Murder in Four Degrees E-Book

J. S. (Joseph Smith) Fletcher

• Herausgeber: idb
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 285

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

His black morning coat and vest, his striped trousers, looked as if they had come home from Savile Row the day before; his linen was irreproachable; his neck and foot-wear exactly what they ought to have been; his silk hat and umbrella were—just so: his immaculately gloved hands were as small as his feet. A sort of bandbox gentleman, as far as clothes and accessories went, and while everything, from the points of view of tailors, haberdashers, and bootmakers was perfection, there was something oppressive in it—yet one couldn’t say what. However, I liked Mr. Paley’s face less than his clothes, and his manner less than his face. He was a man of pale complexion and his eyes resembled those of a sheep; he had a sharp, rather long nose, a thin beard and moustache, of an indefinite light brown, and there was something about his lips which seemed to indicate that if he did not openly sneer at everybody, he at any rate felt himself vastly superior to the general run of people. Somehow, in some queer way, he gave me a chill ...

Leseprobe

* An idb eBook *

Murder in Four Degrees

Joseph Smith Fletcher

isbn 9783962240561

wwwwwwwwwwwww

J. S. FLETCHER

Copyright 1931 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

All rights reserved—no part of this book may be reprinted

in any form without permission in writing from the publisher

CONTENTS

PART ONE

MURDER OF MR. HANNINGTON    3

PART TWO

MURDER OF THE UNKNOWN WOMAN    59

PART THREE

GO NORTH, GO SOUTH!    109

PART FOUR

MRS. GOODGE AND THE HINDU STUDENT

PART ONEMURDER OF MR. HANNINGTON

I

I entered into partnership with ex-Inspector William Chaney (late Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard) in November, 1920, some little time after he and I had successfully concluded our (non-official) investigation of the Wrides Park Murder. Our business, under the style of Camberwell and Chaney, was to be that of private enquiry agents. We took offices in Conduit Street, a few doors out of New Bond Street; we had two very good rooms, with a smaller one for our clerk, a sharp-witted London lad named Chippendale, who, before he entered our service, had been a sort of glorified office boy to a solicitor, and had picked up a lot of extremely useful knowledge, especially of the seamy side of the Law. Over these offices there was a small suite of rooms which I took for myself, and fitted up as a bachelor flat: I, therefore, may be said to have lived over the shop, and, like a medical man, to have been available by night as well as by day: Chaney, being a married man, lived elsewhere. But though I was always on the spot, I don’t ever remember being called up before regular hours until, early in February, 1921, I was rung up on the telephone one morning at half-past six by somebody who announced himself as Mr. Watson Paley, private secretary to Lord Cheverdale, and who wanted to know if I could see him on most urgent business if he called on me at a quarter to eight? I replied that I was at his service at any moment from that in which I spoke, he answered that the time he had named would do, and that he would be there to the minute. He didn’t mention his business, but I thought it best that my partner should be there to hear it, and as Chaney was on the telephone, I summoned him. He came in at half-past seven, and a quarter of an hour later I opened our door to Mr. Watson Paley.

Looking back at things, I realized that I took a curious, not easily explainable dislike to this man from the moment I set eyes on him. So—as he very soon told me—did Chaney. What sort of man did we see?—to give us these impressions? Mr. Paley was a slightly built, medium-sized man of apparently thirty to thirty-five years of age, very correctly and scrupulously attired, even at that early hour of the morning. His black morning coat and vest, his striped trousers, looked as if they had come home from Savile Row the day before; his linen was irreproachable; his neck and foot-wear exactly what they ought to have been; his silk hat and umbrella were—just so: his immaculately gloved hands were as small as his feet. A sort of bandbox gentleman, as far as clothes and accessories went, and while everything, from the points of view of tailors, haberdashers, and bootmakers was perfection, there was something oppressive in it—yet one couldn’t say what. However, I liked Mr. Paley’s face less than his clothes, and his manner less than his face. He was a man of pale complexion and his eyes resembled those of a sheep; he had a sharp, rather long nose, a thin beard and moustache, of an indefinite light brown, and there was something about his lips which seemed to indicate that if he did not openly sneer at everybody, he at any rate felt himself vastly superior to the general run of people. Somehow, in some queer way, he gave me a chill.

