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HAVILAND was greatly cheered by the news of the keys. "A clue at last!" he chortled.

"To what?" was Pointer's question. "To whom?"

Haviland stared.

"Why, to the whole affair. It's a direct link with Mrs. Tangye. In fact, it's a direct link with her murder, I should say."

Still Pointer did not reply.

"Well, it's a fact anyway!" Haviland said desperately, "just as his having two of those notes in his possession was a fact."

"Yes, but the sole importance of a fact lies in the way we look at it."

"A most true remark, oh, worthy sir!" chimed in Wilmot who had driven down with Pointer, and was now breakfasting at the Twickenham police station. "And let me also remind you two bloodhounds on the trail, that Vardon may have a perfectly satisfactory explanation of those keys being found in his possession."

"He's sure to have! In fact, when you see him, Mr. Wilmot, you'll find he'll explain everything so nicely that you'll think what a pleasure it is to meet such a candid young gentleman." Haviland was still sore.

"Insurance Company's dropping behind, I fear," Wilmot murmured. "I wonder, if after all, it was a crime? I wonder This case certainly has unexpected light and dark places."

"The fact is, they always have," Haviland announced despondently.

"It's the charm of the word, of course," mused Wilmot, "that's why people read detective stories. For that and—the love of the chase."

"The love of justice," Pointer spoke for once with real warmth, "it's because they satisfy that—I suppose the deepest passion of every one's heart, but a criminal's—that people read, and write, detective novels."

"I read 'em for facts, helpful facts," Haviland volunteered. "Really, some of the dodges these writers get hold of—"

"You're wrong. Both of you." Wilmot, as usual, spoke with certainty. "The same thing makes people read, that makes you, Haviland, a policeman, and you, Pointer, a detective. And that is for the sake of the thrill. Of the manhunt. There's nothing else in the world quite like it. Why, even I begin to get the whiff of it in my nostrils."

Pointer was silent. Only his friends knew the Chief Inspector's dislike of that common phrase, and point of view. To himself, Pointer was but a keen, impartial keeper of the open road, the path of law and order. The only path by which civilisation, to his mind, could march on.

"I suppose Vardon'll be allowed to give his explanation?" Wilmot asked a little curiously.

"In due time." It was Pointer speaking. "But as Tangye's leaving town for a week-end, we'll go to Riverview first. He's kept in the house with a cold, so he told me. Are you coming with us, Haviland?"

But a dull affair of a burgled boot-shop deprived the Superintendent of that pleasure.

"As a matter of fact, perhaps Vardon was the person Tangye suspected all along," he said, hopefully, trying to cheer himself by the suggestion that he was not about to miss much.

Pointer and Wilmot walked to the house. The sun was shining. A rather apologetic sun, as though begging spectators not to ask too much. To remember that this was November—and England. His rays, faint and pale, seemed to cool rather than warm. Yet their touch spelled beauty. They brought out the thrushes' song. They lifted the lark.

They set free the strain of wren and robin in a clump of evergreen beside Richmond Bridge. Plaintive and sweet notes. Joyous and pearly. A blind man might have thought it spring, so mild was the day. But the trees knew better. They were only waiting for the coming of a wind with which to wrestle. Like giants stripped for a fight, their old clothes, the withered leaves, lying in tumbled heaps below them, they could now give back as good as they got. Beautiful to look at, fine and firm, they swayed aloft. Concerned solely with their own affairs, till the burden of giving shade and shelter should be theirs once more.

Pointer's and Wilmot's arrival evidently roused Tangye from a revery in an armchair. He looked very haggard. Very unhappy. He turned an alert eye, none the less, on them when they were ushered in.

"What I have to say is in strict confidence," Pointer began. Tangye nodded. Looking an almost savage interest.

"One of the missing notes has been traced. To a Mr. Vardon."

"Vardon! Philip Vardon?" There was stupefaction in the other's voice. And something that sounded very like chagrin.

"You know him, sir? Who is he?"

"Why, a cousin of my late wife's first husband. A cousin of Clive Branscombe's. There's a mistake been made somewhere, Chief Inspector."

"Not unless the mistake was in the number of the notes given us." Pointer lobbed that ball back very swiftly.

"Is he with you now?" Tangye half rose.

"Unfortunately he tricked us by a tale of a document, and got away."

