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MILLER had nothing suspicious to report in the actions of those inmates of the balcony rooms who had already visited the hotel on the other occasions. He was told off to test Mrs. Willett's alibi as far as that was possible from the hall-porter, while Pointer took a bus to a smart little bungalow in Sheen, where he hoped to find a lady, whose postcard, signed Mint, had been duly copied by the police and replaced in Miss Leslie's little bureau. It had run:

"Jack will call for you tomorrow in the car at two o'clock as you can't make it earlier, and we will be all ready for you in the launch. Hope the weather will be fine. Mint."

The "tomorrow" referred to had been the Saturday of Eames' death. A few inquiries told him that the bungalow belonged to a Major Thompson, whose record he promptly looked up in the local free library. The Major was now working at the War Office, after distinguished war services.

Mrs. Thompson was in, and very grave the Chief Inspector looked as he bowed to that young matron.

"Mr. Deane?" She glanced up inquiringly from the professional card sent in to her, which explained its owner as Mr. Deane, a solicitor of Grey's Inn Road.

"Excuse my call, Madame, but a client of ours had a motor accident on Saturday last,—August fourth. A car ran into his, and passed on without stopping near Richmond Park. You may have heard of it?" He looked at her with a legal air of being sure to find her out should she attempt any prevarication.

"I? No!"

"My client believes that he can identify the car that ran into his by the fact that he recognized a Miss Leslie in it, who is playing at the Columbine Theatre. From inquiries made at the theatre it appears that the gentleman who was driving the car in question must have been Major Thompson."

"But our car didn't run into anything," protested the lady. "I drove it myself all morning. And, besides, my husband and Miss Leslie weren't anywhere near Richmond Park. What time is this accident supposed to've happened?"

Mr. Deane looked pained.

"My client, Madame, was run into at between half-past four and a quarter to five."

"There you are!" exclaimed Mrs. Thompson in triumph. "Major Thompson—he's out on the links this afternoon—fetched Miss Leslie about two o'clock from the Columbine, and drove her here, where my son and I were waiting in the launch. We had intended to go for a picnic up the river, but the weather was so shocking that we gave it up, and played bridge instead. Miss Leslie refused to let my husband or son take the car out again, and took a taxi back to her hotel just before dinner."

"So Miss Leslie was here in the house at the time my client's car was run into—about half-past four?"

Mrs. Thompson turned a deep red.

"Miss Leslie was here from two-thirty till she left about half-past seven," she said very distinctly. "If you care to go up to the golf links you'll find my husband there and the car! You can examine both at your leisure."

"Madame, I regret to say that I do not understand the affair at all." Mr. Deane stroked his grey moustache and spoke testily. "My client told me that he recognized Miss Leslie distinctly, and at her hotel, where of course I went first before venturing to disturb you, I was told that she had arrived on Saturday in a condition—I refer to her habiliments—which distinctly corroborated the idea of an accident."

Mrs. Thompson's foot was beating a light tattoo on the floor, and there was a distinct sparkle in her pretty eyes as she looked at her visitor.

"I suppose she had a break-down in the taxi; I only know that she left here at half-past six, looking just as usual. She refused to borrow an umbrella. And now I must really refer you to my husband. You can't miss the links."

Mr. Deane excused himself stiffly for the intrusion, and let himself follow the road to the nearest telephone booth, at a pace that began with Mr. Deane's leisurely stride, and finished up in Pointer's best seven-leagued style. The number of the Sheens' golf club was in use. He requested to be rung up when it was free, and passed the time in entering notes in his little book. When he was put through he asked for Major Thompson.

"He's out on the links," replied a voice.

"Mrs. Thompson isn't quite sure if he got her message clearly." He heard an impatient tongue click.

"As I just explained to the lady, sir, the Major has absolutely forbidden any messages to be sent on to the links. I'm very sorry, sir."

Pointer was not.

"I see. Mrs. Thompson couldn't quite make out your explanation. I'll make it clear to her." And Mr. Deane, smiling cheerfully, took a bus to the club, which presented the usual picture of an August desert. He announced that he was waiting for the Major, and ordered tea on the balcony. Towards the close of his leisurely meal two figures clattered up the steps. A steward approached the shorter and indicated the visitor. The man came forward.

"I'm Major Thompson. You wish to see me? Shall I have tea at your table, or will it wait till afterwards? Tea I must have."

Mr. Deane strongly supported the idea of tea at his table. He produced his card and spoke of his client's accident.