But Mr. Paley came in the guise of possible employer or client, or as the representative of one, and I hope I was duly polite to him. He took the chair which I offered, deliberately drew off his gloves, and assumed the attitude of a tutor who is about to instruct a class of neophytes in some subject of which they know nothing.

‘I told you my name over the ’phone, Mr. Camberwell,’ he began, in calm, level tones. ‘Mr. Watson Paley, private secretary to Lord Cheverdale. You know all about Lord Cheverdale, of course?’

‘I know Lord Cheverdale by name,’ I replied. ‘Nothing more.’

‘I know all about Lord Cheverdale,’ said Chaney.

Paley turned to my partner.

‘Then you know—Mr. Chaney, I presume?—that Lord Cheverdale, when he is in town, lives at Cheverdale Lodge, Regent’s Park?’ he said.

‘I know,’ answered Chaney.

‘You also know, no doubt, that Lord Cheverdale is proprietor of the Morning Sentinel?’

‘I know that, too.’

‘And you are perhaps aware that the Morning Sentinel, since Lord Cheverdale founded it, a few years ago, has been edited by Mr. Thomas Hannington?’

‘I’m aware of that, also.’

Paley drew his gloves through his fingers, looking from Chaney to me, and from me to Chaney, with a curious expression in his pale eyes.

‘Well,’ he said in his calm, level tones. ‘Mr. Hannington was found dead in the grounds of Cheverdale Lodge, late last night. Perhaps I should say very early this morning. The exact time is not quite certain. About midnight.’

‘Dead?’ exclaimed Chaney.

‘As a matter of fact, murdered,’ replied Paley. ‘I don’t think there is the least doubt about that! Beaten to death by repeated blows on the head—by some blunt weapon.’

There was a moment’s silence. Chaney and I looked at each other. Paley continued to draw his gloves between his fingers. Then I spoke.

‘Why have you come to us, Mr. Paley?’

He looked from one to the other of us with a slight smile in which there was more than a little of the cynical.

‘For this reason,’ he answered. ‘Lord Cheverdale is one of those men who insist on doing things, everything, after a fashion of their own. The police were called in, of course, as soon as Hannington’s dead body was found, and they have been there, at Cheverdale Lodge, ever since. Probably,’ he went on with a marked sneer, ‘you know more about the police methods than I do. Lord Cheverdale, however, while leaving everything to the police, insists on an absolutely independent investigation. He wishes you—having heard of you—to undertake this. You will be given every facility, at Cheverdale Lodge, and at the Morning Sentinel office. And as regards expense—well, you know, of course, that Lord Cheverdale is one of the wealthiest men in England! You are to spare no expense—literally! There is a mystery in this matter which Lord Cheverdale insists on being solved. May I go back and tell Lord Cheverdale that you will undertake the solution?’

‘You may go back and tell Lord Cheverdale that we will do our best, Mr. Paley,’ I said. ‘We will go up to Cheverdale Lodge at once: at least, as soon as we have swallowed a cup of tea. But tell me—is there any clue? do you know of anything——’

Paley rose and slowly drew on his gloves as he turned to the door.

‘There is no clue!’ he answered. ‘No clue whatever!’

II

We had our cup of tea and a biscuit or two with it, but we wasted little time over that necessary business, and by a quarter-past eight we were in a taxi-cab and on our way to Cheverdale Lodge. Now, I knew nothing, or next to nothing about Lord Cheverdale, or the Morning Sentinel, or Mr. Thomas Hannington: Chaney, apparently knew a good deal, so I suggested that he should post me up. This he proceeded to do as we sped through the waking town, still obscure in its February haze.

