“The victim being—?”
“Me!” replied Gonsalez, and doubled up with silent laughter at the blank look on Manfred’s face.
It was four minutes to eleven exactly when Manfred saw Mrs. Prothero. He felt the pressure of Leon’s hand on his arm and looked.
“There she is,” said Leon.
A girl was crossing the road. She was neatly, even well-dressed for one of her class. She carried a market bag in one gloved hand, a purse in the other.
“She’s pretty enough,” said Manfred.
The girl had paused to look in a jeweller’s window and Manfred had time to observe her. Her face was sweet and womanly, the eyes big and dark, the little chin firm and rounded.
“What do you think of her?” said Leon.
“I think she’s rather a perfect specimen of young womanhood,” said Manfred.
“Come along and meet her,” said the other, and took his arm.
The girl looked round at first in surprise, and then with a smile. Manfred had an impression of flashing white teeth and scarlet lips parted in amusement. Her voice was not the voice of a lady, but it was quiet and musical.
“Good morning, Doctor,” she said to Leon. “What are you doing in this part of the world so early in the morning.”
“Doctor,” noted Manfred.
The adaptable Gonsalez assumed many professions for the purpose of securing his information.
“We have just come from Guy’s Hospital. This is Dr. Selbert,” he introduced Manfred. “You are shopping, I suppose?”
She nodded.
“Really, there was no need for me to come out, Mr. Prothero being away at the Docks for three days,” she replied.
“Have you seen your brother this morning?” asked Leon.
A shadow fell over the girl’s face.
“No,” she said shortly.
Evidently, thought Manfred, she was not particularly proud of her relationship. Possibly she suspected his illicit profession, but at any rate she had no desire to discuss him, for she changed the subject quickly.
They talked for a little while, and then with an apology she left them and they saw her vanish through the wide door of a grocer’s store.
“Well, what do you think of her?”
“She is a very beautiful girl,” said Manfred quietly.
“The kind of girl that would make a bald-headed criminal commit a murder?” asked Leon, and Manfred laughed.
“It is not unlikely,” he said, “but why should he murder you?”
“Nous verrons,” replied Leon.
When they returned to their flat in the afternoon the mail had been and there were half a dozen letters. One bearing a heavy crest upon the envelope attracted Manfred’s attention.
“Lord Pertham,” he said, looking at the signature. “Who is Lord Pertham?”
“I haven’t a Who’s Who handy, but I seem to know the name,” said Leon. “What does Lord Pertham want?”
“I’ll read you the note,” said Manfred.
“ ‘Dear Sir,’ ” it read.
“ ‘Our mutual friend Mr. Fare of Scotland Yard is dining with us tonight at Connaught Gardens, and I wonder whether you would come along? Mr. Fare tells me that you are one of the cleverest criminologists of the century, and as it is a study which I have made particularly my own, I shall be glad to make your acquaintance.’ ”
It was signed “Pertham” and there was a postscript running—
“Of course, this invitation also includes your friend.”
Manfred rubbed his chin.
“I really do not want to dine fashionably tonight,” he said.
“But I do,” said Leon promptly. “I have developed a taste for English cooking, and I seem to remember that Lord Pertham is an epicurean.”
Promptly at the hour of eight they presented themselves at the big house standing at the corner of Connaught Gardens and were admitted by a footman who took their hats and coats and showed them into a large and gloomy drawing-room.
A man was standing with his back to the fire—a tall man of fifty with a mane of grey hair, that gave him an almost leonine appearance.
He came quickly to meet them.
“Which is Mr. Fuentes?” he asked, speaking in English.
“I am Signor Fuentes,” replied Manfred, with a smile, “but it is my friend who is the criminologist.”
“Delighted to meet you both—but I have an apology to make to you;” he said, speaking hurriedly. “By some mischance—the stupidity of one of my men—the letter addressed to Fare was not posted. I only discovered it half an hour ago. I hope you don’t mind.”
Manfred murmured something conventional and then the door opened to admit a lady.
“I want to present you to her ladyship,” said Lord Pertham.
The woman who came in was thin and vinegary, a pair of pale eyes, a light-lipped mouth and a trick of frowning deprived her of whatever charm Nature had given to her.
Leon Gonsalez, who analysed faces automatically and mechanically, thought, “Spite—suspicion—uncharity—vanity.”
The frown deepened as she offered a limp hand.
“Dinner is ready, Pertham,” she said, and made no attempt to be agreeable to her guests.
It was an awkward meal. Lord Pertham was nervous and his nervousness might have communicated itself to the two men if they had been anything but what they were. This big man seemed to be in terror of his wife—was deferential, even humble in her presence, and when at last she swept her sour face from the room he made no attempt to hide his sigh of relief.
“I am afraid we haven’t given you a very good dinner,” he said. “Her ladyship has had a little—er—disagreement with my cook.”
Apparently her ladyship was in the habit of having little disagreements with her cook, for in the course of the conversation which followed he casually mentioned certain servants in his household who were no longer in his employ. He spoke mostly of their facial characteristics, and it seemed to Manfred, who was listening as intently as his companion, that his lordship was not a great authority upon the subject. He spoke haltingly, made several obvious slips, but Leon did not correct him. He mentioned casually that he had an additional interest in criminals because his own life had been threatened.
“Let us go up and join
