"Then he told us his story of what had happened. He said that when he got to Riversbrook there was a light in the library and he got over the fence and hid himself in the garden. Then he noticed that there was a light in the hall and that the hall door was open. He thought Sir Horace had left it open by mistake, and he was going to creep into the house and hide himself there till after Sir Horace went to bed. But suddenly the light in the library went out and Birchill again hid behind a tree, for he thought Sir Horace was retiring for the night. Then the light in the hall went out and immediately after Birchill heard the hall door being closed. Then he heard a step on the gravel path and saw a woman walking quickly down the path to the gate. She was a well-dressed woman, and Birchill naturally thought that she was one of Sir Horace's lady friends. But he thought it odd that Sir Horace, who was always a very polite gentleman to the ladies, should not have shown her off the premises. He waited in the garden about half an hour, and as everything in the house seemed quite still, he made his way to a side window and forced it open. He had an electric torch with him, and he used this to find his way about the house. First of all, he wanted to find out in which room Sir Horace was sleeping, and he knew from the plan he'd made me draw for him which was Sir Horace's bedroom, so he went there and opened the door quietly and listened. But he could not hear anyone breathing. Then he tried some of the other rooms and turned on his torch, but could see no one. He thought that perhaps Sir Horace had fallen asleep in a chair in the library, and he went there. He listened at the door but could hear no sound. Then he turned on his torch and by its light he saw a dreadful sight. Sir Horace was lying huddled up near the desk—dead—just dead, he thought, because there were little bubbles of blood on his lips as if they had been blown there when breathing his last. He didn't wait to see any more, but he turned and ran out of the house.

"I didn't believe his story, though Miss Fanning did, but he stuck to it and seemed so frightened that I thought there might be something in it till he brought out that he'd lost his revolver somewhere. Then I remembered the horrid threats he'd used against Sir Horace, and I was convinced that he had committed the murder. But of course I dared not let him think I suspected him, and I pretended to console him. But the feeling that kept running through my head was that both of us would be suspected of the murder.

"I told this to Birchill, and that frightened him still more. 'What are we to do?' he kept saying. 'We shall both be hanged.' Then, after a while, we recovered ourselves a bit and began to look at it from a more common-sense point of view. Nobody knew about Birchill's visit to the house except our two selves and the girl, and there was no reason why anybody should suspect us as long as we kept that knowledge to ourselves. Birchill's idea, after we'd talked this over, was that I should go quietly home to bed, and pay a visit to Riversbrook on Friday as usual, discover Sir Horace Fewbanks's body, and then tell the police. But I didn't like to do that for two reasons. I didn't think that my nerves would be in a fit state to tell the police how I found the body without betraying to them that I knew something about it; and I couldn't bear to think of Sir Horace's body lying neglected all alone in that empty house till the following day—though I kept that reason to myself.

"It was the girl who hit on the idea of sending a letter to the police. She said that it would be the best thing to do, because if they were informed and went to the house and discovered the body it wouldn't be so difficult for me to face them afterwards. I agreed to that, and so did Birchill, who was very frightened in case I might give anything away, and consented on that account. The girl showed us how to write the letter, too—she said she'd often heard of anonymous letters being written that way—and she brought out three different pens and a bottle of ink and a writing pad. After we'd agreed what to write, she showed us how to do it, each one printing a letter on the paper in turn, and using a different pen each time."

"You took care to leave no finger-prints," said Inspector Chippenfield.

"We used a handkerchief to wrap our hands in," said Hill. "Birchill got tired of passing the paper from one to another and wrote all his letters, leaving spaces for the girl and me to write in ours. When the letter was written we wrote the address on the envelope the same way, and stamped it. Then I went out and posted the letter in a pillar-box."

"At Covent Garden?" suggested Inspector Chippenfield.

"Yes, at Covent Garden," said Hill.

"When I got home my wife was awake and in a terrible fright. She wanted to know where I'd been, but I didn't tell her. I told her, though, that my very life depended on nobody knowing I'd been out of my own home that night, and I made her swear that no matter who questioned her she'd stick to the story that I'd been at home all night, and in bed. She begged me to tell her why, and as I knew that she'd have to be told the next day, I told her that Sir Horace Fewbanks had been murdered. She buried her face in her pillow with a moan, but when I took an oath that I had had no hand in it she recovered, and promised not to tell a living soul that I had been out of the house and I knew I could depend on her.

"Next morning, as soon as I got up, I hurried off to a little wine tavern and asked to see the morning papers. It was a foolish thing to do, because I might have known that nothing could have been discovered in time to get into the morning papers, for I hadn't posted the letter until nearly four o'clock. But I was all nervous and upset, and as I couldn't face my wife or settle to anything until I knew the police had got the letter and found the body, I—though a strictly temperate man in the ordinary course of life, sir—sat down in one of the little compartments of the place and ordered a glass of wine to pass the time till the first editions of the evening papers came out—they are usually out here about noon. But there was no news in the first editions, and so I stayed there, drinking port wine and buying the papers as fast as they came out. But it was not till the 6.30 editions came out, late in the afternoon, that the papers had the news. I hurried home and then went up to Riversbrook and reported myself to you, sir."

As Hill finished his story he buried his face in his hands, and bowed his head on the table in an attitude of utter dejection. Rolfe, looking at him, wondered if he were acting a part, or if he had really told the truth. He looked at Inspector Chippenfield to see how he regarded the confession, but his superior officer was busily writing in his note-book. In a few moments, however, he put the pocket-book down on the table and turned to the butler.

"Sit up, man," he commanded sternly. "I want to ask you some questions."

Hill raised a haggard face.

"Yes, sir," he said, with what seemed to be a painful effort.

"What is this girl Fanning like?"

"Rather a showy piece of goods, if I may say so, sir. She has big black eyes, and black hair and small, regular teeth."

"And Sir Horace had been keeping her?"

"I think so, sir."

"And a fortnight before Sir Horace left for Scotland there was a quarrel—Sir Horace cast her off?"

"That is what it looked like to me," said the butler.

"What was the cause of the quarrel?"

"That I don't know, sir."

"Didn't Birchill tell you?"

"Well, not in so many words. But I gathered from things he dropped that Sir Horace had found out that he was a friend of Miss Fanning's and didn't like it."

"Naturally," said the philosophic police official. "Is Birchill still at this flat and is the girl still there?"

"The last I heard of them they were, sir. Of course they had been talking of moving after Sir Horace stopped the allowance."

"Well, Hill, I'll investigate this story of yours," said the inspector, as he rose to his feet and placed his note-book in his pocket. "If it is true—if you have given us all the assistance in your power and have kept nothing back, I'll do my best for you. Of course you realise that you are in a very serious position. I don't want to arrest you unless I have to, but I must detain you while I investigate what you have told us. You will come up with us to the Camden Town Station and then your statement will be taken down fully. I'll give you three minutes in which to explain things to your wife."



CHAPTER XII

"Do you think Hill's story is true?" Rolfe asked Inspector Chippenfield, as they left the Camden Town Police Station and turned in the direction of the Tube station.

"We'll soon find out," replied the inspector. "Of course, there is something in it, but there is no doubt Hill will not stick at a lie to save his own skin. But we are more likely to get at the truth by threatening to arrest him than by arresting him. If he were arrested he would probably shut up and say no more."

"And are you going to arrest Birchill?"

"Yes."

"For the murder?" asked Rolfe.

"No; for burglary. It would be a mistake to charge him with murder until we get more evidence. The papers would jeer at us if we charged him with murder and then dropped the charge."'

"Do you think Birchill will squeak?"

"On Hill?" said the inspector. "When he knows that Hill has been trying to fit him for the murder he'll try and do as much for Hill. And between them we'll come at the truth. We are on the right track at last, my boy. And, thank God, we have beaten our friend Crewe."

Inspector Chippenfield's satisfaction in his impending triumph over Crewe was increased by a chance meeting with the detective. As the two police officials came out of Leicester Square Station on their way to Scotland Yard to obtain a warrant for Birchill's arrest, they saw Crewe in a taxi-cab. Crewe also saw them, and telling the driver to pull up leaned out of the window and looked back at the two detectives. When they came up with the taxi-cab they saw that Crewe had on a light overcoat and that there was a suit-case beside the driver. Crewe was going on a journey of some kind.

"Anything fresh about the Riversbrook case?" he asked.

"No; nothing fresh," replied Inspector Chippenfield, looking Crewe straight in the face.

"You are a long time in making an arrest," said Crewe, in a bantering tone.

"We want to arrest the right man," was the reply. "There's nothing like getting the right man to start with; it saves such a lot of time and trouble. Where are you off to?"

"I'm taking a run down to Scotland."

The inspector glanced at Crewe rather enviously.

"You are fortunate in being able to enjoy yourself just now," he said meaningly.

"I won't drop work altogether," remarked Crewe. "I'll make a few inquiries there."

"About the Riversbrook affair?"

"Yes."

With the murderer practically arrested, Inspector Chippenfield permitted himself the luxury of smiling at the way in which Crewe was following up a false scent.

"I thought the murder was committed in London—not in Scotland," he said.

"Wrong, Chippenfield," said Crewe, with a smile. "Sir Horace was murdered in Scotland and his body was brought up to London by train and placed in his own house in order to mislead the police. Good-bye."

As the taxi-cab drove off, Inspector Chippenfield turned to his subordinate and said, "We'll rub it into him when he comes back and finds that we have got our man under lock and key. He's on some wild-goose chase. Scotland! He might as well go to Siberia while's he's about it."

With a warrant in his pocket Inspector Chippenfield, accompanied by Rolfe, set out for Macauley Mansions, Westminster. They found the Mansions to be situated in a quiet and superior part of Westminster, not far from Victoria Station, and consisting of a large block of flats overlooking a square—a pocket-handkerchief patch of green which was supposed to serve as breathing-space for the flats which surrounded it.