"I've just come from Mrs. Thompson; she requested me to see you." There was no doubt as to Major Thompson's embarrassed bewilderment.

"Oh—ah—I see. But didn't my wife explain—" he gazed wildly around for his tea.

"No, Major Thompson, she did not. The onus of proof rests on you." And Mr. Deane fixed his pince-nez more firmly on his nose, and eyed the man across the table.

"Well, but—by jove—my wife told me—I mean Miss Leslie"—the major saw salvation and snatched at it—"you should see Miss Leslie. Miss Leslie is the person—"

"Not at all." Mr. Deane stiffened. "My client was only able to identify the young lady, it is true, but she only comes into the case as identifying or not your car."

"I see. Well, then, it's all quite simple. I never was anywhere near Richmond Park at the hour you mention."

"Nor your car?"

"Go and have a look at the old bus. There isn't any paint on her to scratch, but the mud of centuries ought to do as well. If you can find any dent on her—ah, here's my tea. I see you had shrimp sandwiches, too. Shows this isn't your first visit here, eh?"

But Mr. Deane was not to be diverted.

"My client," he began with his dry, preparatory little cough, "fixes the hour at about four-thirty, or a little later. If you will kindly state—with, of course, some—ah—proofs—that neither you, Miss Leslie, nor the car were near Richmond Park at the hour of the collision, the matter would drop, as far as you are concerned. It must be, of course, a simple matter for you to establish your whereabouts at the time in question."

The major drank long and deep. Then he placed his empty cup in its saucer with something of a bang.

"I was playing bridge with my wife and friends at home, Miss Leslie had gone on to some friends, and the bus was in my garage. I fetched Miss Leslie, who is an old school-friend of my wife's, at two o'clock from the Columbine, as you say they told you at the theatre, and drove her home to Richmond. We had intended to go on the river, but my wife refused to go out in the launch on account of the look of the sky, and suggested bridge instead. Miss Leslie didn't seem to care for cards, and decided to taxi on to some friends. So we put her into a cab—she refused to let us take her in the car—and off she went about a quarter to three. And as I haven't seen her since, she couldn't have been with me at four-thirty near any park."

Mr. Deane tapped his teeth reflectively.

"Um—m. I'm afraid—my client claims pretty heavy damages—his car's a wreck, though he says that the one which ran into him was barely dented. And about Miss Leslie—I understood that Miss Leslie said she was with you and your wife all afternoon. I think there's some mistake—I think there is."

The major began to show signs of distress. He dropped a sandwich, but Mr. Deane foiled that time-honored device to gain time by instantly bringing his foot down on it with a vigor surprising in one of his deliberate movements. The major cast one sulky glance on the savory morsel adhering to his visitor's boot, and gulped down a word or two. He took up the last sandwich, but after a glance at Mr. Deane's general attitude of "ready," sat munching it with a thoroughness which would have moved the late Mr. Fletcher himself to admiration.

"Well, sir?" asked Mr. Deane tartly.

The major chewed on in silence. Finally there was no help for it; he had to swallow the last crumb, but no shipwrecked sailor could have done so more lingeringly.

"Well, of course, if Miss Leslie said so—of course she was. I suppose I've got it muddled. As a matter of fact—now I think of it—of course we all played bridge all afternoon."

"All afternoon?" repeated Mr. Deane, as though unable to believe his ears.

"No, no, no!" corrected the hapless major, "just till about—about—oh, hang it all, I never notice time when I am at cards. But as a matter of fact, I believe we left off quite early—that is, relatively, you know. Every's relative nowadays, thanks to old Einstein—what?"

Mr. Deane sat awhile in silence. The two were quite alone on the balcony. He decided that the time had come for him to make way for the Chief Inspector. It was a pity, for Mr. Deane had thoroughly enjoyed himself. When he spoke, his voice had changed totally.

"I have something I would like to say to you, sir. Would you mind walking out on to the links with me?"

The major gave him a penetrating glance.

"Certainly. Come this way." They strolled off into utter silence and safety from eavesdropping.

"C.I.D. man, eh?" asked the soldier. "Anything wrong at the Office?"

