“Oh, they stopped, did they? Where was that?”
“In Holborn, just past the end of Hatton Garden.”
“What?” cried French, surprised out of his usual calm superiority. “Tell me about that.”
The driver was stupid and suspicious, but in time the details came out. The most direct route led along Holborn, and he had taken it, but when he reached the point in question the young man had hailed him through the speaking tube. “Hold on a minute, driver,” he had called. “Look sharp, please.” He had pulled over to the kerb, but almost before he had come to a stand the young man had jumped out and had hurried across the street. The lady had then alighted, had told Tomkins to wait, and had followed him. Tomkins had at first feared he was going to lose his money, but after a couple of minutes they had both returned and the girl had got in. She had bidden good night to her friend, and he, Tomkins, had driven her off, leaving the man standing on the pavement. On arrival at Hampstead, the lady had paid him and entered the house. As far as the driver had noticed neither of the young people was excited or upset.
This information gave French cause for thought. On obtaining Harrington’s statement on the morning after the murder, he had imagined the young man was keeping something back. And now he found that he had been right. The young fellow had not mentioned the fact that he had been within a few yards of the scene of the crime at the time at which it had taken place. He had stated that he had seen Sylvia home, and now it appeared he had not done so, but had accompanied her only halfway. French reminded himself with satisfaction that his instinct on such a point was seldom far astray.
Furthermore, this news confirmed his growing suspicion that Miss Duke also knew something about the affair. It seemed too farfetched a coincidence that this unexpected stop near the scene of the crime, the mental upset of both herself and Harrington, and the postponing of the wedding, were unconnected with the tragedy. What the connection might be he could not imagine but he could not but believe it existed.
Determined to put the matter to the test without further delay, he drove to the Hatton Garden office and asked for Harrington. The young fellow received him politely, though French thought he could sense an air of strain in his manner. After the briefest greeting he came directly to the point.
“Mr. Harrington,” he began, “I want to ask you one question. In our conversation on the morning after the crime you told me you had seen Miss Duke home on the previous night. Why did you state this when you had only seen her as far as Hatton Garden?”
The young man paled somewhat. He did not seem taken aback, rather he gave French the impression of feeling that he was now face to face with a crisis he had long expected. He answered without hesitation and with an evident attempt at dignity.
“I quite admit that I left Miss Duke near the end of Hatton Garden, but I don’t admit that that was in any way inconsistent with what I told you. Certainly I had no intention of deceiving you.”
“I don’t appreciate your point, Mr. Harrington,” French said sternly. “There is a very considerable difference between seeing Miss Duke home and not doing so.”
The young man flushed.
“I got a cab, drove to the club to meet Miss Duke, picked her up, and accompanied her a considerable part of the way home. I consider I was perfectly justified in saying I saw her home.”
“Then our ideas of the meanings of words are strangely different. I shall be glad if you will now tell me why you both alighted from your taxi near this street, and why you then allowed Miss Duke to proceed alone.”
This time Harrington seemed taken aback, but in a moment he pulled himself together, and he answered coherently enough:
“Certainly, there is no secret or mystery about it. As we were driving along, Miss Duke suddenly pointed to a tall girl in one of those glossy blue waterproofs, and told me to stop the cab, as she wished to speak to her. I shouted to the driver, and when he drew in to the kerb I jumped out and ran after the girl. Unfortunately she had disappeared, and though I searched round I could not find her. When I came back I found that Miss Duke had also alighted. I explained that I had missed her friend, but she only said, ‘Never mind, it can’t be helped.’ She got into the cab again, and I was about to follow, but she said No, that there was no use in taking me farther out of my way, and that she would go home alone.”
“Did you know the girl?”
“No, Miss Duke did not tell me who she was.”
“You might describe her.”
“I really could not, except that she was tall and wearing the blue waterproof and carrying an umbrella. You see, it was dark, and I only got a glimpse of her by the street lamps. She was swinging along quickly towards Oxford Street.”
“What did you do after Miss Duke drove off?”
“I went home, as I have already told you.”
And that was all Inspector French could get out of him. In spite of all his questions, the young man stuck absolutely to his story.
It was obvious to French that he must next get Miss Duke’s statement, and with this in view he drove out to The Cedars. He asked Harrington to accompany him, so as to prevent his telephoning to the young lady to put her on her guard, and on reaching the house he bade him good day with a somewhat sardonic smile.
Miss Duke was at home, and presently joined him in the breakfast-room to which he