Macauley Mansions had no lift, and Number 43, the scene of the events of Hill's confession, was on the top floor. Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe mounted the stairs steadily, and finally found themselves standing on a neat cocoanut door-mat outside the door of No. 43. The door was closed.

"Well, well," said the inspector, as he paused, panting, on the door-mat and rang the bell. "Snug quarters these—very snug. Strange that these sort of women never know enough to run straight when they are well off."

The door opened, and a young woman confronted them. She was hardly more than a girl, pretty and refined-looking, with large dark eyes, a pathetic drooping mouth, and a wistful expression. She wore a well-made indoor dress of soft satin, without ornaments, and her luxuriant dark hair was simply and becomingly coiled at the back of her head. She held a book in her left hand, with one finger between the leaves, as though the summons to the door had interrupted her reading, and glanced inquiringly at the visitors, waiting for them to intimate their business. She was so different from the type of girl they had expected to see that Inspector Chippenfield had some difficulty in announcing it.

"Are you Miss Fanning?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied.

"Then you are the young woman we wish to see, and, with your permission, we'll come inside," said Inspector Chippenfield, recovering from his first surprise and speaking briskly.

They followed the girl into the hall, and into a room off the hall to which she led the way. A small Pomeranian dog which lay on an easy chair, sprang up barking shrilly at their entrance, but at the command of the girl it settled down on its silk cushion again. The apartment was a small sitting-room, daintily furnished in excellent feminine taste. Both police officers took in the contents of the room with the glance of trained observers, and both noticed that, prominent among the ornaments on the mantelpiece, stood a photograph of the late Sir Horace Fewbanks in a handsome silver frame.

The photograph made it easy for Inspector Chippenfield to enter upon the object of the visit of himself and his subordinate to the flat.

"I see you have a photograph of Sir Horace Fewbanks there," he said, in what he intended to be an easy conversational tone, waving his hand towards the mantelpiece.

The wistful expression of the girl's face deepened as she followed his glance.

"Yes," she said simply. "It is so terrible about him."

"Was he a—a relative of yours?" asked the inspector.

She had come to the conclusion they were police officers and that they were aware of the position she occupied.

"He was very kind to me," she replied.

"When did you see him last? How long before he—before he died?"

"Are you detectives?" she asked.

"From Scotland Yard," replied Inspector Chippenfield with a bow.

"Why have you come here? Do you think that I—that I know anything about the murder?"

"Not in the least." The inspector's tone was reassuring. "We merely want information about Sir Horace's movements prior to his departure for Scotland. When did you see him last?"

"I don't remember," she said, after a pause.

"You must try," said the inspector, in a tone which contained a suggestion of command.

"Oh, a few days before he went away."

"A few days," repeated the inspector. "And you parted on good terms?"

"Yes, on very good terms." She met his glance frankly.

Inspector Chippenfield was silent for a moment. Then, fixing his fiercest stare on the girl, he remarked abruptly:

"Where's Birchill?"

"Birchill?" She endeavoured to appear surprised, but her sudden pallor betrayed her inward anxiety at the question. "I—I don't know who you mean."

"I mean the man you've been keeping with Sir Horace Fewbanks's money," said the inspector brutally.

"I've been keeping nobody with Sir Horace Fewbanks's money," protested the girl feebly. "It's cruel of you to insult me."

"That'll about do to go on with," said Inspector Chippenfield, with a sudden change of tone, rising to his feet as he spoke. "Rolfe, keep an eye on her while I search the flat."

Rolfe crossed over from where he had been sitting and stood beside the girl. She glanced up at him wildly, with terror dawning in the depths of her dark eyes.

"What do you mean? How dare you?" she cried, in an effort to be indignant.

"Now, don't try your tragedy airs on us," said the inspector. "We've no time for them. If you won't tell the truth you had better say nothing at all." He plunged his hand into a jardiniere and withdrew a briar-wood pipe. "This looks to me like Birchill's property. Keep that dog back, Rolfe."

The little dog had sprung off his cushion and was eagerly following the inspector out of the room. Rolfe caught up the animal in his arms, and returned to where the girl was sitting. Her face was white and strained, and her big dark eyes followed Inspector Chippenfield, but she did not speak. The inspector tramped noisily into the little hall, leaving the door of the room wide open. Rolfe and the girl saw him fling open the door of another room—a bedroom—and stride into it. He came out again shortly, and went down the hall to the rear of the flat. A few minutes later he came back to the room where he had left Rolfe and the girl. His knees were dusty, and some feathers were adhering to his jacket, as though he had been plunging in odd nooks and corners, and beneath beds. He was hot, flurried, and out of temper.

"The bird's flown!" were his first words, addressed to Rolfe. "I've hunted high and low, but I cannot find a sign of him. It beats me how he's managed it. He couldn't have gone out the front way without my seeing him go past the door, and the back windows are four stories high from the ground."

"Perhaps he wasn't here when we came in," suggested Rolfe.

"Oh, yes, he was. Why, he'd been smoking that pipe in this very room. She was clever enough to open the window to let out the tobacco smoke before she let us in, but she didn't hide the pipe properly, for I saw the smoke from it coming out of the jardiniere, and when I put my hand on the bowl it was hot. Feel it now."

Rolfe placed his hand on the pipe, which Inspector Chippenfield had deposited on the table. The bowl was still warm, indicating that the pipe had recently been alight.

"He must have been smoking the pipe when we knocked at the door, and dashed away to hide before she let us in," grumbled the inspector. "But the question is—where can he have got to? I've hunted everywhere, and there's no way out except by the front door, so far as I can see. Go and have a look yourself, Rolfe, and see if you can find a trace of him. I'll watch the girl."

Rolfe put down the little dog he had been holding, and went out into the hall. The dog accompanied him, frisking about him in friendly fashion. Rolfe first examined the bedroom that he had seen Inspector Chippenfield enter. It was a small room, containing a double bed. It was prettily furnished in white, with white curtains, and toilet-table articles in ivory to match. A glance round the room convinced Rolfe that it was impossible for a man to secrete himself in it. The door of the wardrobe had been flung open by the inspector, and the dresses and other articles of feminine apparel it contained flung out on the floor. There was no other hiding-place possible, except beneath the bed, and the ruthless hand of the inspector had torn off the white muslin bed hangings, revealing emptiness underneath. Rolfe went out into the hall again, and entered the room next the bedroom. This apartment was apparently used as a dining-room, for it contained a large table, a few chairs, a small sideboard, a spirit-stand, a case of books and ornaments, and two small oak presses. Plainly, there was no place in it where a man could hide himself. The next room was the bathroom, which was also empty. Opposite the bathroom was a small bedroom, very barely furnished, offering no possibility of concealment. Then the passage opened into a large roomy kitchen, the full width of the rooms on both sides of the hall, and the kitchen completed the flat.

Rolfe glanced keenly around the kitchen. There were no cooking appliances visible, or pots or pans, but there was much lumber and odds and ends, as though the place were used as a store-room. Presumably Miss Fanning obtained her meals from the restaurant on the ground floor of the mansions and had no use for a kitchen. The room was dirty and dusty and crowded with all kinds of rubbish. But the miscellaneous rubbish stored in the room offered no hiding-place for a man. Rolfe nevertheless made a conscientious search, shifting the lumber about and ferreting into dark corners, without result. Finally he crossed the room to look out of the window, which had been left open, no doubt by Inspector Chippenfield.

The mansions in which the flat was situated formed part of a large building, with back windows overlooking a small piece of ground. The flat was on the fourth story. Rolfe looked around the neighbouring roofs and down onto the ground fifty feet below, but could see nothing.

He withdrew his head and was turning to leave the room when his attention was attracted by the peculiar behaviour of the dog, which had followed him throughout on his search. The little animal, after sniffing about the floor, ran to the open window and started whining and jumping up at it. Rolfe quickly returned to the window and looked out.

"Why, of course!" he muttered. "How could I have overlooked it? Inspector," he called aloud, "come here!"

Inspector Chippenfield appeared in the kitchen in a state of some excitement at the summons. He carried the key of the front room in his hand, having taken the precaution to lock Miss Fanning in before he responded to the call of his colleague.

"What is it, Rolfe?" he asked eagerly.

"This dog has tracked him to the window, so he's evidently escaped that way," explained Rolfe briefly. "He's climbed along the window-ledge."

Inspector Chippenfield approached the window and looked out. A broad window-ledge immediately beneath the window ran the whole length of the building beneath the windows on the fourth floor, and, so far as could be seen, continued round the side of the house. It was a dizzy, but not a difficult feat for a man of cool head to walk along the ledge to the corner of the house.

"I wonder where that infernal ledge goes to?" said Inspector Chippenfield, vainly twisting his neck and protruding his body through the window to a dangerous extent to see round the corner of the building. "I daresay it leads to the water-pipe, and the scoundrel, knowing that, has been able to get round, shin down, and get clear away."

"I'll soon find out," said Rolfe. "I'll walk along to the corner and see."

"Do you think you can do it, Rolfe?" asked the inspector nervously. "If you fell—" he glanced down to the ground far below with a shudder.

"Nonsense!" laughed Rolfe. "I won't fall. Why, the ledge is a foot broad, and I've got a steady head. He may not have got very far, after all, and I may be able to see him from the corner."

He got out of the window as he spoke, and started to walk carefully along the ledge towards the corner of the building. He reached it safely, peered round, screwed himself round sharply, and came back to the open window almost at a run.

"You're right!" he gasped, as he sprang through. "I saw him. He is climbing down the spouting, using the chimney brickwork as a brace for his feet. If we get downstairs we may catch him."

He was out of the kitchen in an instant, up the passage, and racing down three steps at a time before the inspector had recovered from his surprise. Then he followed as quickly as he could, but Rolfe had a long start of him. When Inspector Chippenfield reached the ground floor Rolfe was nowhere in sight. The inspector looked up and down the street, wondering what had become of him.

At that instant a tall young man, bareheaded and coat-less, came running out of an alley-way, pursued by Rolfe.