"No, sir, not to my knowledge. I am Chief Inspector Pointer, of the Yard, as you guessed. I'm on a queer suicide case which has taken place at the hotel Miss Leslie is stopping at—the Enterprise—in the room adjoining hers, in fact. We hope to keep it out of the papers till the inquest on Wednesday. Now, as you, of course, know, sir, every case of suicide that isn't as clear as daylight has to be sifted by us pretty thoroughly. Part of the sifting in this case is to place the people's whereabouts who were on the same floor—the first floor. It's a question, roughly, of the hours between four to six on last Saturday afternoon. Miss Leslie is among the other people. You quite understand, sir, that it's a mere matter of form, that we know from the hotel employees that she wasn't in the hotel till much later in the day; but that isn't enough. We must try to have alibis for everyone on the floor between those hours, if it's a possible thing; and if it isn't, we must know why it isn't. Now, sir, can you tell me where Miss Leslie really was during those hours?"

Major Thompson thought awhile.

"I don't know that I care to make any statement in so serious a matter as this," he said finally. "Miss Leslie will give you any information you ask for—any that you have a right to—I am quite sure," and he turned away.

Pointer stopped him.

"Ah, but I can't explain things to Miss Leslie. Not a soul must know that the case isn't a perfectly clear suicide. That's why I adopted my little ruse with you just now, sir. I should have preferred not to have told even you about the matter. Doubtless the young lady would explain her movements on Saturday afternoon, if she knew why I am interested in them; but as I can't explain my reasons to her, I doubt very much if she won't refuse to tell me anything."

"I see." The major again thought awhile. "Yes, I see your point, Inspector, though I owe you something for pulling my leg in that unconscionable way, and stepping on the choicest sandwich."

Pointer repressed a grin.

"I'll be quite frank with you. There was Miss Leslie, my wife, my son Henry, and my son's fiancée at the bungalow on Saturday afternoon. My wife and the other young lady decided—very sensibly—that the weather was much too threatening for an outing on the river, but Miss Leslie, for some whim, tried to insist on our taking the launch out. Henry, of course, backed her up, like an idiot. My wife refused to go, the young lady refused to go—I kept myself out of it all by cleaning the car"—the major glanced at the disreputable old Armstrong, stiff with mud, which was standing a few yards from the two men—"and the upshot was that Miss Leslie and Henry decided to go in the launch, while my wife and Edith went into the house to get tea ready for them when they would return. I saw the silly young optimists off, and we expected them back within a quarter of an hour. But not a bit of it! Henry was beginning to see what a fool he was, but a girl doesn't see reason so quickly. It was nearly seven o'clock before the two returned, soaked through, of course. Miss Leslie has some friends higher up the river: they had pulled up there, had tea with them, and then made for home in all that downpour! After that, she took a taxi from our house and went back to her hotel; and if you know of a madder way of spending last Saturday afternoon, I don't. My wife is furious with her, and Edith is furious with my son."

"I'm afraid I must ask for the name of the friends with whom Miss Leslie had tea," murmured Pointer.

The major reluctantly gave it him, and the two men parted on good terms.

What in the world had induced a rising young actress to spend her time in such an extraordinary manner, mused the police officer as he took the bus on to the Blacks, where Miss Leslie had tea.

The villa was shut up, and, what was more, had been shut up since the middle of July, so the nearest tradesman told him. The Blacks were away at Cromer.

Again Pointer 'phoned to Major Thompson. This time to his home address. The Blacks were "out," he explained. Might he call and see Mr. Henry Thompson?

"What's wrong now?"

"Nothing, sir. Merely that I want to get hold of someone who was actually with Miss Leslie between four and six o'clock," soothed the Chief Inspector.

The major grunted.

"He's not here now, but I believe you'll find him at the Sesame Club this evening about eight o'clock," and the receiver snapped up. Evidently the domestic affairs of Henry were not yet running smoothly.

In the Sesame lounge at seven-thirty Mr. Deane presented himself. Mr. Thompson was in the writing-room, he was told.

Mr. Deane produced his card, and with it the tale of the motor collision.

"I've met your father on the links this afternoon. Major Thompson very kindly gave me your address here—he's certain that you can give Miss Leslie an alibi for the hour in question at any rate. That would clear matters up a great deal."

"Of course she wasn't in our car. She wasn't in any car," grunted young Thompson; "no such luck. We were—having tea with friends," he finished lamely.

Mr. Deane raised an eyebrow.

"The Blacks' house has been shut up for three weeks."

The young man swung around on his chair.

"It's a perfectly rotten affair," he burst out at length; "my stepmother thinks I ought to've let Miss Leslie go out on the river by herself. But, you see, I knew,—I mean, I've known her all my life—besides, the weather didn't look half bad when we started;" and then followed a tale of a willful young female dragging the reluctant male into boat and tea-shop, where they partook of a chilly tea—their friends' house proving shut up—and back home through the pouring rain. The afternoon had apparently not gained any retrospective charm in the young man's memory, but Pointer got the clue he was after. Miss Leslie—according to young Thompson—hoped to meet Malcolm Black, to whom she had been engaged before she had taken to the stage. Though the family were away, she had seemed quite confident that the house would be open, and that they would find Malcolm on the little island summer-house which belonged to them.

