“Intense is certainly not the word, but it is true that we met more frequently after the time you mention. I thought I had explained that. It was then that my husband became dissatisfied about my perfectly harmless friendship with Mr. Pyke. As I told you, Mr. Pyke and I decided to see less of each other. I was therefore thrown more on my own resources and frankly I was bored. I filled a little more of the time with Colonel Domlio than formerly. That is all.”
“Who began this increased intimacy?”
“Our intimacy was not increased. We saw more of each other—a very different thing. I began it; in this way. In London I heard some lectures on insect life. I was interested in the subject and I asked Colonel Domlio to let me see his collection. We began to talk about it, and it ended in my going out with him occasionally to look for specimens on the moor and also in my helping him to arrange them afterwards. That was the beginning and end of what you are pleased to call our ‘intimacy.’ ”
The look of fright had left Mrs. Berlyn’s eyes and she was speaking now with more of her usual assurance.
“You sprained your ankle one day?”
“I twisted it slightly. It was painful for a few hours, but not really much the worse.”
“You fell?”
“I did not fall. I should have done so, but Colonel Domlio sprang forward and caught me and helped me down on to the grass. In a few minutes I was better.”
“Now, Mrs. Berlyn,” and French’s voice was very grave, “what you have to do is to convince me that that fall into Colonel Domlio’s arms really was an accident.”
For a moment the lady looked at him uncomprehendingly; then she flushed angrily.
“Oh,” she cried with a gesture of disgust, “how dare you? This is insufferable! I shall not answer you. If you are coming here to insult me I shall apply for protection to your superiors at Scotland Yard.”
“If I were you I should keep away from Scotland Yard as long as you can,” French advised, drily. “In a case like this heroics will not help you any. Tell me, did you know there was a photographer watching the incident?”
“No,” she answered sullenly, while again her face showed fear.
“You knew there wasn’t?”
“I didn’t know anything about it.”
“But you are not surprised to hear of the photographer?”
“I am. At least I should be if you assured me one was there.”
“Did you know that the handwriting of Colonel Domlio’s letter has been identified?”
Once again the colour ebbed away from her face.
“What letter?” she cried, faintly. “I don’t know what letter you mean or what you are talking about. You have made me quite confused with your questions. I scarcely know what I am saying.”
French felt that he had got the effect he wanted. He therefore reassured her by a few innocuous questions, then with a change of manner he apologised for having given unnecessary annoyance and took his leave.
The taxi was standing far down the street with the bonnet open and the driver bending over the engine. French got in and he and Carter sat watching the house.
For half an hour they waited; then Mrs. Berlyn appeared, and walking to King’s Road, turned in the direction of Sloane Square. Presently she hailed a taxi, causing French to congratulate himself on his prevision.
Mrs. Berlyn drove to Victoria, and hurriedly paying off their own man, the detectives followed her into the station. With a rapid look round she made her way to the telephone boxes and disappeared into one of them.
“I’ll drop out here, Carter,” French said. “You stick to the woman and as far as possible keep in touch with the Yard.”
Approaching the boxes, French slipped into a convenient doorway and watched until Mrs. Berlyn reappeared. As soon as she was out of sight he entered the box she had left.
“Inspector from Scotland Yard speaking,” he told the operator. “Keep the number of that last call. It’s wanted in connection with a murder case. I’ll get you the authority to divulge. Now give me Scotland Yard, please.”
He put through the request for the number, then returned to the Yard to wait for the reply. After a short delay he received both number and name: Thomas Ganope, news agent and tobacconist, 27 Oakley Street, off Russell Street.
In half an hour he reached the place. Ganope’s was a small, untidy shop, and Ganope a ruffianly-looking man with purple cheeks and a cast in his left eye. He was the only occupant of the shop.
“Can I use your telephone?” French asked, laying a shilling on the counter.
“Sure.”
French rang up his wife to say that he had mislaid Mr. Walker’s address and could she let him have it again, a code message designed for such occasions and to which no attention was paid, but which enabled him to use a telephone without arousing suspicion, as well as a writing pad, should such be available. For in this case his quick eye had seen such a pad on the instrument and from many a pad he had read the last message to be written from the impression left on the paper. On chance, therefore, he made a pretense of noting the mythical Mr. Walker’s address, and removing the top sheet, put it in his pocketbook. Then he turned to Mr. Ganope.
“Say,” he said, confidentially, “what would you charge for taking in telephone messages and sending them to an address? Private, you know.”
Mr. Ganope looked him over keenly with one of his shrewd little eyes.
“A bob a message, if it’s near by.”
“That’s a lot. Do you never do it for less?”
Mr. Ganope seemed disgusted.
“If you can get anyone to do it for less you’d better go to them,” he advised, sourly.
“I might manage the money if I was sure the thing would be done right,” French went on. “How do