"Stop him!" cried Rolfe, to his superior officer.

Inspector Chippenfield stepped quickly out into the street in front of the fugitive. The young man cannoned into the burly officer before he could stop himself, and the inspector clutched him fast. He attempted to wrench himself free, but Rolfe had rushed to his superior's assistance, and drew the baton with which he had provided himself when he set out from Scotland Yard.

"You needn't bother about using that thing," said the young man contemptuously. "I'm not a fool; I realise you've got me."

"We'll not give you another chance." Inspector Chippenfield dexterously snapped a pair of handcuffs on the young man's wrists.

"What are these for?" said the captive, regarding them sullenly.

"You'll know soon enough when we get you upstairs," replied the inspector. "Now then, up you go."

They reascended the stairs in silence, Inspector Chippenfield and Rolfe walking on each side of their prisoner holding him by the arms, in case he tried to make another bolt. They reached the flat and found the front door open as they had left it. The inspector entered the hall and unlocked the drawing-room door.

The girl was sitting on the chair where they had left her, with her head bowed down in an attitude of the deepest dejection. She straightened herself suddenly as they entered, and launched a terrified glance at the young man.

"Oh, Fred!" she gasped.

"They were too good for me, Doris," he responded, as though in reply to her unspoken query. "I would have got away from this chap"—he indicated Rolfe with a nod of his head—"but I ran into the other one."

He stooped as he spoke to brush with his manacled hands some of the dirt from his clothes, which he had doubtless gained in his perilous climb down the side of the house, and then straightened himself to look loweringly at his captors. He was a tall, slender young fellow of about twenty-five or twenty-six, clean-shaven, with a fresh complexion and a rather effeminate air. He was well dressed in a grey lounge suit, a soft shirt, with a high double collar and silk necktie. He looked, as he stood there, more like a dandified city clerk than the desperate criminal suggested by Hill's confession.

"Come on, what's the charge?" he demanded insolently, with a slight glance at his manacled hands.

"Is your name Frederick Birchill?" asked Inspector Chippenfield.

The young man nodded.

"Then, Frederick Birchill, you're charged with burglariously entering the house of Sir Horace Fewbanks, at Hampstead, on the night of the 18th of August."

"Burglary?" said Birchill "Anything else?"

"That will do for the present," replied the inspector. "We may find it necessary to charge you with a more serious crime later."

"Well, all I can say is that you've got the wrong man. But that is nothing new for you chaps," he added with a sneer.

"Surely you are not going to charge him with the murder?" said the girl imploringly.

The inspector's reply was merely to warn the prisoner that anything he said might be used in evidence against him at his trial.

"He had nothing whatever to do with it—he knows nothing about it," protested the girl. "If you let him go I'll tell you who murdered Sir Horace."

"Who murdered him?" asked the inspector.

"Hill," was the reply.



CHAPTER XIII

Doris Fanning got off a Holborn tram at King's Cross, and with a hasty glance round her as if to make sure she was not followed, walked at a rapid pace across the street in the direction of Caledonian Road. She walked up that busy thoroughfare at the same quick gait for some minutes, then turned into a narrow street and, with another suspicious look around her, stopped at the doorway of a small shop a short distance down.

The shop sold those nondescript goods which seem to afford a living to a not inconsiderable class of London's small shopkeepers. The windows and the shelves were full of dusty old books and magazines, trumpery curios and cheap china, second-hand furniture and a collection of miscellaneous odds and ends. A thick dust lay over the whole collection, and the shop and its contents presented a deserted and dirty appearance. Moreover, the door was closed as though customers were not expected. The girl tried the door and found it locked—a fact which seemed to indicate that customers were not even desired. After another hasty look up and down the street she tapped sharply on the door in a peculiar way.

The door was opened after the lapse of a few minutes by a short thickset man of over fifty, whose heavy face displayed none of the suavity and desire to please which is part of the stock-in-trade of the small shopkeeper of London. A look of annoyance crossed his face at the sight of the girl, and his first remark to her was one which no well-regulated shopkeeper would have addressed to a prospective customer.

"You!" he exclaimed. "What in God's name has brought you here? I told you on no account to come to the shop. How do you know somebody hasn't followed you?"

"I could not help it, Kincher," the girl responded piteously. "I'm distracted about Fred, and I had to come over to ask your advice."

"You women are all fools," the man retorted. "You might have known that I would read all about the case in the papers, and that I'd let you hear from me."

"Yes, Kincher," she replied humbly, "but they let me see Fred for a few minutes yesterday at the police court and he told me to come over and see you. Oh, if you only knew what I've suffered since he was arrested. Yesterday he was committed for trial. I haven't closed my eyes for over a week."

"So you attended the police-court proceedings?" said Kemp. And when the girl nodded her head he went on, "The more fool you. I suppose it would be too much to expect a woman to keep away even though she knew she could do no good."

"I knew that, Kincher, but I simply had to go. I should have died if I had stayed in that dreadful flat alone. I tried to, but I couldn't. I got so nervous that I had to put my handkerchief into my mouth to prevent myself from screaming aloud."

"Well, since you are here you had better come inside instead of standing there and giving yourself and me away to every passing policeman."

He led the way inside, and the girl followed him to a dirty, cheerless room behind the shop which was furnished with a sofa-bedstead, a table, and a chair. It was evident that Kemp lived alone and attended to his own wants. The remains of an unappetising meal were on a corner of the table, and a kettle and a teapot stood by the fireplace in which a fire had recently been made with a few sticks for the purpose of boiling a kettle. Bedclothes were heaped on the sofa-bedstead in a disordered state, and in the midst of them nestled a large tortoise-shell cat.

"Sit down," said Kemp. There was an old chair near the fireplace and he pushed it towards her with his foot. "What's brought you over here?"

The girl sank into the chair and began to cry.

"I can't help it, Kincher," she said. "I don't know what to say or do. Fancy Fred being charged with murder! Oh, it's too dreadful to think about. And yet I can think of nothing else."

"Crying your eyes out won't help matters much," replied the unsympathetic Kemp.

The girl did not reply, but rocked herself backwards and forwards on the chair. She sobbed so violently that she appeared to be threatened with an attack of hysteria. Kemp watched her silently. The cat on the sofa-bedstead, as if awakened by the noise, got up, yawned, looked inquiringly round, and then with a measured leap sprang into the girl's lap. She was startled by his act and then she smiled through her sobs as she stroked the animal's coat.

"Poor old Peter!" she exclaimed. "He wants to console me! don't you, Peter? I say, Kincher, I wish you'd give me Peter; you don't want him. Oh, look at the dear!" The cat had perched himself on one of her knees to beg, and he sawed the air appealingly with his forepaws. "I must give him a tit-bit for that." She eyed the remains of the meal on the table disdainfully. "No, Peter, there is nothing fit for you to eat—positively nothing. Why, he understands me like a human being," she continued in amazement as the huge cat dropped on all fours and deliberately sprang back to the sofa-bedstead. "I say, Kincher, you really want a woman in this place to look after you. It's in a most shocking state—it's like a pigsty."

Kemp made no reply but continued to watch her. Her tears had vanished and she sat forward with her dark eyes sparkling, one hand supporting her pretty face as she glanced round the room.

"Have you a cigarette?" she asked suddenly.

Kemp went into the shop and came back with a packet of cheap cigarettes. The girl pushed them away petulantly.

"I don't like that brand," she said; "haven't you anything better?"

The man shook his head.

"No? Then here goes—I must have a smoke of some sort." She stuck one of the cheap cigarettes daintily into her mouth. "A match, Kincher! Why, the box is filthy! You must have a woman in to look after you, even if I have to find you one myself."

"I don't want any woman in the place," retorted Kemp. "There is no peace for a man when a woman is about. But let us have no more of this idle chatter. What's brought you over here? I suppose it's about Fred."

"Poor Fred!" The girl looked downcast for a moment, then she tossed her head, puffed out some smoke, and exclaimed energetically, "But he's not guilty, Kincher, and we'll get him off, won't we?"

"Not merely by saying so," replied Kemp. "But you'd better tell me how it came about that he was arrested for the murder. The police gave away nothing at the police court. Bill Dobbs was down there and he told me they let out nothing, except that their principal witness against Fred is that fellow Hill. I always knew he'd squeak. I told Fred to have nothing to do with the job."

The girl's eyes flashed viciously. She tossed the cigarette into the fire-place and straightened herself.

"That's the low, dirty scoundrel who committed the murder," she exclaimed. "He ought to be in the dock—not Fred."

"Was Fred up there that night?" asked Kemp.

"Up where?"

"At Riversbrook, or whatever they call it."

"Yes."

"He told me he didn't go."

"It's because he was up there that the police have arrested him," said the girl. "Hill gave him away. Oh, he's a double-dyed villain, is Hill. And so quiet and respectable looking with it all! He used to let me in when I went to Riversbrook, and let me out again, and pocket the half-crowns I gave him. And I like a fool never suspected him once, or thought that he knew anything about Fred coming to the flat. He didn't let it out till the night Sir Horace quarrelled with me. Sir Horace found out about—about Fred—and when I went up to see him as usual, he told me that he had finished with me and he called Hill up to show me out. 'Show this young lady out,' he said in that cold haughty voice of his, and the wily old villain Hill just bowed and held the door open. He followed me down stairs and let me out at the side door. There he said, 'I'll escort you to the front gate, if you will permit me, miss. I usually lock the gate about this time.' I thought nothing of this because he had come with me to the front gate before. He followed me down the garden path through the plantation till we reached the front gate. He opened the gate for me and I said 'Good night, Hill,' but instead of his replying 'Good night, Miss Fanning,' as he usually did, he hissed out like a serpent, 'You tell Birchill I want to see him to-morrow, and I'll come to the flat about 9 o'clock. Tell him an old friend named Field wants to see him. Don't forget the name—Field!' Then he locked the gate and was gone before I could speak a word.