‘Lord Cheverdale, eh?’ said Chaney. ‘Ah, his story makes what they call a romance of the Peerage. It’s pretty well known, though. He used to be plain John Chever. I’ve heard it said that he was originally a small grocer and Italian Warehouseman at some little town in the Midlands. But whatever he was, he got a notion that there was a fortune to be made in tea. He proceeded to make it, and pretty rapidly, too. Don’t know how he did it—lucky speculations in tea shares, I reckon. Then he started a big tea business here in London—haven’t you heard of Chever’s Tea?’

‘Can’t say that I know the style or title of any particular brand of tea,’ I replied. ‘As long as it’s tea, and good tea.’

‘Oh, well, Chever’s Tea’s known the world over,’ continued Chaney. ‘Great big warehouses, offices, and all that. The old man—though he wasn’t old, then—made the fortune, right enough. Then he became a bit ambitious—as such men always do. Went into Parliament. Got a knighthood—for giving money to hospitals. Got a further lift—a baronetcy, for giving money to sanitoriums. Then the Great War came—he did big things in all sorts of ways. And by two years nice plain John Chever had been transformed into John, first Baron Cheverdale. But previous to that he’d founded the Morning Sentinel—to air his views before the British public. He’s a good deal of a crank and a faddist. Social purity—temperance—no betting—all that sort of business. And the man he got as editor, Hannington, who, this Paley fellow says, has been murdered, was a man after his own heart. I’ve come across him once or twice when I was at the Yard and he was a bigger faddist than his employer. Always got some bee in his bonnet—full of enthusiasm for some cause or other. Odd thing he should be found murdered in Lord Cheverdale’s grounds!’

‘And—no clue!’ I remarked.

‘So Paley says,’ replied Chaney, with a sniff. ‘But I reckon little of what Paley says! Our job will be to find a clue. There’s a thing strikes me already—before I know anything of the peculiar facts of the case.’

‘Yes?’ I asked.

‘Hannington,’ continued Chaney, ‘originally a reporter and then sub-editor on the Milthwaite Observer was the sort of man who made enemies. Your cranks and faddists always do. He ran full tilt against a good many things—abuses, he called them. Other people call them vested interests. He was a fanatical teetotaller for one thing. He made himself very unpopular during the later stages of the war. Then he attacked the peace settlement—the Treaty. And lately, as you may have noticed, if you read the Morning Sentinel——’

‘I don’t!’ I interrupted. ‘Never seen it, except on the bookstalls.’

‘Oh, well, it’s an awful puritanical rag,’ said Chaney, ‘but anyway, Hannington has of late been attacking the Bolshevist movement, tooth and nail. That’s the sort of man he was—couldn’t do anything by halves; must always go to extremes. And, of course, old Lord Cheverdale, being a man of similar views, backed him up. Shouldn’t wonder at all if this is a political murder. But here we are at Cheverdale Lodge.’

Cheverdale Lodge was approached from the Inner Circle of Regent’s Park—a big Georgian Mansion, embowered in tall trees and surrounded by extensive grounds so thickly planted with smaller trees and shrubs that the house itself could not be seen until you were close to it. It was approached by a carriage drive which wound in and out through the grounds, gardens and lawns; from this drive paths went off in various directions through the shrubberies. Chaney and I, after bidding our cabman wait for us in the Inner Circle, walked the length of the drive to the house; as we passed along I caught sight of a policeman’s helmet amongst the undergrowth on the right, and drew his attention to it.

‘Scene of the murder, no doubt,’ he remarked. ‘Got it roped off, I guess, and set a guard over it. We shall see!’

Paley met us at the door of the house, and at sight of us turned and beckoned to someone within the hall. A youthful-looking footman came forward.

‘This,’ said Paley, pointing to him as we came up, ‘is the man who found Mr. Hannington’s dead body—Harris, one of our footmen. Do you wish to question him first, or will you inspect the spot where the body was found?’