"Well—I'm—damned," Tangye repeated under his breath, his eyes goggling. Pointer gave him the outlines of what had happened.

Tangye listened with at least every appearance of breathless interest. "He says Mrs. Tangye gave him the money on Tuesday afternoon," he repeated thoughtfully. He was the business man now, weighing both sides. "In that case he's sure to have that paper he spoke of. It wouldn't be like her not to have the agreement in writing—nor like any woman—" a sudden passion rang in the grudging tone, "perhaps he merely rushed away to find it. Remembered he'd left it behind him in his lodgings. Hasty thing to do, but I think you'll find everything's all right when you get into touch with him again." Tangye strode over to his tantalus. Things were unlocked, tumblers clinked. As before, Pointer, and this time Wilmot, declined a drink. Tangye stood eyeing his cocktail with a bitterly disappointed air, as though his favourite recipe had gone back on him. As though the mixture were anything but what he had expected to see.

"But that would hardly explain how he came to have her keys packed away in his suitcase," Pointer continued.

Tangye's glass gave a postman's knock against the table.

"Let me see..." Pointer seemed to ruminate, "isn't he a crack shot? Bisley prize-winner, or something of that kind?"

"I never heard so. He's quite fair with a gun. Can be trusted out with a keeper, at any rate."

"Has he ever spoken to you about this proposition of his?"

"Once. But I don't go in for that sort of thing. Never touch a speculation. Apparently my wife decided after all to have a try with him."

"I suppose he called here frequently on the subject," Pointer suggested.

"He's never been to the house."

"But a friend of your wife's, I suppose?"

"They had never met."

"Of yours, then?"

"Not especially. I've known him off and on since we were boys. He, too, was at Haileybury, though after my time. Of course you'll stop all proceedings. Naturally he'll have a perfectly understandable explanation of both keys and money."

Pointer said nothing.

Tangye looked at him sharply. "I lodged the complaint, or information, or whatever the official name is, and now I withdraw it—until we hear from Vardon."

"Very good," Pointer was unperturbed. "Personally I'm only interested in the missing money, and the keys, in so far as they may concern a theory regarding Mrs. Tangye's death."

"Regarding it as what?" Tangye stopped his glass midway to his lips.

Pointer looked very official. Wilmot's face showed nothing. He had been listening and watching with equal keenness.

"It looks as though Vardon's capture might end the inquiry that we've been making—as a matter of routine—into Mrs. Tangye's death. In other words, sir, I fancy the charge against Mr. Vardon may have to be murder. I'm sorry to use the word about your wife's death, but that's what it looks like at present. You understand that this is entirely confidential. Is not to go any further."

"What—on—earth—do—you—mean, Chief Inspector?" Tangye seemed unable to believe his ears. His hand shook so that he replaced the glass hastily on the table. "Wilmot here claims that Mrs. Tangye's death was a suicide. I have maintained, and the Coroner has maintained, that it was due to an accident."

"But we at Scotland Yard are wondering if it mayn't be due to a crime," Pointer said concisely.

"Things look very black against Mr. Vardon," the Chief Inspector went on in his level, unemotional tones, "other things than I am at liberty to speak of."

"How black?" burst from Tangye. It was an odd question.

"Black enough to dangle him at a rope's end," was Pointer's reply. Made with calculated brutality. "Those notes together with those keys in his luggage will do the trick alone."

"You forget I saw the keys here at the house long after Mrs. Tangye was dead," Tangye said instantly. He evidently was not too rattled to think swiftly.

"So if Mr. Vardon says Mrs. Tangye handed them to him, or dropped them in his room by accident, as she gave him the money, he's lying?" pounced the Chief Inspector.

Tangye splashed the soda water that he was pouring out, in a fine fireman's spray over himself. He set the tumbler down hastily, and mopped. Then he picked up the glass again. He hesitated. Finally he almost threw it on a side-table and poked the fire. Very much to its detriment.

"I must have mistaken some other bunch of keys for my wife's. Obviously that's what I did. Miss Saunders' probably. But in any case there's no question of murder, nor of foul play of any kind here. As a matter of fact, solid fact," he glanced at Wilmot and flushed, "Mrs. Tangye shot herself. That's the honest truth. She did commit suicide. I meant to keep it to myself. But of course I can't let a man be arrested for what never happened. And that's why I believe she let him have the money. It would be all of one piece."

