened. Somebody had seen the door ajar, and guessing from the fact that she had left it open that she was returning immediately, had slipped a piece of wood, which looked to be and was in fact the stalk of a match, between the catch of the spring lock and its sheath.

"What has happened?" asked the girl in a troubled voice.

"Nothing," said Tarling airily. "It was probably your disreputable step-father did this. He may have lost his key."

"He could have gone in the front door," said the girl uneasily.

"Well, I'll go first," said Tarling with a cheerfulness which he was far from feeling.

He went upstairs, his lamp in one hand, an automatic pistol in the other. The stairs ended in a balustraded landing from which two doors opened.

"That is mother's room," said the girl, pointing to the nearest.

A sense of impending trouble made her shiver. Tarling put his arms about her encouragingly. He walked to the door of the room, turned the handle and opened it. There was something behind the door which held it close, and exerting all his strength he pushed the door open sufficiently far to allow of his squeezing through.

On the desk a table-lamp was burning, the light of which was hidden from the outside by the heavily-curtained windows, but it was neither at the window nor at the desk that he was looking.

Mrs. Rider lay behind the door, a little smile on her face, the haft of a dagger standing out with hideous distinctness beneath her heart.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAUGH IN THE NIGHT

Tarling gave one glance before he turned to the girl, who was endeavouring to push past him, and catching her by the arm gently thrust her back into the passage.

"What is wrong? What is wrong?" she asked in a terrified whisper. "Oh, let me go to mother."

She struggled to escape from his grip, but he held her firmly.

"You must be brave, for your own sake—for everybody's sake," he entreated her.

Still holding her arm, he forced her to the door of the second inner room. His hand felt for the electric switch and found it.

He was in what appeared to be a spare bedroom, plainly furnished, and from this a door led, apparently into the main building.

"Where does that door lead?" he asked, but she did not appear to hear him.

"Mother, mother!" she was moaning, "what has happened to my mother?"

"Where does that door lead?" he asked again, and for answer she slipped her trembling hand into her pocket and produced a key.

He opened the door and found himself in a rectangular gallery overlooking the hall.

She slipped past him, but he caught her and pushed her back.

"I tell you, you must be calm, Odette," he said firmly, "you must not give way. Everything depends upon your courage. Where are the servants?"

Then, unexpectedly, she broke away from him and raced back through the door into the wing they had left. He followed in swift pursuit.

"For God's sake, Odette, don't, don't," he cried, as she flung herself against the door and burst into her mother's room.

One glance she gave, then she fell on the floor by the side of her dead mother, and flinging her arms about the form kissed the cold lips.

Tarling pulled her gently away, and half-carried, half-supported her back to the gallery. A dishevelled man in shirt and trousers whom Tarling thought might be the butler was hurrying along the corridor.

"Arouse any women who are in the house," said Tarling in a low voice. "Mrs. Rider has been murdered."

"Murdered, sir!" said the startled man. "You don't mean that?"

"Quick," said Tarling sharply, "Miss Rider has fainted again."

They carried her into the drawing-room and laid her on the couch, and Tarling did not leave her until he had seen her in the hands of two women servants.

He went back with the butler to the room where the body lay. He turned on all the lights and made a careful scrutiny of the room. The window leading on to the glass-covered balcony where he had been concealed a few hours before, was latched, locked and bolted.

The curtains, which had been drawn, presumably by Milburgh when he came for the wallet, were undisturbed. From the position in which the dead woman lay and the calm on her face he thought death must have come instantly and unexpectedly. Probably the murderer stole behind her whilst she was standing at the foot of the sofa which he had partly seen through the window. It was likely that, to beguile the time of waiting for her daughter's return, she had taken a book from a little cabinet immediately behind the door, and support for this theory came in the shape of a book which had evidently fallen out of her hand between the position in which she was found and the book-case.

Together the two men lifted the body on to the sofa.

"You had better go down into the town and inform the police," said Tarling. "Is there a telephone here?"

"Yes, sir," replied the butler.

"Good, that will save you a journey," said the detective.

He notified the local police officials and then got on to Scotland Yard and sent a messenger to arouse Whiteside. The faint pallor of dawn was in the sky when he looked out of the window, but the pale light merely served to emphasise the pitch darkness of the world.

He examined the knife, which had the appearance of being a very ordinary butcher's knife. There were some faint initials burnt upon the hilt, but these had been so worn by constant handling that there was only the faintest trace of what they had originally been. He could see an "M" and two other letters that looked like "C" and "A."

"M.C.A.?"

He puzzled his brain to interpret the initials. Presently the butler came back.

"The young lady is in a terrible state, sir, and I have sent for Dr. Thomas."

Tarling nodded.

"You have done very wisely," he said. "Poor girl, she has had a terrible shock."

Again he went to the telephone, and this time he got into connection with a nursing home in London and arranged for an ambulance to pick up the girl without further delay. When he had telephoned to Scotland Yard he had asked as an after-thought that a messenger should be sent to Ling Chu, instructing him to come without delay. He had the greatest faith in the Chinaman, particularly in a case like this where the trail was fresh, for Ling Chu was possessed of super-human gifts which only the blood-hound could rival.