‘We’ll see the place first, Mr. Paley, and talk to Harris afterwards,’ replied Chaney. ‘Is Harris free to come with us?’

Paley turned to the footman.

‘Show Mr. Chaney and Mr. Camberwell where you found Mr. Hannington’s body, and tell them all about it,’ he said. Then he turned to us. ‘I can’t give you any time myself,’ he went on. ‘Lord Cheverdale is so much upset by this business that he can’t attend to anything this morning, and I have a great deal to do. But I am to tell you his wishes. You are to make any enquiries you like here—of anybody. But when you have done here, Lord Cheverdale wishes you to go straight to the Morning Sentinel office and begin exhaustive enquiries there, for he feels sure that it is there, and not here, that relevant facts will be established. Here is a stock of Lord Cheverdale’s cards—on presentation of his card, anywhere at the office, you will have every facility given you. And, later in the day, if Lord Cheverdale feels equal to it, he would like to hold a consultation with you and the official police about the whole thing, as it presents itself to you and to them. I think that’s all I have to say, at present.’

He dismissed us with a wave of his hand which began at us and terminated at the footman, and Harris politely bidding us to follow him, we walked away from the door, in silence—cowed, I think, by the private secretary’s somewhat dictatorial manner. And we kept silence, all three, until the footman, turning out of the carriage drive along an asphalted sidepath, narrow and winding, which traversed the shrubberies, led us to where a policeman stood, idly contemplating a roped-off enclosure, some two yards square. There he paused.

‘This is the place, gentlemen!’ he said, pointing to within the ropes. ‘He was lying just there!’

We looked, of course, and, of course, there was nothing to see but a square yard or two of asphalted surface. Chaney glanced at the policeman, who was regarding us with speculative glances.

‘What’s it roped off for?’ he asked.

The policeman shook his helmeted head.

‘Orders!’ he said. ‘Want to examine it for footprints, I reckon.’

‘Likely to find them, aren’t they, on that surface!’ said Chaney, ironically. ‘Might as well expect to find the footprint of a bee or a bluebottle! Well?’ he went on, turning to the footman. ‘You found him, eh?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tell about it. How came you to find him?’

‘It was like this, sir. It was my night out, last night. I’d been to the theatre. I walked home, sir. I came along this path——’

‘Stop there,’ said Chaney. ‘This path, now? Where do you get into it?—I mean, from outside the grounds?’

‘From the Inner Circle, sir. There’s a little gate in the fence. This path, sir, is a short cut from the Inner Circle to the house.’

‘Much used?’

‘Most people who come here on foot use it, sir.’

‘This Mr. Hannington, now—would he know it?’

‘Oh, yes, sir—Mr. Hannington knew it well enough.’

‘Well,’ continued Chaney, ‘go on.’

‘I came along this path,’ repeated Harris, ‘and when I got just there I saw it—the body, sir—lying in front of me. It—it was face downwards. I just touched the cheek—it was not exactly cold, but getting that way. Then—well, I ran to the house, sir, and roused them.’

‘Roused—who?’ asked Chaney.

‘Mr. Paley was the only person who was up, sir. He was reading, in the library. I told him. He told me to rouse Walker, the butler, and Smithson, the second footman. When they came down we all came back here. I didn’t know whose body it was until we came back—then I saw it was Mr. Hannington.’

‘Well, what happened then?’ asked Chaney.

‘Mr. Paley telephoned for the police, sir. They weren’t long, and when they came they took charge of everything.’

Chaney glanced at the policeman, who had been listening quietly.

‘Were you one of ’em?’ he asked.

‘No, sir—I only came on duty this morning,’ replied the policeman. ‘Nothing to be seen when I was posted here but—this!’

He pointed to the ropes and stakes, and Chaney turned once more to Harris.

‘What time was it when you found the body?’ he enquired.