When Mr. Deane had dexterously turned the young man inside out, he left him, soothed by the sympathy of one man of the world for another, and quite unaware of the operation to which he had been subjected. As for himself, he had a possibly true explanation of those drenched garments, over which he and Watts had paused more than a moment during their investigation of all the wardrobes of the hotel.

The next day was the inquest—a purely formal affair, for the Coroner agreed with the police as to the wisdom of leaving out all possible details. He confined it, therefore, to the reading aloud of the letter left by the deceased dentist, R. Eames, and to the doctor's testimony as to the huge amount of morphia taken. The hotel employees were only called on to identify the body, and then proceedings were adjourned for a fortnight, ostensibly to allow of the family of the young man being found and communicated with. The Chief Inspector also managed, on the same ground, that of further identification, to get the burial postponed until Saturday.

It was a busy day for the police. The work started yesterday of looking up the names of all arrivals from the Colonies or the United States in order to trace a Cox or an Eames, or any names fitting those initials, had to be continued, and the seven 'phone calls which had come through to the Enterprise about five o'clock were each minutely investigated. Three came from within a stone's throw of the hotel; but as the machine in question was in a large general shop, all efforts to identify the occupiers of the booth at about the hour given were in vain. Yet one curious fact came to light.

The lift-boy of Knotts, the shop in question, was certain that he had seen the Enterprise manager leave the 'phone box at about that hour.

The manager, questioned casually on the point, maintained that it was the day before—on the second—when he had 'phoned to his hatter, but the boy persisted that it was on Saturday and not on Friday, as he himself had his afternoon off on Friday.

The manager's hatter, when Pointer rang him up, could remember no call at all from the manager during the latter half of the week.

Pointer put it to him that there must be some mistake; "and, frankly, we want to weed out the telephone calls as far as possible."

"Sorry, but I suppose some shop assistant forgot to make a note of my message—or, stay, I do believe I didn't succeed in getting through."

Inquiry proved that there had been another call occupying the hatter's wire at five, and a little before, but the Chief Inspector wondered whether this were merely a lucky chance or not.

A telegram came from Watts during the morning: "Found Sikes. Denies visit to London. No alibi. Arriving four o'clock."

And punctually to the hour Watts presented himself at Pointer's room in the Yard.

"Sikes—revised version of Isaacs, I fancy, sir—lives in a handsome villa at Brighton—garage and fairly good car. Maidservants. I told him, as agreed, that a wealthy American had disappeared rather suddenly, and the Embassy was making cautious inquiries; that he had last been seen at the Enterprise Hotel, and that there was some doubt as to the time of his arrival. I gave a very flattering description of his looks"—Watts laughed—"and then said that the manager had given us to understand that it was himself—Mr. Sikes—and not Mr. Beale who had been seen at noon on Saturday in the hotel in company with the manager; and as he very much resembled Mr. Beale's description, we had come to him to clear the matter up once for all. I put it most tactfully, I assure you, sir; but he got purple and banged the table. 'Impudent lies! I never was near the place since March last. I don't care what the management says; I never was near the place on Saturday. Haven't been to London, except to a theatre, in months. Tell the Enterprise people that if they make any future mistake of the kind I'll have them up. I'll sue the manager, that's what I'll do!' He had heard about the whole business already from someone else, I'll swear, and was fed up with it."

"Humph! Well?"

"I got nothing more out of him, sir. I think his rage choked him too much to let him speak. As to an alibi—he said that his word was a sufficient alibi. He had gone early to town last Saturday, by the eleven o'clock, in order to buy his wife a present, had gone the rounds of the silversmith's windows, had seen nothing he liked; hadn't gone in to any shops, and had wound up the day with a theatre, after luncheon at Frascati's at one o'clock, and returned to Brighton by the five o'clock. Asked if he had seen anyone he knew, he went off the rails again, and shouted that he had made his money in business, and not in gadding about town making acquaintances with idlers. So that's that, sir."

"You verified his trains, of course?"

"Oh, yes, sir. They were all O.K. He was well known at the station."

"So that's that," echoed Pointer as Watts filed his report.

"Nothing connected with the manager seems to be quite straightforward. However—..." He told Watts of the shape the case had assumed since his absence.