"You're sure Mrs. Tangye's death was suicide?" Pointer asked.

"Haven't I just said so? I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. She told me she was going to do it. Told me on Monday afternoon. I didn't believe her—then!"

Wilmot had hard work not to show how great was his triumph at this news. Even as it was, a good deal leaked through.

"And about those keys of Mrs. Tangye's found among Mr. Vardon's things. Have you any idea how they got in his possession?" Pointer asked thoughtfully.

"I? How should I have?"

"Just so." Pointer spoke regretfully. "I was afraid of that. Doubtless there's no explanation possible that lets him out. Well, of course, they're pretty damning, and plain, evidence."

"Evidence of what? Why the devil do you harp on those keys? Ten to one as he says, Mrs. Tangye dropped them in his rooms when she sat talking over the business deal."

"But they were seen here at Riverview after she returned. At four."

"Who saw them? I told you I wasn't sure of which bunch I saw."

"But Florence is sure."

"Florence! Florence has muddled them with other times. Florence!" Tangye repeated irritably. "I tell you Mrs. Tangye shot herself. And that sad fact makes your suspicions absurd."

Tangye turned to the soda water. He had replenished his glass.

Pointer had been standing playing with the lever, apparently idly. It seemed to be jammed. Tangye took out his penknife and with a few neat touches set it going again. He was talking as he worked.

"Thrown up my hand, haven't I? But damn it all, there is a limit to what one can do for filthy lucre. Mrs. Tangye," he pulled himself up. "But no matter. Where was I?"

"You were telling us about what she said on Monday."

"I got back from Norfolk about five. She—well—" He paused as though at a loss how to tell the facts, and yet not be lacking in decency to the dead. "We quarrelled. Badly. Finally she said that she was going to end it. To kill herself. I said something like 'don't do anything foolish,' and she turned on me saying that 'what she was going to do was wise—not foolish, whatever I might think.' I went up to town hoping that things would calm down of themselves. You know what happened next day before I saw her again. I think she delayed that shot till just about time for me to get to Riverview." He was very pale. "Life's a mad thing." He said after a pause, "Damned mad."

"I knew it was suicide all along," Wilmot said quietly. "I can send in the report of your statement to my Company, of course?"

"Of course."

"And exactly why did you say her death was due to an accident?" Pointer asked eyeing the repairs done to the lever with an apparently absent-minded gaze. They were quite up to the standard of the work necessary to arrange that camera.

"Why brand myself as a suicide's husband? Why broadcast our domestic unhappiness? No one guessed it. There was nothing overt. We got on each other's nerves from the first, that was all."

"The firm of Deakin and O'Malley was hammered on the Dublin Stock Exchange this morning. I am to understand then that your firm is not involved in its difficulties?" Pointer asked.

"You've been listening to idle rumours," Tangye said suavely. "My firm is in no difficulties. I can't say that the hammer may not be heard to-day over there—" he glanced from his windows toward where the city lay, "but not for me."

He spoke with conviction. His only mistake was to let a note of triumph creep into his voice. There was a village blacksmith's ring of "something accomplished, something done," about that, and his gaze, that told of strenuous effort and hard-won success.

"And you think that after a quarrel with her husband, of the kind you suggest on Monday, a wife would kill herself Tuesday, leaving everything to that husband?" Pointer asked again.

"It's what happened here. Mrs. Tangye was a very fair-minded woman, when there was no question of her temper leading her wrong. She was a splendid character at bottom. Possibly on the other hand, she may not have remembered her will, any more than I did at first." He spoke the last words very clearly.

"Naturally," Wilmot assured him pleasantly. Pointer shot him an amused look. He was sure that Wilmot would find anything "natural" which backed up Tangye's confession that his wife had killed herself.

"And now to get down to facts," Pointer might have been Haviland, "would you be more explicit as to the trouble between yourself and your wife? What exactly did Mrs. Tangye say on Monday?"

Tangye gave a short laugh. Not of mirth.

"I can't tell you half nor a quarter of what she said. I don't think she could herself, if she were alive, poor girl. You know what a woman is when she's beside herself with some fancied grievance."