‘A little after twelve o’clock, sir. Between twelve and ten minutes past, anyway.’

‘Do you know if Mr. Hannington had been visiting Lord Cheverdale?’

‘Yes, sir, I do know that. He had not. Mr. Walker, the butler, remarked on that point, sir. He said Mr. Hannington hadn’t called, but must have been on his way to the house when he was attacked.’

‘Were you present when the police came, Harris? You were, eh? Well, did you hear anything said?’

‘Yes, sir, I heard one of them—an inspector, I think—say it certainly hadn’t been done for robbery, for Mr. Hannington had his watch and chain, a valuable ring that Lord Cheverdale had given him, and a considerable sum of ready money on him, sir. But there were no papers of any sort in his pockets, and I heard Mr. Paley say to the police that that was a very suspicious thing, for Mr. Hannington always had his pockets bulging with papers.’

‘I suppose none of your people heard anything?’ asked Chaney.

‘No, sir—nobody had heard anything. This is a good way from the house.’

We turned, mechanically, to look at the house, which could just be seen through the trees. As we did so we were conscious of the approach of a lady, who came along in the company of two or three dogs. As she drew nearer, and we made room for her to pass, I took a good look at her. She was a tallish, rather angular woman of probably thirty-five to forty years of age, somewhat vacant of look, and chiefly remarkable for a high nose and very prominent teeth, not to mention a couple of staring light blue eyes. Dressed in rather mannish fashion, in a tailor-made gown of very large checks, she sported a hunting-stock, and carried a dog-whip, and looked altogether more fitted to a rural setting than to Regent’s Park. As she came up she stared hard from me to the others of us, and spoke—to the policeman.

‘Anything new—anything new?’ she demanded. ‘What?—what?’

‘Nothing new, miss,’ replied the policeman.

‘Most extraordinary—most extraordinary!’ said the lady. ‘Extra-ordinary!’

She passed on, and Chaney turned towards the house. He looked at Harris.

‘Lord Cheverdale’s daughter, eh?’ he said. ‘Honourable Miss Chever?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ said the footman. ‘His Lordship’s only child, sir.’

Chaney asked no further questions. He walked slowly back along the asphalted path until we came to the carriage drive immediately in front of the house. Then he turned to me.

‘I think we’ll drive down to the Morning Sentinel office,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing more to be looked into here—at present. Much obliged to you, Harris.’

As we turned away, a window in the house was thrown open. Paley leaned out.

‘Mr. Camberwell! Mr. Chaney!’ he called out. ‘I omitted to tell you—when you get to the Morning Sentinel office, ask for Miss Hetherley! Miss Hetherley—first!’

III

We went back to our taxi-cab, awaiting us in the Inner Circle, and bade its driver go down to the Morning Sentinel office. As we moved off Chaney leant back in his corner with a sigh of satisfaction.

‘Miss Hetherley, eh?’ he remarked. ‘That’s all right. Good smart business woman—we shall get on with her.’

‘Who is Miss Hetherley?’ I enquired.

‘Hannington’s private secretary,’ he answered. ‘His right hand! I’ve met her more than once.’

‘You seem to know a good deal about these people, Chaney,’ I said. ‘How does that come?’

‘Well, the fact is,’ he replied, ‘my brother-in-law is a departmental manager at Chever’s Tea place, so I hear a good deal. Yes, I know a fair lot about Lord Cheverdale and his affairs—hear things, you know. Now, you saw Miss Chever—the Honourable Miss Chever, to give her her correct designation, just now. From what bit you saw of her, what should you say of her?’

‘I should say she wasn’t possessed of the brains her father is credited with,’ I answered. ‘Bit—eh?’

