A steamship ticket issued to “Anthony Druze, 1st Class Saloon, Southampton to New York.” In this envelope was a new passport. The third object was also a pocketbook, brand new—the perfume of the Russian leather cover told her that. This also had been opened, in such a hurry that the strap about it had been broken. It was stuffed tight with thousand-dollar notes.
She collected the three packages and sought for more, but there was none. And then she took stock of the place where she had found them. They were immediately behind a big bush which effectively screened all view of the road. She put her lamp close to the ground and moved it slowly. Here was a curiously mottled patch of grass; in some places it was grey with frost, in others wet and crushed. The ground was too hard for footprints, but without their aid she could reconstruct all that had happened here less than an hour ago. Somebody had come behind this bush to examine the contents of the pockets; the papers had been taken out one by one, examined, and thrown away, and the object had not been robbery. The tightly filled porte-monnaie proved that. It could not have been a chance thief who came upon the body; no honest person would have made this search—it had been somebody looking for a definite thing.
She went back to Coldwell with her discoveries just as the police car came flying over the railway bridge, followed by a motor-ambulance. She told Coldwell hurriedly what she had found, and he was not surprised.
“I’ve been searching his pockets; most of them are inside out,” he said. And then, abruptly: “Where is Peter Dawlish?”
She stared at him open-mouthed.
“Peter Dawlish? What has he got to do—”
And then she remembered Peter’s threat, and saw that it was inevitable that suspicion should attach to him.
“He hadn’t a pistol yesterday,” she said, “and I doubt whether he’s got one now. If Druze had been shot dead in the street I should think he’d be under suspicion, but Peter Dawlish would hardly shoot a man, put him in a car, and drive him to Barnes.”
The old man nodded.
“I agree with you, Leslie; but we shall have to pull him in and make inquiries. Druze has been shot three times; that’s rather a queer thing—and he has been shot through the heart. We shan’t know exactly until the pathologist has seen him, but I think I am right. And, listen, did you see the footprints?”
He pointed to the smooth granite kerb, and she saw for the first time the indubitable impressions of a bare foot—the ball of the foot and toeprints were unmistakable.
He put the three packages Leslie had found in his overcoat pocket.
“Go along and see Lady Raytham, and tell her what has happened. Take this with you, and, for the love of Mike, don’t lose it!”
He put the square emerald in her hand, and she dropped it into her bag.
“If it’s the pendant, as you say, find out what has happened to the rest of the necklace.”
He bundled her into the police car, and she was glad to escape, because by now the large force of police on the spot had been augmented by that curious crowd which sooner or later gathers from nowhere on the scene of any tragedy.
The windows were in darkness when she drove up to the house in Berkeley Square, and, instead of ringing, she wielded the heavy knocker. She had to wait a little time, and then it was a footman who opened the door, and his manner and mien were both respectful and a little nervous.
“Do you want to see her ladyship, miss?” he said. “She’s upstairs with Mrs. Gurden. There is Mrs. Gurden now.”
Greta was coming down the stairs. She was in that peculiar style of evening dress which she affected. Greta made most of her own clothes from the latest Paris models, and usually in the most unsuitable material. Their home-madeness was never blatant. They did not proclaim, but hinted it.
Leslie looked up at the rouged face and the black, staring eyes, and it required no particular acumen on her part to detect Greta Gurden’s agitation.
“Oh, my dear Miss Whatever-your-name-is,” she breathed, “do come up and see dear Lady Raytham. You are Miss What-is-your-name? Maughan, isn’t it? I’m so glad. Druze has been a perfect beast.” She held out her hand dramatically; it was shaking. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”
Her eyelids were blinking up and down with a rapidity that fascinated, and would have amused Leslie in any other circumstances.
“What has Druze been doing?” she asked.
“Won’t you come up and see Lady Raytham?” begged Greta. “She’ll tell you so much better than I. My dear Jane can put everything into the most understandable terms. Druze has been simply awful; made a terrible scene and walked out, quite suddenly. It’s dreadful what servants are coming to, isn’t it? I think it must be the war—”
A cool voice from the darkness above interrupted her flow of disjointed explanation.
“Ask Miss Maughan to come up. I want to see her—alone.”
Leslie went up the stairs, and as she reached the first turn she saw that the drawing-room door was open. There was no light on the stairs, save for that which came from the open door. In one corner of the spacious landing she saw a small wheeled table.
She walked in, closing the door behind her. Lady Raytham was standing behind a little table near the fireplace. She wore a dark day dress without ornamentation, and Leslie’s quick woman’s eyes saw that she had changed her stockings; the very fine-textured, flesh-coloured garments she had seen on her earlier that evening, had been replaced by
