Part 23

“And his report was?”...

“His report, Inspector, telegraphic, of course, was this: that no sister of Mrs. Vernon resided at the address; that the place was a cottage occupied by a certain Mrs. Fry and her husband; that the husband was of no occupation, and had no visible means of support”--he ticked off the points on the long forefinger--“that the Frys lived better than any of their neighbors; and--most important of all--that Mrs. Fry's maiden name, which my agent discovered by recourse to the parish register of marriages--was Ann Fairchild.”

“What of that?”

“Ann Fairchild was a former maid of Mrs. Vernon!”

“In short, it amounts to this, then: Mrs. Vernon, during these various absences, never went to Scotland at all? It was a conspiracy?”

“Exactly--exactly, Inspector! I wired instructing my agent to extort from the woman, Fry, the address to which she forwarded letters received by her for Mrs. Vernon. The lady's death, news of which will now have reached him, will no doubt be a lever, enabling my representative to obtain the desired information.”

“When do you expect to hear from him?”

“At any moment. Failing a full confession by the Frys, you will of course know how to act, Inspector?”

“Damme!” cried Dunbar, “can your man be relied upon to watch them? They mustn't slip away! Shall I instruct Perth to arrest the couple?”

“I wired my agent this morning, Inspector, to communicate with the local police respecting the Frys.”

Inspector Dunbar tapped his small, widely-separated teeth with the end of his fountain-pen.

“I have had one priceless witness slip through my fingers,” he muttered. “I'll hand in my resignation if the Frys go!”

“To whom do you refer?”

Inspector Dunbar rose.

“It is a point with which I need not trouble you, sir,” he said. “It was not included in the extract of report sent to you. This is going to be the biggest case of my professional career, or my name is not Robert Dunbar!”

Closing his notebook, he thrust it into his pocket, and replaced his fountain-pen in the little leather wallet.

“Of course,” said the solicitor, rising in turn, and adjusting the troublesome pince-nez, “there was some intrigue with Leroux? So much is evident.”

“You will be thinking that, eh?”

“My dear Inspector”--Mr. Debnam, the wily, was seeking information--“my dear Inspector, Leroux's own wife was absent in Paris--quite a safe distance; and Mrs. Vernon (now proven to be a woman conducting a love intrigue) is found dead under most compromising circumstances--MOST compromising circumstances--in his flat! His servants, even, are got safely out of the way for the evening”...

“Quite so,” said Dunbar, shortly, “quite so, Mr. Debnam.” He opened the door. “Might I see the late Mrs. Vernon's maid?”

“She is at her home. As I told you, Mrs. Vernon habitually released her for the period of these absences.”

The notebook reappeared.

“The young woman's address?”

“You can get it from the housekeeper. Is there anything else you wish to know?”

“Nothing beyond that, thank you.”

Three minutes later, Inspector Dunbar had written in his book:--Clarice Goodstone, c/o Mrs. Herne, 134a Robert Street, Hampstead Road, N. W.

He departed from the house whereat Death the Gleaner had twice knocked with his Scythe.

VIII