"Try and remember as much as you can," Pointer suggested prosaically. "For the fact that Mrs. Tangye wrote to Mr. Stewart, yours and her solicitor, asking him to notify your firm that she wished to withdraw the ten thousand pounds invested by her in it, makes the quarrel very important."

Tangye's lids drooped over his rather bold eyes. He stood silent for a moment. Then he wheeled smartly about. The very sound of his heels told that he had made up his mind. He walked to the door.

"Excuse me a moment." He was gone.

Wilmot looked at Pointer. His eyes waved the flag of victory. "I knew I couldn't be wrong!" he said softly. "I knew it must be suicide!" Pointer slipped out of the door like a shadow. Wilmot thought that there was something unpleasant in seeing such a big man move so silently. There was more here than mere absence of sound. Pointer's very body seemed to blur with the shadows of the dark day.

The Chief Inspector stood a second in the hall beside Rogers the constable, listening intently. Then he stole swiftly up the stairs to the first landing. He made for a little sitting-room taken over by Miss Saunders. There he heard a low murmur. In a second a police "stethescope" was pressed against the crack. The ends in his ears. "Very well," he heard Miss Saunders say. "I'm quite ready. I felt sure it would come."

There was a stir.

Pointer was sitting in the same chair as before and in the same attitude when Tangye opened the door again, this time for Miss Saunders to precede him. She was self-possessed as always. Very sure of herself, in her prim way.

"I think Miss Saunders should hear what I am obliged to say," Tangye said briskly. Shutting the door resolutely behind him. His manner was positively business-like.

"You asked me now, Chief Inspector, what my late wife and I quarrelled over on Monday when I returned from my week-end. I'm sorry to say it was over her having unexpectedly found out that Miss Saunders and I had gone for a spin in my car Sunday afternoon. We met at Tunbridge Wells. Lunched together at an hotel there, and drove around to the orchid-show. By bad luck my wife happened to be there, too, and caught sight of us. After all, there was nothing wrong in what we did. Injudicious, of course. We both see that now?" he finished.

"Quite so. Injudicious, but not wrong," Miss Saunders echoed letting her eyes for a second dart from face to face.

"If you would like to question Miss Saunders, I think she would be kind enough to answer you," Tangye went on.

"I don't think there's any need of anything so painful," Pointer said stolidly but with his eyes on the other man.

They were large eyes. Very quiet eyes. Very clear eyes.

"Well, then," Tangye went on, almost as though dictating a letter, "as I said, Mrs. Tangye saw us."

"And you didn't see her?"

"I didn't. Did you, Miss Saunders?" Tangye turned to her. She shook her head.

"Please say whether you did or not?" Tangye ordered, still with that indefinable tone of brisk command of the situation in his voice. He might have been sailing a yacht, with a breeze blowing that just suited him and his boat.

"No, I didn't see her," Miss Saunders spoke up briskly too.

"Yet we stayed in the show some time. How long would you think?" he went on.

"About two hours, I fancy."

"I put it about that too," he nodded. "I thought it better not to see Miss Saunders off in the train, so we said good-bye outside the station."

There was a pause. Tangye looked around on his hearers almost as though expecting applause. Obviously Pointer and Wilmot were being treated to a benefit performance. But whose benefit? Tangye's, or Miss Saunders', or the absent Vardon's. Miss Saunders rose and slipped quietly from the room.

"And now perhaps you'll be able to tell us some of the things your wife said to you on this Monday afternoon?" Pointer asked.

Tangye shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't remember much. She was absolutely unlike herself. We've had quarrels before, of course. But never one like that. I quite misunderstood the position. You see, I thought—I fancied she was bluffing. Mrs. Tangye, I mean. I had an idea—totally wrong as it turned out—that she was not nearly so angry as she chose to seem. I thought she was overdoing it. I see now that it was hysteria, and dangerous hysteria at that. But I give you my word that I only thought then she had decided to give me a bit of a scare so as to teach me not to do that sort of thing again."

"That's very interesting," Pointer said slowly. "She struck you as really not angry? You thought it acting?"

"I swear I did. Overdone acting at that. I thought she was forcing the note all the way along. More fool I!" Tangye sighed heavily. His brief air of triumph had entirely left him.

"Did she ask you to leave the house?" Pointer put in.

Tangye seemed to feel a sudden check. He hesitated for a second. "Possibly. I think she did say that among the flood of other things."