"I gave Fred his message next morning—I wish to God that I hadn't," she continued. "I asked Fred not to keep the appointment, but he insisted on doing so. He said that he and Field had been good friends in the gaol, and that Field had told him that if he ever got on to anything he would let him know. He seemed quite pleased at the idea of meeting Field again. I told him to beware that Field wasn't laying a trap for him, but he wouldn't listen to me.

"Sure enough, Field—or Hill as he calls himself now—did come over that evening and I let him in myself. I took him into the sitting-room where Fred was, and I sat down in a corner of the room pretending to read a book so that I could hear what our visitor had to say. But the cunning old devil whispered something to Fred, and Fred came over to me and asked if I'd mind leaving them alone for half an hour. I didn't mind so much because I knew I could get it all out of Fred after Hill had gone.

"He remained shut up with Fred for nearly two hours and then I heard Fred letting him out of the front door. Fred came in to me, and I soon got the strength of it all from him. What do you think Hill had come for? To get Fred to burgle Sir Horace's house! And Fred had agreed to do it. I cried and I stormed and went into hysterics, but he wouldn't budge—you know how obstinate he can be when he likes. He said that Hill had told him there was a good haul to be picked up. Sir Horace was going to Scotland for the shooting, and the servants were to be sent to his country house, so the coast would be clear. Hill was to leave everything right at Riversbrook on the afternoon of the 18th of August, and he was to come across to the flat and let Fred know.

"Hill came, as he promised, but as soon as he came in I could see that something had happened. The first words he said were that Sir Horace had returned unexpectedly from Scotland. I was glad to hear it, for I thought that meant that there would be no burglary. I said as much to Fred, and he would have agreed with me, but that devil Hill was too full of cunning. 'Of course, if you're frightened, we'd better call it off,' he said. Fred had been drinking during the day, and you know what he's like when he's had a little too much. 'I was never frightened of any job yet,' he said, 'and I'd do this job to-night if the house was full of rozzers,' Hill pretended that he wasn't particular whether the thing came off or not that night, but all the while he kept egging Fred on to do it. Oh, I can see now what his game was. In spite of all I could do or say, it was arranged that Fred should go over, and see if it was quite safe to carry out the job. Hill said he thought Sir Horace was going out that night, and wouldn't be home until the early morning. About 9 o'clock Fred went off, leaving Hill and me alone in the flat together. How I wish now that I had killed him when I had such a good chance.

"We sat there scarcely speaking, and heard the clock strike the hours. After midnight I began to get restless, for I thought something must have happened to Fred. Hill said in a low voice: 'It's time Fred was back.' The words were scarcely out of his mouth when I heard Fred's step outside, and I ran to let him in. He came in as white as a sheet. 'Fred,' I cried as soon as I saw him, 'there's some blood on your face.'

"He didn't answer a word until he had taken a big drink of whisky out of the decanter. Then he said in a whisper: 'Sir Horace Fewbanks has been murdered!' 'Murdered!' cried Hill, leaping up from his chair—he can act well, I can tell you—'My God, Fred, you don't mean it!' 'He's dead, I tell you,' replied Fred fiercely. I thought, and at the time I suppose Hill thought, that Fred had shot him either accidentally or in order to escape capture. He seemed to guess what we were thinking, for he swore that he had had nothing to do with it—Sir Horace was dead on the floor when he got there.

"He told us all that had happened. When he got to Riversbrook he found lights burning on the ground floor. He jumped over the fence at the side and hid in the garden. He was there only a few minutes when he saw the lights go out. Then the front door was slammed and a woman walked down the garden path to the gate."

"A woman!" exclaimed Kemp.

"Yes, a woman. Why not? She had been to see Sir Horace. One of his Society mistresses. I'll bet it was on her account that he came back from Scotland."

"What time was this?" he asked with interest.

"About half-past ten," replied the girl.

"And this woman—this lady—turned out the lights and closed the front door?"

"So Fred says. Of course he thought Sir Horace had done it, but he found out later that Sir Horace was dead."

"I can't understand it," said Kemp. "What was she doing there? If she found the man dead, why didn't she inform the police? No, wait a minute! She'd be afraid to do that if she was a Society woman."

"It might be her who killed him," said the girl.

"Does Fred think that?" asked Kemp, looking at her closely.

"Fred doesn't know what to think," she replied. "But it must have been this woman or Hill who killed him. I feel sure myself that it was Hill."

"This woman puzzles me," said Kemp thoughtfully. "She must have been a cool hand if she went round turning out the lights after finding his dead body. About half-past ten, you said?"

"That is as near as Fred can make it."

"Go on with your story," he said. "I'm interested in this. You were saying that Fred saw the lights go out, and then this woman came out of the house and walked away."

"Well, Fred got into the house through one of the windows at the side—the one Hill had told him to try," continued the girl. "But first of all he waited about half an hour in the garden, so as to give Sir Horace time to go to sleep. He was able to find his way about the house as Hill had given him a plan. He felt his way upstairs and finding a door open he went into the room and flashed his electric torch. By its light he saw Sir Horace Fewbanks lying huddled up in a corner with a big pool of blood beside him on the floor. He felt him to see if he was dead. The body was quite warm, but it was limp. Sir Horace was dead. Fred says he lost his nerve and ran for it as hard as he could. He rushed down stairs and out of the house and got back to the flat as fast as he could.

"The three of us sat there shaking with fear and wondering what to do. Hill was the first to recover himself. In his cunning plausible way, he pointed out that it was altogether unlikely that suspicion would fall on Fred or him. All we had to do was to keep quiet and say nothing; then we'd have no awkward questions put to us. It was his suggestion that we should send an anonymous letter to Scotland Yard telling them Sir Horace had been murdered. That would be much better, he said, than leaving the body there until he went over and found it when he had to go over to Riversbrook to take a look round, in accordance with the instructions that had been given him when Sir Horace went to Scotland. Knowing what he did, he was afraid that if he was allowed to discover the body and inform the police, he would let something slip when the police came at him with their hundreds of questions. We printed the letter to Scotland Yard, each one doing a letter at a time. Hill took it with him, saying he would post it on his way home.

"When he left, Fred and I sat there thinking. Suddenly it came to me as clear as daylight that Hill had committed the murder, and had fixed up things so as to throw suspicion on Fred. He must have known Sir Horace was coming back from Scotland that night, and he had laid in wait for him and shot him. Then he had come over to my flat in order to persuade Fred to carry out the burglary, and direct suspicion to Fred for the murder, if the police worried him. I told Fred what I thought, but he only laughed at me and said I was talking nonsense. But I was right, for a week afterwards the police came and arrested Fred at the flat."

"How did they get him?" asked Kemp.

"I saw them coming along the street from the window, and I pointed them out to Fred. He tried to get away through the kitchen window along the ledge and down the spouting. He almost got away, but one of the detectives saw him before he reached the ground, and they dashed down stairs and got him in the street. Next day I saw in the papers that Hill had made an important statement to the police, and this had led to Fred's arrest. Hill is the murderer, Kincher. The cunning, wicked, treacherous villain told the police about Fred being up there. He wants to see Fred hang in order to save his own neck." The girl's voice rose to a shriek, and she sprang to her feet with blazing eyes. "Kincher," she cried, "you've got to help me put the rope round this wretch's neck. Do you hear me?"

Kemp's impassivity was in marked contrast to the girl's hysterical excitement.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Fred wants you to get up an alibi for him. He sent me over to ask you to arrange it without delay. He wants you and two or three others to swear that he was over here on the night of the murder. That will be sufficient to get him off."

"Not me," said Kemp, shaking his head decidedly. "I won't do it; it's too risky. The police have too many things against me for my word to be any good as a witness. I'd only be landing myself in trouble for perjury instead of helping Fred out of trouble. He ought to have got an alibi ready before he was arrested. I told him at the inquest that he ought to look after it, and he swore he'd not been up there on the night of the murder. It is too late to do anything in the alibi line now. I don't know anybody I could get to come forward and swear Fred was in their company that night—there is a difference between fixing up a tale for the police before a man's arrested, and going into the witness box and committing perjury on oath."

He spoke in such an uncompromising tone that the girl saw it was useless to pursue the matter further.

"Suppose I went to the police and told them that Hill is the murderer?" she suggested.

Kemp shook his head slowly.

"There is only your word for it that Hill killed him," he said. "It doesn't look to me as if he did, when he went over to your flat and told Fred that Sir Horace had come back from Scotland. If he had killed him he would have let Fred go over without saying a word about it."

"That was part of his cunning," said the girl. "If he had said nothing about Sir Horace's return, Fred would have suspected him when he found the dead body. I'm as certain that Hill committed the murder as if I had seen him do it with my own eyes."

Kemp shrugged his shoulders as though realising the uselessness of attempting to combat such a feminine form of reasoning.

"Didn't Fred say that the body was warm when he touched it?" he asked.

She meditated a moment over this evidence of Hill's innocence.

"Well, if Hill didn't kill him, the woman Fred saw leaving the house must have done so," she declared.

"There is something in that," said Kemp. "Look here, we've got to get Fred a good lawyer to defend him, and we must be guided by his advice as to what is the best thing to do. He knows more about what will go down with a jury than you do."

"I paid a solicitor to defend him at the police court," said the girl, "but the money I gave him was thrown away. He said nothing and did nothing."

"That shows he is a man who knows his business," replied Kemp. "What's the good of talking to police court beaks in a case that is bound to go to trial? It's a waste of breath. The thing is to see that Fred is properly defended when the case comes on at the Old Bailey. We want somebody who can manage the jury. I should say Holymead is the man if you can get him. I don't know as he'd be likely to take up the case, for he don't go in much for criminal courts—and yet it seems to me that he might. You ought to try to get him, at least. He used to be a friend of your friend Sir Horace, so if he took up the case it would look as if he believed Fred had nothing to do with the murder. It would be bound to make a good impression on the jury."