"Maggie thinks she heard the room door—the corridor door—open. Whew!"

"It's lucky there was someone in number twelve Saturday afternoon. But for that, there would be no question of time. That medicine-bottle could have been tampered with as soon as Eames had taken his morning dose. Whoever did it poured out the medicine, poured in the morphia solution, which they doubtless flavored with a little peppermint and eucalyptus like the medicine, and left it for Eames to help himself to, at a time when they might have been chatting with the Archbishop by way of an alibi. Then, when Eames was unconscious, someone enters, locks the door, takes out the back panels of the wardrobe, and fixes on the little brass bolt; shoves Eames in, dead or unconscious, screwed the panels into place again, emptied the bottle on to the balcony—it was pouring at the time—put back the last dose of medicine which they had taken out earlier in the day, goes through the dead man's papers and effects, and gets away with whatever the murder was committed for in the bag, down the service-stairs, and out into the street that way."

"Clever scheme!" Watts breathed, who was following his Superior's account with breathless interest.

"A simple one, for if it hadn't succeeded—if Eames hadn't drunk the medicine, but had disliked the taste and thrown it away—the poisoner could try again. As for Mr. Beale, we have had word from the American Embassy not to bring him in in any way."

"Do you think there's any chance of the affair turning out to be political, sir?" asked Watts. "The manager, you know, is Irish—Hughes—and Eames is an Irish name, and so is Beale."

"Let's hope for all our sakes it won't be that! If there's one thing that's calculated to break a policeman's heart first, and his career afterwards, it's a political case." The mere suggestion covered the Chief Inspector's face with gloom. "Tails all over the place you mustn't step on," he added, after a long pull at his pipe.

"Seen the picture of Eames in the late editions, sir?" asked Watts, laying one before him. "I don't call it a good likeness myself."

"As unlike him as they could make it," agreed Pointer. "We've asked the Colonial papers to copy the picture, but much good a smudge like that will do."

"Something unforeseen may turn up from it, though," suggested Watts.

"Not in this case," corrected Pointer with conviction. "Everything unforeseen will have to be looked for with a searchlight, in my opinion;" and Watts was too much impressed by the medicine-bottle clue which Pointer had picked out to answer.

"Now, then, Watts"—the Chief Inspector turned to business again—"I want you to find out whether Beale, or the manager, or anyone corresponding to the description of Cox, has been buying any morphium in London. Take Eames' snapshot, too, though that's hardly likely to be needed." He went into careful details of the men and taxis he could have to help him.

For two days Watts searched London, but found nothing to prove that any of the three men had ever been near a chemist save Cox, that one time when he had bought the fatal bottle. Meantime nothing transpired at the Yard about Eames. Letters flowed in by the score purporting to recognize the printed likeness, but all the patient investigations of the police only proved that the recognition was mistaken. In Canada a terrific forest fire was raging, and under the circumstances the Yard could hardly press for larger space to be given to the picture of an unknown Englishman. At the Enterprise there had been practically no changes—at least from the first floor, and nothing had as yet transpired which could give the casting hither and thither police any definite trail.

"How's the manager developing?" O'Connor asked the night of Watts' return. "Been getting any deeper into your black books?"

"I've had a man look up his record—"

"Ah, well, that would be about the same thing with a policeman. Heaven help us all!"

"The report came in this afternoon. About a year ago he bought rather heavily of securities which are today a mere fraction of what he gave for them. He's slightly in the hands of money-lenders, and is altogether by no means as happily placed as might have been expected; for though the hotel is full, the running expenses are higher under him than were allowed for, and as his salary is only paid on net profits he must be pretty badly put to it sometimes. However, we've not been able to trace any previous acquaintance between him and Mr. Beale—not as yet.

"That scrap of green and white paper"—Pointer seemed to see it before him—"the manager isn't particularly quick-witted, but he certainly was quick-footed, for he was standing on it before you could say Jack Robinson—on the one and only piece of evidence the room contained. By the way, a jeweler to whom I showed Eames' studs says they're unusually fine pearls—for their size. Question is shall we ever learn what other things of value he may have had with him?" There was a pause. "Our analyst reports that there were the ashes of two cigars and twelve cigarettes in the little lot I took him. That amount couldn't have been smoked in five minutes."

O'Connor had risen and laid an old copy of the Era before him. "I thought I vaguely remembered something of the kind, so I hunted these up. What d'ye think of them?" he asked in would-be careless tones.

Pointer examined them. They were pictures of Miss Leslie taken four years back, in the character of an old man.