"You weren't discussing money affairs then?"

Tangye stiffened. "I don't understand."

Pointer gave him no explanation, as rising, he made his way to the drawing-room where Miss Saunders sat reading.

"I suppose you know about Mr. Vardon," he began chattily. She stared at him.

"Know what?"

"Well, strictly in confidence, it looks very much as though we might have to arrest him in connection with Mrs. Tangye's death."

Miss Saunders' face flamed a brick red. Her lips parted in a curious tense look, drawn away from her rather long teeth.

"Mr. Vardon? Mrs. Tangye's death? What are you talking about?" There was a spark in the depths of her bright, rat-like eyes.

Pointer repeated that certain facts had come to their knowledge which unless explained, looked very bad for Mr. Vardon. The presence of her keys in his luggage, for one thing.

Miss Saunders sat tapping the end of her thumb nail against her clenched teeth. It was the gesture of one uncertain what to do. What to say. "And of course, Mr. Tangye let you think it!" she said under her breath.

Pointer looked at her meaningly and nodded.

Miss Saunders gave a little sound as though she were choking.

"Why do you think Mrs. Tangye's death was a murder?" she asked. There was no hesitation about her use of that terrible word. No look of shrinking in her face. Yet she had lived three years with the woman about whom she was putting that grisly question. She might have been a collector inquiring, why an expert thought his Goya drawing to be a Mengs. There was intense, burning interest in the coming answer, but no personal emotion.

"Well, we do. The outlook for every one in the house is quite altered by the mere supposition. To come to the point of this interview, your own alibi is unsatisfactory."

That got home. She bit her lip.

"It's not genuine. Miss Martins, as I believe the manageress of the tea-room is called, mistook you evidently for another customer. In any case the fact that she is your sister would discount her evidence. There's no use your denying what we know, Miss Saunders," as she opened her lips, "the matter is too serious for that. Where were you really between four and six Tuesday?" His voice came sharp and stern. She licked her thin lips with a tongue that shot out like a snake's, swift and furtive.

"At the library and then in the tea-room. My alibi is quite good. As to its having been substantiated by my sister—why not? She's in charge at the tea-room. Others may have seen me there if you've frightened her into some mistake. I won't pretend to misunderstand you, you know. But what possible cause should I have had for harming Mrs. Tangye?"

Pointer bent forward and stared hard at her. She blinked. "Why, you yourself have been trying to force the note of your—understanding—with Mr. Tangye."

This time she turned a genuine and ghastly gray.

"It's a lie!" she rose to her feet and her eyes widened. "Blundering idiots I If I had killed her, wouldn't I be the first to snatch at the chance of accusing Mr. Vardon? But I tell you he didn't do it Oh, you fool! You damned fool!" She shivered with fury. Pointer thought for a second that she would actually fly at him. Her small eyes, set close together like those of a bird, seemed to snap fire, so fierce was their glare.

The door opened. But why had Tangye paused once again outside to listen?

Miss Saunders passed him with one contemptuous, yet menacing glance.

"What in the world—" Tangye began. "I stepped in to ask if you would be a witness to my statement, which Wilmot is taking down. My formal renouncement of the Insurance claim on my wife."

Pointer followed him back into his den.

"Bit previous," Pointer glanced down at the paper. "It may not be Vardon, but it may not be suicide, either." Wilmot looked put out. The case was as good as over as far as he was concerned. He was mentally drafting a cable to his little Galician village, at the same time as this letter of Tangye's.

"You mean you will make a murder out of it?"

Tangye's last whisky had been nearly neat.

"I assure you," Pointer said gently, as he had to say so often, "that Scotland Yard is not Moloch, to be fed with human sacrifices, innocent or guilty, no matter which, so long as the supply doesn't run short. If Mrs. Tangye's death was a suicide, you may be sure that that will end the inquiry, and we shall turn our attention elsewhere. But we must get the thing clearly worked out. That's part of the routine."

Pointer left the two alone at that, and took a turn in the garden. The robin, whose preserve this was, eyed him hopefully. Pointer looked energetic. He might be going to use a spade. But the Chief Inspector was oblivious of fluting call or confident bright eyes. He was thinking. So it was to be suicide. According to Tangye. But according to Pointer? That was what really mattered.