"Wouldn't he be very expensive?" asked the girl.

"Not so expensive as getting hanged," said Kemp grimly. "You take my advice and have him if you can get him. Never mind what he costs, if you can raise the money. You've got some money saved up, haven't you?"

"Yes, I've nearly L200. Sir Horace put L100 in the Savings Bank for me on my last birthday. And the furniture at the flat is mine. I'd sell that and everything I've got, for Fred's sake."

"That is the way to talk," said Kemp. "You go to this solicitor you had at the police court, and tell him you want Holymead to defend Fred. Tell him he must brief Holymead—have nobody else but Holymead. Tell him that Holymead was a friend of Sir Horace Fewbanks's and that if he appears for Fred the jury will never believe that Fred had anything to do with the murder. And I don't think he had, though he did lie to me and swear he hadn't been up there that night," he added after a moment's reflection.



CHAPTER XIV

"There is one link in the chain missing," said Rolfe, who was discussing with Inspector Chippenfield, in the latter's room at Scotland Yard, the strength of the case against Birchill.

"And what is that?" asked his superior.

"The piece of woman's handkerchief that I found in the dead man's hand. You remember we agreed that it showed there was a woman in the case."

"Well, what do you call this girl Fanning? Isn't she in the case? Surely, you don't want any better explanation of the murder than a quarrel between her and Sir Horace over this man Birchill?"

"Yes, I see that plain enough," replied Rolfe. "There is ample motive for the crime, but how that piece of handkerchief got into the dead man's hand is still a mystery to me. It would be easily explained if this girl was present in the room or the house when the murder was committed. But she wasn't. Hill's story is that she was at the flat with him."

"When you have had as much experience in investigating crime as I have, you won't worry over little points that at first don't seem to fit in with what we know to be facts," responded the inspector in a patronising tone. "I noticed from the first, Rolfe, that you were inclined to make too much of this handkerchief business, but I said nothing. Of course, it was your own discovery, and I have found during my career that young detectives are always inclined to make too much of their own discoveries. Perhaps I was myself, when I was young and inexperienced. Now, as to this handkerchief: what is more likely than that Birchill had it in his pocket when he went out to Riversbrook on that fatal night? He was living in the flat with this girl Fanning: what was more natural than that he should pick up a handkerchief off the floor that the girl had dropped and put it in his pocket with the intention of giving it to her when she returned to the room? Instead of doing so he forgot all about it. When he shot Sir Horace Fewbanks he put his hand into his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his forehead or his hands—it was a hot night, and I take it that a man who has killed another doesn't feel as cool as a cucumber. While stooping over his victim with the handkerchief still in his hand, the dying man made a convulsive movement and caught hold of a corner of the handkerchief, which was torn off." Inspector Chippenfield looked across at his subordinate with a smile of triumphant superiority.

"Yes," said Rolfe meditatively. "There is nothing wrong about that as far as I can see. But I would like to know for certain how it got there."

Inspector Chippenfield was satisfied with his subordinate's testimony to his perspicacity.

"That is all right, Rolfe," he said in a tone of kindly banter. "But don't make the mistake of regarding your idle curiosity as a virtue. After the trial, if you are still curious on the point, I have no doubt Birchill will tell you. He is sure to make a confession before he is hanged."

But it was more a spirit of idle curiosity than anything else that brought Rolfe to Crewe's chambers in Holborn an hour later. Having secured the murderer, he felt curious as to what Crewe's feelings were on his defeat. It was the first occasion that he had been on a case which Crewe had been commissioned to investigate, and he was naturally pleased that Inspector Chippenfield and he had arrested the author of the crime while Crewe was all at sea. It was plain from the fact that the latter had thought it necessary to visit Scotland that he had got on a false scent. It was not Scotland, but Scotland Yard that Crewe should have visited, Rolfe said to himself with a smile.

Crewe, in pursuance of his policy of keeping on the best of terms with the police, gave Rolfe a very friendly welcome. He produced from a cupboard two glasses, a decanter of whisky, a siphon of soda, and a box of cigars. Rolfe quickly discovered that the cigars were of a quality that seldom came his way, and he leaned back in his chair and puffed with steady enjoyment.

"Then you are determined to hang Birchill?" said Crewe, as with a cigar in his fingers he faced his visitor with a smile.

"We'll hang him right enough," said Rolfe. He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it approvingly. Though the talk was of hanging, he had never felt more thoroughly at peace with the world.

"It will be a pity if you do," said Crewe.

"Why?"

"Because he's the wrong man."

"It would take a lot to make me believe that," said Rolfe stoutly. "We've got a strong case against him—there is not a weak point in it. I admit that Hill is a tainted witness, but they'll find it pretty hard to break down his story. We've tested it in every way and find it stands. Then there are the bootmarks outside the window. Birchill's boots fit them to the smallest fraction of an inch. The jemmy found in the flat fits the mark made in the window at Riversbrook, and we've got something more—another witness who saw him in Tanton Gardens about the time of the murder. If Birchill can get his neck out of the noose, he's cleverer than I take him for."

Crewe did not reply directly to Rolfe's summary of the case.

"I see that they've briefed Holymead for the defence," he said after a pause.

"A waste of good money," said the police officer. Something appealed to his sense of humour, for he broke out into a laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" asked Crewe.

"I was wondering how Sir Horace feels when he sees the money he gave this girl Fanning being used to defend his murderer."

"You are a hardened scamp, Rolfe, with a very perverse sense of humour," said Crewe.

"It was a cunning move of them to get Holymead," said Rolfe. "They think it will weigh with the jury because he was such a close friend of Sir Horace—that he wouldn't have taken up the case unless he felt that Birchill was innocent. But you and I know better than that, Mr. Crewe. A lawyer will prove that black is white if he is paid for it. In fact, I understand that, according to the etiquette of the bar, they have got to do it. A barrister has to abide by his brief and leave his personal feelings out of account."

"That's so. Theoretically he is an officer of the Court, and his services are supposed to be at the call of any man who is in want of him and can afford to pay for them. Of course, a leading barrister, such as Holymead, often declines a brief because he has so much to do, but he is not supposed to decline it for personal reasons."

"His heart will not be in the case," said Rolfe philosophically.

"On the contrary, I think it will," said Crewe. "My own opinion is that, if necessary, he will exert his powers to the utmost in order to get Birchill off, and that he will succeed."

"Not he," said Rolfe confidently. "Our case is too strong."

"You've got a lot of circumstantial evidence, but a clever lawyer will pull it to pieces. Circumstantial evidence has hung many a man, and it will hang many more. But a jury will hesitate to convict on circumstantial evidence when it can be shown that the conduct of the prisoner is at variance with what the conduct of a guilty man would be. I don't bet, but I'll wager you a box of cigars to nothing that Holymead gets Birchill off."

"It's a one-sided wager, but I'll take the cigars because I could do with a box of these," said Rolfe. "You might as well give them to me now, Mr. Crewe."

"No, no," said Crewe with a smile. "Put a couple in your pocket now, because you won't win the box."

"Of course, I understand, Mr. Crewe, why you say Birchill is the wrong man. You feel a bit sore because we have beaten you. I would feel sore myself in your place, and I don't deny that we got information that put us on Birchill's track, and therefore it was easier for us to solve the mystery than it was for you."

"I'm not a bit sore," said Crewe. "I can take a beating, especially when the men who beat me are good sportsmen." He bowed towards Rolfe, and that officer blushed as he recalled how Inspector Chippenfield and he had agreed to withhold information from Crewe and try to put him on a false scent.

"I wish you'd tell me what you consider the weak points of our case against Birchill," asked Rolfe.

"Your case is based on Hill's confession, and that to my mind is false in many details," said Crewe. "Take, for instance, his account of how he came into contact with Birchill again. This girl Fanning, after a quarrel with Sir Horace, came over to Riversbrook with a message for Hill which was virtually a threat. Now does that seem probable? The girl who had been in the habit of visiting Sir Horace goes over to see Hill. No woman in the circumstances would do anything of the sort. She had too good an opinion of herself to take a message to a servant at a house from which she had been expelled by the owner, who had been keeping her. How would she have felt if she had run into Sir Horace? It is true that Sir Horace left for Scotland the day before, but it is improbable that the girl who had quarrelled with Sir Horace a fortnight before knew the exact date on which he intended to leave. And how did Hill behave when he got the message? According to his story, he consented to go and see Birchill under threat of exposure, and he consented to become an accomplice in the burglary for the same reason. Sir Horace knew all about Hill's past, so why should he fear a threat of exposure?"

"Hill explained that," interposed Rolfe. "He pointed out that, though Sir Horace knew his past, he couldn't afford to have any scandal about it."

"Quite so. But could Birchill afford to threaten a man who was under the protection of Sir Horace Fewbanks? Would Birchill pit himself against Sir Horace? I think that Sir Horace, knowing the law pretty thoroughly, would soon have found a way to deal with Birchill. If Hill was threatened by Birchill, his first impulse, knowing what a powerful protector he had in Sir Horace Fewbanks, would have been to go to him and seek his protection against this dangerous old associate of his convict days. According to Hill's own story, he was something in the nature of a confidential servant, trusted to some extent with the secrets of Sir Horace's double life. What more likely than such a man, threatened as he describes, should turn to his master who had shielded him and trusted him?"

"I confess that is a point which never struck me," said Rolfe thoughtfully.

"Now, let us go on to the meeting between Hill and Birchill," continued Crewe. "This girl Fanning, discarded by Sir Horace, because he'd discovered she was playing him false with Birchill, is made the ostensible reason for Birchill's wishing to commit a burglary at Riversbrook, because Birchill wants, as he says, to get even with Sir Horace Fewbanks. Is it likely that Birchill would confide his desire for revenge so frankly to Sir Horace's confidential servant, the trusted custodian of his master's valuables, who could rely on his master's protection—the protection of a highly-placed man of whom Birchill stood admittedly in fear, and whom he knew, according to Hill's story, was unassailable from his slander? What had Hill to fear, from the threats of a man like Birchill, when he was living under Sir Horace Fewbanks's protection? All that Hill had to do when Birchill tried to induce him, by threats of exposure of his past, to help in a burglary at his master's house, was to threaten to tell everything to Sir Horace. Birchill told Hill that he was frightened of Sir Horace Fewbanks, the judge who had sentenced him.