‘Bit wanting there—not much, but a bit,’ he said. ‘Just so. Well, the Honourable Miss Chever is about to be married—the announcement was in The Times and the Morning Post—fashionable intelligence, you know—not so long since. The man she’s going to marry is her father’s right-hand business man, Mr. Francis Craye. Craye, really, is Chever—at least, Chever’s Tea. The old gentleman leaves everything relating to the business in Craye’s hands, so my brother-in-law tells me. Been there some years, Craye—went as a departmental manager and very soon came to be absolute boss. Now he’s going to marry Lord Cheverdale’s only child—and she’ll have all the old man’s money! Lucky chap—but my brother-in-law says there’s a reason for it. I should say there is—emphatically!’

‘What reason?’ I asked.

‘Why—obvious! It isn’t everybody would marry a woman who’s a bit mentally weak, even if it is a mere bit, and especially when she’s no great shakes to look at, and is nearly, if not quite, forty. But Craye will!—and Lord Cheverdale trusts Craye to look after her and the big fortune. See?’

‘I see—marriage of arrangement?’

‘Just that! Craye, they say, is a financial genius—he’ll look after the Cheverdale millions. The lady is—the price! They say the only thing she cares about is dog-fancying. Well—it’s harmless.’

That subject dropped—we turned back to the murder.

‘Any ideas, Chaney?’ I asked.

‘None, so far,’ he said. ‘I conclude that Hannington was on his way to call on Lord Cheverdale, late though it was, and that he was either followed or laid in wait for. Important to find out which. If he was laid in wait for, somebody knew he was coming. If he was followed—but it’s idle to speculate at present. What we want to know first of all is—what were Hannington’s movements last night? We start out, of course, from the Morning Sentinel office. And here we are—or nearly. Stop the man at the corner—we can walk down.’

We were then in Fleet Street, and when we had left the cab, Chaney turned down one of the side streets, and made for the new buildings which have gone up of recent years between the eastern edge of Temple Gardens and Blackfrairs. In a few moments we were confronting a commissionaire at the door of the Morning Sentinel office. We sent in our professional cards, accompanied by one of Lord Cheverdale’s. Presently a boy came and conducted us by a lift to the first floor, where he showed us into a luxuriously furnished room, the chief feature of which was a three-quarter length of a somewhat solemn-faced gentleman who appeared to be regarding the world with stern disapproval. Chaney jerked a thumb at it.

‘Lord Cheverdale!’ he said. ‘That was in the Academy two or three years ago. Cheerful looking chap, isn’t he? And that’s Hannington.’

He pointed to a photogravure on the opposite side of the room, and I crossed over and looked at it with interest. It required no more than a glance to see that Hannington had been just what Chaney had said—crank, faddist, enthusiast. The eyes were those of a visionary: the whole expression that of a man who could be a fanatic.

A door opened; a lady entered. I looked at her with more interest than I had felt for the pictures; she was obviously very much alive—a good-looking, smartly-dressed woman of thirty-five or thereabouts, alert, businesslike. She held our cards and Lord Cheverdale’s, in one hand; with the other she pointed us to chairs on either side of a big desk that stood in the centre of the room.

‘Good morning, Mr. Chaney,’ she said in a brisk voice. ‘We’ve met before. This, I suppose, is your partner?—how do you do, Mr. Camberwell? So you’ve already been up to Cheverdale Lodge? Mr. Paley ’phoned me that Lord Cheverdale was employing you as well as the regular police. I’ve only just got rid of two Scotland Yard men—they’ve been questioning me for the last three-quarters of an hour. Now I suppose I shall have to go over the whole thing again, with you? What is it you want to know, now?’

She sat down at the desk, Chaney on one side of her, I on the other, and glanced from one to the other of us. Following my usual course, I let Chaney do the talking.

‘We want to know a lot Miss Hetherley,’ said Chaney. ‘All we know, so far, is that Mr. Hannington was—presumably—attacked and murdered, beaten to death by blows on the head, we understand, about midnight, last night, in Lord Cheverdale’s grounds, and that as far as is known there’s no clue to the murderer or murderers. Now I want to go back and to learn what went before this. And I’d like you to tell me something to start with. What were Mr. Hannington’s regular hours of attendance at this office?’

