investigation was that intuition and wit which only a clever woman could bring to bear upon it, and of which she, in particular, possessed an unlimited reserve.
The car sped on toward the purer atmosphere of the riverside, and even the clouds of dust, which periodically enveloped them, with the passing of each motor-'bus, and which at the commencement of the drive had inspired her to several notable and syncopated outbursts, now left her unmoved.
She thought that at last she perceived the secret working of that Providence which ever dances attendance at the elbow of accomplished womankind. Following the lead set by 'H. C.' in the Planet ('H. C.' was Helen Cumberly's nom de plume) and by Crocket in the Daily Monitor, the London Press had taken Olaf van Noord to its bosom; and his exhibition in the Little Gallery was an established financial success, whilst 'Our Lady of the Poppies' (which had, of course, been rejected by the Royal Academy) promised to be the picture of the year.
Mentally, Denise Ryland was again surveying that remarkable composition; mentally she was surveying Olaf van Noord's model, also. Into the scheme slowly forming in her brain, the yellow-wrapped cigarette containing 'a small percentage of opium' fitted likewise. Finally, but not last in importance, the Greek gentleman, Mr. Gianapolis, formed a unit of the whole.
Denise Ryland had always despised those detective creations which abound in French literature; perceiving in their marvelous deductions a tortured logic incompatible with the classic models. She prided herself upon her logic, possibly because it was a quality which she lacked, and probably because she confused it with intuition, of which, to do her justice, she possessed an unusual share. Now, this intuition was at work, at work well and truly; and the result which this mental contortionist ascribed to pure reason was nearer to the truth than a real logician could well have hoped to attain by confining himself to legitimate data. In short, she had determined to her own satisfaction that Mr. Gianapolis was the clue to the mystery; that Mr. Gianapolis was not (as she had once supposed) enacting the part of an amiable liar when he declared that there were, in London, such apartments as that represented by Olaf van Noord; that Mr. Gianapolis was acquainted with the present whereabouts of Mrs. Leroux; that Mr. Gianapolis knew who murdered Iris Vernon; and that Scotland Yard was a benevolent institution for the support of those of enfeebled intellect.
These results achieved, she broke her long silence at the moment that the car was turning into Richmond High Street.
'My dear!' she exclaimed, clutching Helen's arm, 'I see it all!'
'Oh!' cried the girl, 'how you startled me! I thought you were ill or that you had seen something frightful.'…
'I HAVE… seen something… frightful,' declared Denise Ryland. She glared across at the haggard Leroux. 'Harry… Leroux,' she continued, 'it is very fortunate… that I came to London… very fortunate.'
'I am sincerely glad that you did,' answered the novelist, with one of his kindly, weary smiles.
'My dear,' said Denise Ryland, turning again to Helen Cumberly, 'you say you met that… cross-eyed… being… Gianapolis, again?'
'Good Heavens!' cried Helen; 'I thought I should never get rid of him; a most loathsome man!'
'My dear… child'—Denise squeezed her tightly by the arm, and peered into her face, intently—'cul-tivate… DELIBERATELY cul-tivate that man's acquaintance!'
Helen stared at her friend as though she suspected the latter's sanity.
'I am afraid I do not understand at all,' she said, breathlessly.
'I am positive that I do not,' declared Leroux, who was as much surprised as Helen. 'In the first place I am not acquainted with this cross-eyed being.'
'You are… out of this!' cried Denise Ryland with a sweeping movement of the left hand; 'entirely… out of it! This is no MAN'S… business.'…
'But my dear Denise!' exclaimed Helen… .
'I beseech you; I entreat you;… I ORDER… you to cultivate… that… execrable… being.'
'Perhaps,' said Helen, with eyes widely opened, 'you will condescend to give me some slight reason why I should do anything so extraordinary and undesirable?'
'Undesirable!' cried Denise. 'On the contrary;… it is MOST … desirable! It is essential. The wretched… cross-eyed … creature has presumed to fall in love… with you.'…
'Oh!' cried Helen, flushing, and glancing rapidly at Leroux, who now was thoroughly interested, 'please do not talk nonsense!'
'It is no… nonsense. It is the finger… of Providence. Do you know where you can find… him?'
'Not exactly; but I have a shrewd suspicion,' again she glanced in an embarrassed way at Leroux, 'that he will know where to find ME.'
'Who is this presumptuous person?' inquired the novelist, leaning forward, his dark blue eyes aglow with interest.
'Never mind,' replied Denise Ryland, 'you will know… soon enough. In the meantime… as I am simply… starving, suppose we see about… lunch?'
Moved by some unaccountable impulse, Helen extended her hand to Leroux, who took it quietly in his own and held it, looking down at the slim fingers as though he derived strength and healing from their touch.
'Poor boy,' she said softly.
Chapter 34 M. MAX REPORTS PROGRESS
Detective-Sergeant Sowerby was seated in Dunbar's room at New Scotland Yard. Some days had elapsed since that critical moment when, all unaware of the fact, they had stood within three yards of the much-wanted Soames, in the fauteuils of the east-end music-hall. Every clue thus far investigated had proved a cul-de-sac. Dunbar, who had literally been working night and day, now began to show evidence of his giant toils. The tawny eyes were as keen as ever, and the whole man as forceful as of old, but in the intervals of conversation, his lids would droop wearily; he would only arouse himself by a perceptible effort.
Sowerby, whose bowler hat lay upon Dunbar's table, was clad in the familiar raincoat, and his ruddy cheerfulness had abated not one whit.
'Have you ever read 'The Adventures of Martin Zeda'?' he asked suddenly, breaking a silence of some minutes' duration.
Dunbar looked up with a start, as…
'Never!' he replied; 'I'm not wasting my time with magazine trash.'
'It's not trash,' said Sowerby, assuming that unnatural air of reflection which sat upon him so ill. 'I've looked up the volumes of the Ludgate Magazine in our local library, and I've read all the series with much interest.'
Dunbar leaned forward, watching him frowningly.
'I should have thought,' he replied, 'that you had enough to do without wasting your time in that way!'
'IS it a waste of time?' inquired Sowerby, raising his eyebrows in a manner which lent him a marked resemblance to a famous comedian. 'I tell you that the man who can work out plots like those might be a second Jack-the-Ripper and not a soul the wiser!'…
'Ah!'
'I've never met a more innocent LOOKING man, I'll allow; but if you'll read the 'Adventures of Martin Zeda,' you'll know that'…
'Tosh!' snapped Dunbar, irritably; 'your ideas of psychology would make a Manx cat laugh! I suppose, on the same analogy, you think the leader-writers of the dailies could run the Government better than the Cabinet does it?'
'I think it very likely'…
'Tosh! Is there anybody in London knows more about the inside workings of crime than the Commissioner? You will admit there isn't; very good. Accordingly to your ideas, the Commissioner must be the biggest blackguard in the Metropolis! I have said it twice before, and I'll be saying it again, Sowerby: TOSH!'
'Well,' said Sowerby with an offended air, 'has anybody ever seen Mr. King?'
'What are you driving at?'
'I am driving at this: somebody known in certain circles as Mr. King is at the bottom of this mystery. It is highly probable that Mr. King himself murdered Mrs. Vernon. On the evidence of your own notes, nobody left Palace