It was a very sudden right-about-turn, this of Tangye's. Neatly executed, but very sudden. Was it the peril in which Tangye learnt for the first time that a man stood whom he considered innocent? Or was it something else, deeper? Was what seemed disinterestedness self-interest? Did Tangye suddenly realise that the question of murder was in the air? Did he want to scotch, not so much a present, unfounded accusation, as a possibly well-founded one in the future? Did he see himself as Vardon's successor in the list of suspects, and decided to block that eventuality? Or was the widower merely a belatedly honest man? Was Wilmot right? Had Haviland been right in the beginning? Was Mrs. Tangye's death, after all, self-inflicted, in spite of smoky room and scratched revolver? Or were Tangye and Vardon in collusion? Those keys...

Returning to the house he and Wilmot took their leave.

"My field day, I think!" the newspaper man stepped out cheerily; "we've got the motive. You were right about it having been that Sunday down at Tunbridge that practically fired the shot. The husband throws up his claim—"

"The investigator packs his trunks, sends in his bill, and flits to sunnier climes," Pointer finished the picture.

Wilmot chortled.

"Of course you, as the representative of the law, tried to spoil it all. But nothing will undo the fact that Tangye confesses he was only trying it on with the Insurance society. He's obviously however, not the man to hang an innocent chap. I think Tangye's genuinely shocked to find that by trying to swindle the Company out of that insurance payment, he's tying the noose around the neck of another. He comes forward and says very honestly that his wife told him in so many words that she intended to kill herself."

"But she didn't!"

"Didn't kill herself? I think—in spite of many difficulties, perplexities—that she did."

"Of course you do. No offence, Wilmot, but that's what the Company expects you to do until actually convinced. That's your brief."

Wilmot looked at him with surprise on his face. "Do you mean to say that you suspect this double confession or confidence, of just now? In Heaven's name, why?"

"Why should I believe it? That's more to the point."

"'Pon my word, it's too bad!" Wilmot's voice was frankly peevish. Here was the case, his case, settled, and here was this obstinate policeman still holding up the traffic.

"There are two sides to every question," Pointer reminded him.

"Not to a circle. A never-ending circle, which this case seems to be in your eyes," was Wilmot's tart rejoinder. "Indeed? What about inside and outside?"

Wilmot laughed, almost against his will. "What makes you doubt what we've just heard?" he asked finally.

"My dear fellow! If Tangye had carried a banner inscribed, 'I'm doing a neat bit of acting. What price a brain-wave?' It couldn't have been clearer. Miss Saunders too, was very pleased with her star-turn. In the beginning."

They reached the station. Haviland had returned. He now listened eagerly.

"Ah, I thought Tangye wouldn't be able to explain away the fact of those keys!" Haviland said gleefully. "Funny he should try to. I wonder what really did happen to them?"

"I wonder too," Pointer said. "Certain it is that Tangye could tell us if he wished to."

"Looks as though Vardon and Tangye have an understanding of some sort, in fact," Haviland thought. "And that's why Miss Saunders wanted to help him as well as Tangye—at least, I suppose that's why..."

"She's the owner of a 'one-good-turn-a-day' nature, you think? You two chaps make me tired. Forgive my frankness," Wilmot stifled a yawn, "but why cudgel your brains for some recondite solution? Miss Saunders and Tangye went off on Sunday. She's quite willing to snatch at any alleviation on the sly. Like most of her sex. Tangye's right; there's no murder here. There's suicide. And there's possibly, but only possibly, a theft."

"Suicide? Because Mrs. Tangye saw her husband and her companion looking at orchids together? Her sense of proportion must have been out of action. Come, Wilmot, you don't believe that yourself!"

"I believe," Wilmot said earnestly, "that Mrs. Tangye had far more ground than that. Far more reason. That she had fought a losing battle well and long. That finding she was steadily being driven back, in spite of all her efforts, she got tired of the useless struggle, and ended it. That has, up to now, been my theory, unless it really was an accident. Failing either of those, my own mind turns more and more to that missing cousin of hers. The man with the love of money and the streak of cruelty in his character. I suppose you're getting into touch with the Frenchman, Filon?"

"Trying to. Also with Fez. There, of course, we shall have no difficulty. They will doubtless be able to furnish us with photographs and finger-prints of the man they shot. The man who called himself Olivier."