"Then Birchill's confidence in Hill is remarkable, any way you look at it. He sends for Hill, whom he had known in gaol, and whom he hadn't seen since, to confide in him that it is his intention to burgle his employer's house. He rashly assumes that Hill will do all that he wishes, and he proceeds to lay his cards on the table. But even supposing that Birchill was foolish enough to do this—to trust a chance gaol acquaintance so implicitly—there is a far more puzzling action on his part. Why did he want Hill's assistance to burgle a practically unprotected house? I confess I have great difficulty in understanding why such an accomplished flash burglar as Birchill, one of the best men at the game in London at the present time, should want the assistance of an amateur like Hill in such a simple job."

Rolfe looked startled.

"Hill says he wanted a plan of the house and to know what valuables it contained."

Crewe smiled.

"And has it been your experience among criminals, Rolfe, that a burglar must have a plan of the place he intends to burgle, and that to get this plan he will give himself away to any man who can supply it? A plan has its uses, but it is indispensable only when a very difficult job is being undertaken, such as breaking through a wall or a ceiling to get at a room which contains a safe. This job was as simple as A B C. And besides, as far as I can make out, Birchill knew—the girl Fanning must have known—that Sir Horace would be going away some time in August and that the house would be empty. Did he want a plan of an empty house? He would be free to roam all over it when he had forced a window."

"He wanted to know what valuables were there," said Rolfe.

"And therefore took Hill into his confidence. If Hill had told his master—even Birchill would realise the risk of that—there would be no valuables to get. Next, we come to Sir Horace Fewbanks's unexpected return. According to Hill's story, he made some tentative efforts to commence a confession as soon as he saw his employer, but Sir Horace was upset about something and was too impatient to listen to a word. Is such a story reasonable or likely? Hill says that Sir Horace had always treated him well; and according to his earlier statement, when he permitted himself to be terrorised into agreeing to this burglary, he told himself that chance would throw in his way some opportunity of informing his master. And he told you that Birchill, mistrusting his unwilling accomplice, hurried on the date of the burglary so as to give him no such opportunity. Well, chance throws in Hill's way the very opportunity he has been seeking, but he is too frightened to use it because Sir Horace happens to return in an angry or impatient mood.

"Let us take Birchill's attitude when Hill tells him that Sir Horace has unexpectedly returned from Scotland. Birchill is suspicious that Hill has played him false, and naturally so, but Hill, instead of letting him think so, and thus preventing the burglary from taking place, does all he can to reassure him, while at the same time begging him to postpone the burglary. That was hardly the best way to go about it. Let us charitably assume that Hill was too frightened to let Birchill remain under the impression that he'd played him false, and let us look at Birchill's attitude. It is inconceivable that Birchill should have permitted himself to be reassured, when right through the negotiations between himself and Hill he showed the most marked distrust of the latter. Yet, according to Hill, he suddenly abandons this attitude for one of trusting credulity, meekly accepting the assurance of the man he distrusts that Sir Horace Fewbanks's unexpected return from Scotland on the very night the burglary is to be committed is not a trap to catch him, but a coincidence. Then, after drinking himself nearly blind, he sets forth with a revolver to commit a burglary on the house of the judge who tried him, on Hill's bare word that everything is all right. Guileless, trusting, simple-minded Birchill!

"Hill is left locked up in the flat with the girl; for Birchill, who has just trusted him implicitly in a far more important matter affecting his own liberty, has a belated sense of caution about trusting his unworthy accomplice while he is away committing the burglary. The time goes on; the couple in the flat hear the clock strike twelve before Birchill's returning footsteps are heard. He enters, and immediately announces to Hill and the girl, with every symptom of strongly marked terror, that while on his burglarious mission, he has come across the dead body of Sir Horace Fewbanks—murdered in his own house. Mark that! he tells them freely and openly—tells Hill—as soon as he gets in the flat. Allowing for possible defects in my previous reasoning against Hill's story, admitting that an adroit prosecuting counsel may be able to buttress up some of the weak points, allowing that you may have other circumstantial evidence supporting your case, that is the fatal flaw in your chain: because of Birchill's statement on his return to the flat no jury in the world ought to convict him."

"I don't see why," said Rolfe.

Crewe fixed his deep eyes intently on Rolfe as he replied:

"Because, if Birchill had committed this murder, he would never have admitted immediately on his returning, least of all to Hill, anything about the dead body."

"But he told Hill that he didn't commit the murder," protested Rolfe.

"But you say that he did commit the murder," retorted the detective. "You cannot use that piece of evidence both ways. Your case is that this man Birchill, while visiting Riversbrook to commit a burglary which he and Hill arranged, encountered Sir Horace Fewbanks and murdered him. I say that his admission to Hill on his return to the flat that he had come across the body of Sir Horace Fewbanks, is proof that Birchill did not commit the murder. No murderer would make such a damning admission, least of all to a man he didn't trust—to a man who he believed was capable of entrapping him. Next you have Birchill consenting to a message being sent to Scotland Yard conveying the information that Sir Horace had been murdered. Is that the action of a guilty man? Wouldn't it have been more to his interest to leave the dead man's body undiscovered in the empty house and bolt from the country? It might have remained a week or more before being discovered. True, he would have had to find some way of silencing Hill while he got away from the country. He might have had to resort to the crude method of tying Hill up, gagging him, and leaving him in the flat. But even that would have been better than to inform the police immediately of the murder and place his life at the mercy of Hill, whom he distrusted."

"Looked at your way, I admit that there are some weak points in our case," said Rolfe. "But you'll find that our Counsel will be able to answer most of them in his address to the jury. If Birchill didn't commit the murder, who did? Do you deny that he went up to Riversbrook that night?"

"The letter sent to Scotland Yard shows that some one was there besides the murderer. If Birchill was there and helped to write the letter—and so much is part of your case—he wasn't the murderer. In short, I believe Birchill went up there to commit a burglary and found the murdered body of Sir Horace."

"Do you think that Hill did it?" asked Rolfe.

"That is more than I'd like to say. As a matter of fact I have been so obtuse as to neglect Hill somewhat in my investigations. In fact, I didn't know until I got hold of a copy of his statement to the police that he was an ex-convict. Inspector Chippenfield omitted to inform me of the fact."

"I didn't know that," said Rolfe, without a blush, as he rose to go. "He ought to have told you."



CHAPTER XV

When Rolfe left Crewe's office he went back to Scotland Yard. He found Inspector Chippenfield still in his office, and related to him the substance of his interview with Crewe. The inspector listened to the recital in growing anger.

"Birchill not the right man?" he spluttered. "Why, of course he is. The case against him is purely circumstantial, but it's as clear as daylight."

"Then you don't think there's anything in Crewe's points?" asked Rolfe.

"I think so little of them that I look upon Birchill as good as hanged! That for Crewe's points!" Inspector Chippenfield snapped his fingers contemptuously. "And I'm surprised to think that you, Rolfe, whose loyalty to your superior officer is a thing I would have staked my life on, should have sat there and listened to such rubbish. I wouldn't have listened to him for two minutes—no, not for half a minute. He was trying to pick our case to pieces out of blind spite and jealousy, because we've got ahead of him in the biggest murder case London's had for many a long day. A man who jaunts off to Scotland looking for clues to a murder committed in London is a fool, Rolfe—that's what I call him. We have beaten him—beaten him badly, and he doesn't like it. But it is not the first time Scotland Yard has beaten him, and it won't be the last."

"I suppose you're right," said Rolfe. "But there's one point he made which rather struck me, I must say—that about Birchill telling Hill he'd found the dead body. Would Birchill have told Hill that, if he'd committed the murder?"

"Nothing more likely," exclaimed the inspector. "My theory is that Birchill, while committing the burglary at Riversbrook, was surprised by Sir Horace Fewbanks. It is possible that the judge tried to capture Birchill to hand him over to the police, and Birchill shot him. I believe that Birchill fired both shots—that he had two revolvers. But whatever took place, a dangerous criminal like Birchill would not require much provocation to silence a man who interrupted him while he was on business bent, and a man, moreover, against whom he nursed a bitter grudge. In this case it is possible there was no provocation at all. Sir Horace Fewbanks may have simply heard a noise, entered the room where Birchill was, and been shot down without mercy. Birchill heard him coming and was ready for him with a revolver in each hand. You've got to bear in mind that Birchill went to the house in a dangerous mood, half mad with drink, and furious with anger against Sir Horace Fewbanks for cutting off the allowance of the girl he was living with. He threatened before he left the flat to commit the burglary that he'd do for the judge if he interfered with him."

"That's according to Hill's statement," said Rolfe.

Inspector Chippenfield glanced at his subordinate in some surprise.

"Of course it's Hill's statement," he said. "Isn't he our principal witness, and doesn't his statement fit in with all the facts we have been able to gather? Well, the murder of Sir Horace, no matter how it was committed, was committed in cold blood. But immediately Birchill had done it the fact that he had committed a murder would have a sobering effect on him. Although he bragged before he left the flat for Riversbrook about killing the judge if he came across him, he had no intention of jeopardising his neck unnecessarily, and after he had shot down the judge in a moment of drunken passion he would be anxious to keep Hill—whom he mistrusted—from knowing that he had committed the murder. But he was fully aware that Hill would be the person who'd discover the body next day, and that if he wasn't put on his guard he would bring in the police and probably give away everything that Birchill had said and done. So, to obviate this risk and prepare Hill, Birchill hit on the plan of telling him that he'd found the judge's dead body while burgling the place. It was a bold idea, and not without its advantages when you consider what an awkward fix Birchill was in. Not only did it keep Hill quiet, but it forced him into the position of becoming a kind of silent accomplice in the crime. You remember Hill did not give the show away until he was trapped, and then he only confessed to save his own skin. He's a dangerous and deep scoundrel, this Birchill, but he'll swing this time, and you'll find that his confession of finding the body will do more than anything else to hang him—properly put to the jury, and I'll see that it is properly put."