Miss Hetherley replied promptly.

‘Two o’clock in the afternoon until two o’clock in the morning.’

‘Stayed here all the time?’

‘As a rule. Sometimes—but very rarely—he went out to dine. But as a rule, a strict rule, dinner was sent in to him at half-past seven.’

‘What were your hours—as his secretary?’

‘Two o’clock in the afternoon until nine in the evening.’

‘What about last night?’

‘Last night there was a departure from the rule—his rule, anyway. He left at nine o’clock—when I did.’

‘Any reason?’

‘None that I know of. No reason I can give, you know—unless it was because of something that occurred yesterday afternoon.’

‘What was that?’ asked Chaney.

‘Well, it was something that may turn out to be of the vastest importance,’ replied Miss Hetherley. ‘I’ve already told it to the Scotland Yard men: now, I suppose, I must tell it to you. I’d better explain things in full detail. This room we’re sitting in is Lord Cheverdale’s private room—when he comes here. That door admits to the editor’s room—Mr. Hannington’s. Beyond that is a smaller room which is my office. Nobody could get at Mr. Hannington—I mean in the way of callers—except through me. You understand that?’

‘We understand that,’ said Chaney.

‘Very well! Now follow this. At about five o’clock yesterday afternoon, a boy brought up to me a note addressed to Thomas Hannington, Esq., and marked Private in the top left-hand corner. The handwriting was a woman’s. I took the note in to Mr. Hannington, and waited while he read it. As soon as he opened it, I saw him glance at the signature; I saw, too, that whatever it was, the signature occasioned him surprise. He read the note hastily: I saw him frown over it. He suddenly thrust it and the envelope into his pocket and turned to me. “Bring this lady in, Miss Hetherley,” he said. “See that we’re not disturbed.” I went back to my room where the boy was waiting and sent him down to fetch the lady. In a few minutes he came back with her.’

‘You can describe her?’ suggested Chaney.

‘Everything but her face,’ replied Miss Hetherley, coolly. ‘I can’t tell you or anybody else anything whatever about that! She was closely veiled—so closely that I couldn’t tell you if she was a blonde or a brunette or if she had green eyes or yellow ones. But from her walk and figure—a very good one—I should say she was a woman of perhaps thirty or thirty-two years of age. One thing I am absolutely certain of. She hadn’t got her clothes in England!’

‘Where then?’ asked Chaney.

‘Paris! I know Paris frocks—and Paris everything—at sight! She was dressed as only a Frenchwoman can dress—or as women can only be dressed by a French modiste. I set her down at once—as a Frenchwoman.’

‘You heard her speak?’ suggested Chaney.

‘I never heard her speak! Not a syllable—from her coming in to her going out. As soon as the boy showed her into my room, I showed her into Mr. Hannington’s. And now I think you should take note of two very unusual things. First, it was most unusual for Mr. Hannington to see anybody—anybody!—at that hour of the afternoon: second, it was still more unusual that he should allow anyone to take up his time for more than a very few minutes. But this woman, whoever she was, remained with him until six o’clock—nearly an hour!’

‘Did you enter the room during that time?’ enquired Chaney.

‘Not once! If Mr. Hannington said “Don’t let anything interrupt me,” or “don’t let us be disturbed” he meant what he said. No, I never went near them. And I kept Mr. Hannington from being disturbed—while she was there.’

‘Well—I suppose she left, eventually?’ said Chaney.

‘At six o’clock Mr. Hannington opened the door of his room and they came out. He took her straight across mine and opened the door on to the corridor. I didn’t hear a word exchanged between them. He gave her a nod—a sort of smiling nod, as if they understood each other very well, and she gave him a bow—that, again, made me think she was a Frenchwoman—it wasn’t an Englishwoman’s bow. But they didn’t exchange a word—in my hearing. However—do you consider me at all observant, Mr. Chaney?’

