“Mr. Smith!” he said, eagerly, “is there any news?”
T. B. looked at him curiously.
“The Thames police have picked up the body of a man bearing upon his person most of Mr. Farrington’s private belongings.”
“Then it is true! It is suicide?”
T. B. looked past him.
“If a man cut his own head off before jumping into the river, it was suicide,” he said carefully, “for the body is headless. As for myself, I have never witnessed such a phenomenon, and I am sceptical.”
A train drew into the arrival platform at Waterloo and a tall man alighted. Nearer at hand he did not appear to be so young as the first impression suggested. For there was a powdering of grey at each temple and certain definite lines about his mouth.
His face was tanned brown, and it required no great powers of observation and deduction to appreciate the fact that he had recently returned to England after residence in a hot climate.
He stood on the edge of the curb outside the new entrance of the station, hesitating whether he should take his chance of finding a cab or whether he should pick up one in the street, for the night was wet and cold and his train had been full.
Whilst he stood a big taxi came noiselessly to the curb and the driver touched his cap.
“Thank you,” said the man with a smile. “You can drive me to the Metropole.”
He swung the door open and his foot was on the step when a hand touched him lightly, and he turned to meet the scrutiny of a pair of humorous grey eyes.
“I think you had better take another cab, Dr. Goldworthy,” said the stranger.
“I am afraid—” began the doctor.
The driver of the car, after a swift glance at the newcomer, would have driven off, but an unmistakable detective-officer had jumped on to the step by his side.
“I am sorry,” said T. B. Smith, for he it was who had detained the young doctor, “but I will explain. Don’t bother about the taxi driver; my men will see after him. You have had a narrow escape of being kidnapped,” he added.
He drove the puzzled doctor to Scotland Yard, and piece by piece he extracted the story of one George Doughton who had died in his arms, of a certain box containing papers which the doctor had promised to deliver to Lady Constance, and of how that lady learnt the news of her sometime lover’s death.
“Thank you,” said T. B. when the other had finished. “I think I understand.”
VIII
It was the morning after the recovery of Farrington’s body that T. B. Smith sat in his big study overlooking Brakely Square. He had finished his frugal breakfast, the tray had been taken away, and he was busy at his desk when his manservant announced Lady Constance Dex. T. B. looked at the card with an expressionless face.
“Show the lady up, George,” he said, and rose to meet his visitor as she came sweeping through the doorway.
A very beautiful woman was his first impression. Whatever hardness there was in the face, whatever suggestion there might be of those masterful qualities about which he had heard, there could be no questioning the rare clearness of the skin, the glories of those hazel eyes, or the exquisite modelling of the face. He judged her to be on the right side of thirty, and was not far out, for Lady Constance Dex at that time was twenty-seven.
She was well, even richly, dressed, but she did not at first give this impression. T. B. imagined that she might be an authority on dress, and in this he took an accurate view, for though not exactly a leader of fashion, Lady Constance had perfect taste in such matters.
He pulled forward a chair to the side of his desk.
“Won’t you sit down?” he said.
She gave a brief smile as she seated herself.
“I am afraid you will think I am a bore, disturbing you, Mr. Smith, especially at this hour of the morning, but I wanted to see you about the extraordinary happenings of the past few days. I have just come up to town,” she went on; “in fact, I came up the moment I heard the news.”
“Mr. Farrington is, or was, a friend of yours?” said T. B.
She nodded.
“He and I have been good friends for many years,” she replied, quietly; “he is an extraordinary man with extraordinary qualities.”
“By the way,” said T. B., “his niece was staying with you a few nights ago, was she not?”
Lady Constance Dex inclined her head.
“She came to a ball I was giving, and stayed the night,” she said. “I motored back to Great Bradley after the dance, so that I have not seen her since I bade her good night. I am going along to see what I can do for her,” she concluded. She had been speaking very deliberately and calmly, but now it was with an effort that she controlled her voice.
“I understand, Mr. Smith,” she said suddenly, “that you have a small scent bottle which is my property; Mr. Farrington wrote to me about it.”
T. B. nodded.
“It was found in the area of Mr. Farrington’s house,” he said, “on the night that the two men were killed in Brakely Square.”
“What do you suggest?” she asked.
“I suggest that you were at Mr. Farrington’s house that night,” said T. B. bluntly. “We are speaking now, Lady Constance, as frankly as it is possible for man and woman to speak. I suggest that you were in the house at the time of the shooting, and that when you heard the shots you doubled back into the house, through the kitchen, and out again by a back way.”
He saw her lips press tighter together, and went on carelessly:
“You see, I was not satisfied with the examination I made that night. I came again in the early hours of the morning,