Rolfe pondered much over these two conflicting points of view—Crewe's and Inspector Chippenfield's—for the rest of the day. He inclined to Inspector Chippenfield's conclusions regarding Birchill's admission about the body. The idea that he had assisted in arresting the wrong man and had helped to build up a case against him was too unpalatable for him to accept it. But he was forced to admit that Crewe's theory was distinctly a plausible one. Though it was impossible for him to give up the conviction that Birchill was the murderer, he felt that Crewe's analysis of the case for the prosecution contained several telling points which might be used with some effect on a jury in the hands of an experienced counsel. Rolfe had no doubt that Holymead would make the most of those points, and he also knew that the famous barrister was at his best in attacking circumstantial evidence.

That night, while walking home, the idea occurred to Rolfe of going over to Camden Town after supper to see if by questioning Hill again he could throw a little more light on what had taken place at Doris Tanning's flat the night Sir Horace Fewbanks was murdered. Hill had been questioned and cross-questioned at Scotland Yard by Inspector Chippenfield concerning the events of that night, and professed to have confessed to everything that had happened, but Rolfe thought it possible he might be able to extract something more which might assist in strengthening what Crewe regarded as the weak points in the police case against Birchill. Rolfe had every justification for such a visit, for, though Hill had not been arrested, he had been ordered by Inspector Chippenfield to report himself daily to the Camden Town Police Station, and the police of that district had been instructed to keep a strict eye on his movements. Inspector Chippenfield did not regard his principal witness in the forthcoming murder trial as the sort of man likely to bolt, but if he permitted him for politic reasons to retain his liberty, he took every precaution to ensure that Hill should not abuse his privilege.

Rolfe lived in lodgings at King's Cross, and, as the evening was fine and he was fond of exercise, he decided to walk across to Hill's place.

As he walked along his thoughts revolved round the murder of Sir Horace Fewbanks, and the baffling perplexities which had surrounded its elucidation. Had they got hold of the right man—the real murderer—in Fred Birchill? Rolfe kept asking himself that question again and again. A few hours ago he had not the slightest doubt on the point; he had looked upon the great murder case as satisfactorily solved, and he had thought with increasing satisfaction of his own share in bringing the murderer to justice. He had anticipated newspaper praise on his sharpness: judicial commendation, a favourable official entry in the departmental records of Scotland Yard, with perhaps promotion for the good work he had accomplished in this celebrated case. These rosy visions had been temporarily dissipated by the conversation he had had with Crewe that morning. If Crewe had not succeeded in destroying Rolfe's conviction that the murderer of Sir Horace Fewbanks had been caught, he had pointed out sufficient flaws in the police case to shake Rolfe's previous assurance of the legal conviction of Birchill for the crime. The way in which Crewe had pulled the police case to pieces had shown Rolfe that the conviction of Birchill was by no means a foregone conclusion, and had left him a prey to doubts and anxiety which Inspector Chippenfield's subsequent depreciation of the detective's views had not altogether removed.

The little shop kept by the Hills was empty when Rolfe entered it, but Mrs. Hill appeared from the inner room in answer to his knock. The faded little woman did not recognise the police officer at first, but when he spoke she looked into his face with a start. She timidly said, in reply to his inquiry for her husband, that he had just "stepped out" down the street.

"Then you had better send your little girl after him," said Rolfe, seating himself on the one rickety chair on the outside of the counter. "I want to see him."

Mrs. Hill seemed at a loss to reply for a moment. Then she answered, nervously plucking at her apron the while: "I don't think it'd be much use doing that, sir. You see, Mr. Hill doesn't always tell me where he's going and I don't really know where he is."

"Then why did you tell me that he had just stepped out down the street?" asked Rolfe sharply.

"Because I thought he mightn't be far away."

"Then, as a matter of fact, you don't know where he is or when he'll be back?"

"No, sir."

Her prompt and uncompromising reply indicated that she did not want him to wait for her husband.

"I think I'll wait," said Rolfe, looking at her steadily.

"Yes, sir."

Daphne appeared at the door of the parlour which led into the shop and her mother waved her back angrily.

"Go to bed this instant, miss; it's long past your bedtime," she said.

It was obvious that Mrs. Hill retained a vivid recollection of how disastrous had been Daphne's appearance during Inspector Chippenfield's first visit to the shop.

"Perhaps your little girl knows where her father is," said Rolfe maliciously.

"No, she doesn't," replied Mrs. Hill with some spirit. "You can ask her if you like."

Rolfe was suddenly struck with an idea and he decided to test it.

"I won't wait—I've changed my mind. But if your husband comes in tell him not to go to bed until I've seen him. I'll be back."

"Yes, sir," she replied.

"Do you think he was going to Riversbrook?" he asked.

The woman flushed suddenly and then went pale. She knew as well as Rolfe that her husband was strictly forbidden, pending the trial, to go near the place of his former employment, and that the police had relieved him of his keys and taken possession of the silent house and locked everything up.

"No, sir," she replied, with trembling lips, "Mr. Hill hasn't gone over there."

"How can you be certain, if he didn't tell you where he was going?" asked Rolfe.

"Because it's the last place in the world he'd think of going to," gasped Mrs. Hill. "Such a thought would never enter his head. I do assure you, sir, Mr. Hill would never dream of going over there, sir, you can take my word for it."

Rolfe walked thoughtfully up High Street. Was it possible that Hill had gone to his late master's residence in defiance of the orders of the police? If so, only some very powerful motive, and probably one which affected the crime, could have induced him to risk his liberty by making such a visit after he had been commanded to keep away from the place. And how would he get into the house? Rolfe had himself locked up the house and had locked the gates, and the bunch of keys was at that moment hanging up in Inspector Chippenfield's room in Scotland Yard. But even as he asked that question, Rolfe found himself smiling at himself for his simplicity. Nothing could be easier for a man like Hill—an ex-criminal—to have obtained a duplicate key, before handing over possession of the keys. Rolfe had noticed with surprise when he was locking up the house that the French windows of the morning room were locked from the outside by a small key as well as being bolted from the inside. Hill had explained that the late Sir Horace Fewbanks had generally used this French window for gaining access to his room after a nocturnal excursion.

Rolfe looked at his watch. It was nine o'clock. He decided to go to Hampstead and put his suspicions to the test. It was quite possible he was mistaken, but if, on the other hand, Hill was paying a nocturnal visit to Riversbrook and he had the luck to capture him, he might extract from him some valuable evidence for the forthcoming trial that Hill had kept back. And Rolfe was above all things interested at that moment in making the case for the prosecution as strong as possible.

Rolfe walked to the Camden Town Underground station, bought a ticket for Hampstead, and took his seat in the tube in that state of exhilarated excitement which comes to the detective when he feels that he is on the road to a disclosure. The speed of the train seemed all too slow for the police officer, and he looked at his watch at least a dozen times during the short journey from Camden Town to Hampstead.

When Rolfe arrived at Hampstead he set out at a rapid walk for Riversbrook. It was quite dark when he reached Tanton Gardens. He turned into the rustling avenue of chestnut trees, and strode swiftly down till he reached the deserted house of the murdered man.

The gate was locked as he had left it, but Rolfe climbed over it. A late moon was already throwing a refulgent light through the evening mists, silvering the tops of the fir trees in front of the house. Rolfe walked through the plantation, his footsteps falling noiselessly on the pine needles which strewed the path. He quickly reached the other side of the little wood, and the Italian garden lay before him, stretching in silver glory to the dark old house beyond.

Rolfe stood still at the edge of the wood, and glanced across the moonlit garden to the house. It seemed dark, deserted and desolate. There was no sign of a light in any of the windows facing the plantation.

The moon, rising above the fringe of trees in the woodland which skirted the meadows of the east side of the house, cast a sudden ray athwart the upper portion of the house. But the windows of the retreating first story still remained in shadow. Rolfe scrutinised these windows closely. There were three of them—he knew that two of them opened out from the bedroom the dead man used to occupy, and the third one belonged to the library adjoining—the room where the murder had been committed. The moonlight, gradually stealing over the house, revealed the windows of the bedroom closed and the blinds down, but the library was still in shadow, for a large chestnut-tree which grew in front of the house was directly in the line of Rolfe's vision.

Rolfe remained watching the house for some time, but no sign or sound of life could he detect in its silent desolation. "I must have been mistaken," he muttered, with a final glance at the windows of the first story. "There's nobody in the house."

He turned to go, and had taken a few steps through the pinewood when suddenly he started and stood still. His quick ear had caught a faint sound—a kind of rattle—coming from the direction of the house. What was that noise which sounded so strangely familiar to his ears? He had it! It was the fall of a Venetian blind. Instantaneously there came to Rolfe the remembrance that Inspector Chippenfield had ordered the library blind to be left up, so that when the sun was high in the heavens its rays, striking in through the window over the top of the chestnut-tree, might dry up the stain of blood on the floor, which washing had failed to efface. Somebody was in the library and had dropped the blind.

Rolfe hurriedly retraced his steps to the edge of the plantation, and raced across the Italian garden, feeling for his revolver as he ran. Some instinct told him that he would find entrance through the French windows on the west side of the morning room, and thither he directed his steps. He pulled out his electric torch and tried the windows. They were shut, and the first one was locked. The second one yielded to his hand. He pulled it open, and stepped into the room. Making his way by the light of his torch to the stairs, he swiftly but silently crept up them and turned to the library on the left of the first landing. The door was closed but not locked, and a faint light came through the keyhole. Rolfe pushed the door open, and looked into the room. A man was leaning over the dead judge's writing-desk, examining its contents by the light of a candle which he had set down on the desk. He was so engrossed in his occupation that he did not hear the door open.