‘I think you’ll pass, Miss Hetherley,’ responded Chaney, with a grin. ‘You show great promise!’

‘Well, I noticed something, anyway, that may be of interest—and, perhaps, of importance,’ continued Miss Hetherley, smiling. ‘This! When the veiled lady entered my room, and subsequently, Mr. Hannington’s, she carried, in her right hand—beautifully gloved, by the way—a packet of papers, tied up with a bit of green ribbon. When Mr. Hannington showed her out, he had this packet, still tied up with the green ribbon, in his hand, and when she’d gone, and as he crossed my room to go back to his own, I saw him thrust it into the inner breast pocket of his coat. Is that of moment?’

‘I should say it was!’ exclaimed Chaney. ‘Good! All you’re telling us is most valuable, Miss Hetherley. Tell us more!’

‘But there’s little more to tell,’ responded Miss Hetherley. ‘As soon as the woman had left things went on as usual.’

‘Did Mr. Hannington make any remark about his caller?’ asked Chaney.

‘No!—not a word. There were matters requiring his attention, and he turned to them at once.’

‘What about the rest of the evening?’ enquired Chaney. ‘You say that the woman left at six and Mr. Hannington left at nine? Did he have his dinner here?’

‘He did—but he had it rather earlier than usual.’

‘And you say he left at nine o’clock?’

‘Yes. I know he did, for the simple reason that he went down in the lift with me. I had just entered the lift when he came hurrying along the corridor and got in, too. We went down together, walked across the entrance hall, and went out into the street together. I turned up towards Fleet Street, to get my ‘bus home, but Mr. Hannington turned down towards the Embankment. And now,’ continued Miss Hetherley, for the first time showing some slight hesitation or uncertainty in her speech and manner, ‘now comes in something about which I’m a little doubtful—I mean, I’m doubtful about telling it, because it may have been pure fancy on my part, or it may have been the merest coincidence.’

‘Never mind—let’s know what it is,’ said Chaney. ‘Don’t omit anything!—You don’t know how the smallest things help.’

‘Well, it’s this,’ responded Miss Hetherley. ‘When Mr. Hannington and I walked out of the front door downstairs there was a man—a foreigner, by his appearance—hanging about on the opposite side of the street; I thought he was watching the door. When I had turned up the street a few yards, I looked round, and the man I speak of was following Mr. Hannington! Anyway, whether he was following him or not, he was walking down the street, in the direction of the Embankment, immediately in Mr. Hannington’s wake.’

‘Well, that’s a bit of highly important information,’ remarked Chaney. ‘Could you recognize the man?’

‘Ah, I doubt it!’ replied Miss Hetherley. ‘I only saw him in the light of the street-lamps, you know. The general impression I got was that he was a foreigner—he wore a cloak, instead of an overcoat, and a large hat. He stood right opposite the office door.’

‘Did you draw Mr. Hannington’s attention to him?’

‘No—Mr. Hannington wouldn’t even have glanced at him, if I had.’

‘You knew Hannington well, Miss Hetherley?’

‘I’d been his private secretary, or right-hand, Mr. Chaney, ever since this paper was founded, six or seven years ago.’

‘What was your opinion of him?’

‘He was a fine man, a fine character, but eccentric: if anybody came to him with a really genuine grievance he’d take the matter up as if his very life depended on it. But then, you know what a reputation the Morning Sentinel has——’

‘Do you know if Hannington had enemies, Miss Hetherley?’

Miss Hetherley shook her head.

‘Ah!’ she said. ‘I don’t believe he’d an enemy in the world, as a man! But as a force, a political and social force, I’ve no doubt he’d lots—bitter ones!’

It was at this point that I took a share in the process of question and answer.

‘What particular windmill was it that Mr. Hannington was last tilting at?’ I enquired.

Miss Hetherley turned on me with a smile.

‘It’s quite evident that you don’t read the Morning Sentinel