"What are you doing there?" demanded Rolfe sternly. His voice sounded hollow and menacing as it reverberated through the room.

The man at the desk started up, and turned round. It was Hill. When he saw Rolfe he looked as though he would fall. He made as if to step forward. Then he stood quite still, looking at the officer with ashen face.

"Hill," said Rolfe quietly, "what does this mean?"

The butler had regained his self-composure with wonderful quickness. The mask of reticence dropped over his face again, and it was in the smooth deferential tones of a well-trained servant that he replied:

"Nothing, sir, I just slipped over from the shop to see if everything was all right."

"How did you get into the house?"

"By the French window, sir. I had a duplicate key which Sir Horace had made."

"And I see you also have a duplicate key of the desk. Why didn't you give these keys up with the others to Inspector Chippenfield?"

"I forgot about them at the time, sir. I found them in an old pocket this evening, and I was so uneasy about the house shut up with a lot of valuable things in it and nobody to give an eye to them that I just slipped across to see everything was all right."

"You came here after dark, and let yourself in with a private key after you had been strictly ordered not to come near the place? You have the audacity to admit you have done this?"

"Well, it's this way, sir. I was a trusted servant of Sir Horace's. I knew a great deal about his private life, if I may say so. I know he kept a lot of private papers in this room, and I wanted to make sure they were safe—I didn't like them being in this empty house, sir. I couldn't sleep in my bed of nights for thinking of them, sir. I felt last night as if my poor dead master was standing at my bedside, urging me to go over. I am very sorry I disobeyed the police orders, Mr. Rolfe, but I acted for the best."

"Hill, you are lying, you are keeping something back. Unless you immediately tell me the real reason of your visit to this house tonight I will take you down to the Hampstead Police Station and have you locked up. This visit of yours will take a lot of explaining away after your previous confession, Hill. It's enough to put you in the dock with Birchill."

Hill's eyes, which had been fixed on Rolfe's face, wavered towards the doorway, as though he were meditating a rush for freedom. But he merely remarked:

"I've told you the truth, sir, though perhaps not all of it. I came across to see if I could find some of Sir Horace's private papers which are missing."

"How do you know there are any papers missing?"

"As I said before, Mr. Rolfe, Sir Horace trusted me and he didn't take the trouble to hide things from me."

"You mean that he often left his desk open with important papers scattered about it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you made a practice of going through them?"

"I didn't make a practice of it," protested Hill. "But sometimes I glanced at one or two of them. I thought there was no harm in it, knowing that Sir Horace trusted me."

"And some papers that you knew were there are now missing. Do you mean stolen?"

"Yes, sir."

"When did you see them last?"

"Just before Inspector Chippenfield came—the morning after the body was discovered. You remember, sir, that he came straight up here while you stayed downstairs talking to Constable Flack."

"Do you mean to suggest that Inspector Chippenfield stole them?"

"Oh, no, sir, I don't think he saw them. Sir Horace kept them in this little place at the back of the desk. Look at it, sir. It's a sort of secret drawer."

Rolfe went over to the desk, and Hill explained to him how the hiding place could be closed and opened. It was at the back of the desk under the pigeonholes, and the fact that the pigeonholes came close down to the desk hid the secret drawer and the spring which controlled it.

"What was the nature of these papers?" asked Rolfe.

"Well, sir, I never read them. Sir Horace set such store by them that I never dared to open them for fear he would find out. They were mostly letters and they were tied up with a piece of silk ribbon."

"A lady's letters, of course," said Rolfe.

"Judging from the writing on the envelopes they were sent by a lady," said Hill.

Rolfe breathed quickly, for he felt that he was on the verge of a discovery. Here was evidence of a lady in the case, which might lead to a startling development. Perhaps Crewe was right in declaring that Birchill was the wrong man, he said to himself. Perhaps the murderer was not a man, but a woman.

"And who do you think stole them?" he asked Hill.

"That is more than I would like to say," replied the butler.

"Are you sure they were in this hiding place when Inspector Chippenfield took charge of everything?"

"Yes, sir. I dusted out the room the morning you and he came to Riversbrook together, and the papers were there then, because I happened to touch the spring as I was dusting the desk, and it flew open and I saw the bundle there."

"Why didn't you tell Inspector Chippenfield about the papers and the secret drawer?"

"That is what I intended to do, sir, if he didn't find them himself. But when I had found they had gone I didn't like to say anything to him, because, as you may say, I had no right to know anything about them."

"When did they go: when did you find they were missing?"

"When Inspector Chippenfield went out for his lunch. I looked in the desk and found they had gone."

"Who could have taken them? Who had access to the room?"

"Well, sir, Mr. Chippenfield had some visitors that morning."

"Yes. There were about a dozen newspaper reporters during the day at various times. There were Dr. Slingsby and his assistant, who came out to make the post-mortem: Inspector Seldon, who came to arrange about the inquest, and there was that man from the undertakers who came to inquire about the funeral arrangements. But none of these men were likely to take the papers, and still less to know where they were hidden. In any case, no visitor could get at the desk while Mr. Chippenfield was in the room. And he is too careful to have left any visitor alone in this room—it was here that the murder was committed."

"He left one of his visitors alone here for a few minutes," said Hill in a voice which was little more than a whisper.

"Which one?" asked Rolfe eagerly.

"A lady."

"Who was she?"

"Mrs. Holymead."

"Oh!" Rolfe's exclamation was one of disappointment. "She is a friend of the family. She came out to see Miss Fewbanks—it was a visit of condolence."

"Yes, sir," said the obsequious butler. "She was a friend of the family, as you say. She was a friend of Sir Horace's. I have heard that Sir Horace paid her considerable attention before she married Mr. Holymead—it was a toss up which of them she married, so I've been told."

Rolfe saw that he had made a mistake in dismissing the idea of Mrs. Holymead having anything to do with the missing papers. "Do you think that she stole these letters—these papers?" he asked. "Do you think she knew where they were?"

"While she was in the room, Inspector Chippenfield came rushing downstairs for a glass of water. He said she had fainted."

"Whew!" Rolfe gave a low prolonged whistle. "And after she left you took the first opportunity of looking to see if the papers were still there, and you found they were gone?"

"Yes, sir."

"What made you suspect Mrs. Holymead would take them?"

"Well, sir, I didn't suspect her at the time. I just looked to see if Inspector Chippenfield had found them. I saw they had gone, and as I couldn't see any sign of them about anywhere else I concluded they must have been taken without Inspector Chippenfield knowing anything about it. The reason I came over here to-night was to have another careful look round for them."

Rolfe was silent for a moment.

"What would you have done with the papers if you had found them?" he asked suddenly.

"I would have handed them over to the police, sir," said the butler, who obviously had been prepared for a question of the kind.

"And what explanation would you have given for having found them—for having come over here in defiance of your orders from Inspector Chippenfield?"

"The true explanation, sir," said the butler, with a mild note of protest in his voice. "I would have told Inspector Chippenfield what I have already told you. And it is the simple truth."

Rolfe was plainly taken back at this rebuke, but he did not reply to it.

"In your statement of what took place when Birchill returned to the flat after committing the murder, he said something about having seen a woman leave the house by the front door as he was hiding in the garden—a fashionably dressed woman I think he said."

"Yes, sir, that was it."

"Do you believe that part of his story was true?"

"Well, sir, with a man like Birchill it is impossible to say when he is telling the truth, and when he isn't."

"There was no lady with Sir Horace when you left him that night when he returned from Scotland?"

"No, sir."

"I think you said he was in a hurry to get you out of the house, and told you not to come back?"

"That is what I thought at the time, sir."

"Well, Hill," said Rolfe, resuming his severe official tone; "all this does not excuse in any way your conduct in coming over here and forcing your way into the house in defiance of the police; opening this desk, and prying about for private papers that don't concern you. The proper course for you to adopt was to come to Scotland Yard and tell your story about these missing papers to Inspector Chippenfield or myself. However, I don't propose to take any action against you at present. Only there is to be no more of it. If you come hanging about here again on your own account, you'll find yourself in the dock beside Birchill. Hand me over the duplicate key of the door by which you came in, and also the key of the desk which you had still less right to have in your possession. Say nothing to anyone about those papers until I give you permission to do so."



CHAPTER XVI

The day fixed for the trial of Frederick Birchill was wet, dismal, and dreary. The rain pelted intermittently through a hazy, chilly atmosphere, filling the gutters and splashing heavily on the slippery pavements. But in spite of the rain a long queue, principally of women, assembled outside the portals of the Old Bailey long before the time fixed for the opening of the court. At the private entrance to the courthouse arrived fashionably-dressed ladies accompanied by well-groomed men. They had received cards of admission and had seats reserved for them in the body of the court. Many of them had personally known the late Sir Horace Fewbanks, and their interest in the trial of the man accused of his murder was intensified by the rumours afloat that there were to be some spicy revelations concerning the dead judge's private life.

The arrival of Mr. Justice Hodson, who was to preside at the trial, caused a stir among some of the spectators, many of whom belonged to the criminal class. Sir Henry Hodson had presided at so many murder trials that he was known among them as "the Hanging Judge." Among the spectators were some whom Sir Henry had put into mourning at one time or another; there were others whom he had deprived of their bread-winners for specified periods. These spectators looked at him with curiosity, fear, and hatred. Mr. Holymead, K.C., drove up in a taxi-cab a few minutes later, and his arrival created an impression akin to admiration. In the eyes of the criminal class he was an heroic figure who had assumed the responsibility of saving the life of one of their fraternity. The eminent counsel's success in the few criminal cases in which he had consented to appear had gained him the respectful esteem of those who considered themselves oppressed by the law, and the spectators on the pavement might have raised a cheer for him if their exuberance had not been restrained by the proximity of the policeman guarding the entrance.