Michael lived in a big block of flats near Baker Street, where he maintained a somewhat elaborate establishment for an inspector of police. He had, however, a private income of his own which he had inherited from his maternal grandmother and as he was a man of simple tastes and very few extravagant needs, he was able to live very comfortably indeed. He reached his home a little before eight o’clock and was astonished as he came through the lobby of the flat to meet Beston, his manservant, clad in fine raiment and going forth.
“Hello, Beston, where are you off to?” he asked in surprise.
The man touched his hat cheerfully.
“I am going to the theatre, sir, and thank you very much for the tickets,” he said. “Cook went ten minutes ago and I stayed behind to tidy things up.”
“Oh, cook went ten minutes ago, did she?” said Michael. “That’s good. When did the tickets arrive?”
“About an hour ago, sir, by a district messenger. It was very kind of you to wire to us that you were sending them.”
Michael laughed softly.
“Your surprise at my consideration hurts me, Beston,” he said. “I always do things like that. By the way, did they spell your name correctly in the telegram?”
“I think so, sir,” said the man in surprise, fumbled in his pocket and produced the orange slip.
“I am sending you two tickets for the theatre tonight. May not be home until tomorrow. Pretherston.”
Thus read the wire, which had been handed in at the Strand Office.
Beston sensed some difficulty.
“I hope it’s all right, sir,” he asked anxiously.
“Quite all right,” replied Michael with a cheerful nod. “Don’t wait for me now, I shall not be in very long.”
He mounted the carpeted stairs, opened the door of his flat and closed it carefully behind him. He went straight to his study, pulled down the blinds and drew the thick curtains across the windows, then he turned on the light, took up the telephone and gave a Treasury number.
“Is that Sergeant Pears?” he asked. “Is there a telegram waiting at the Yard for me?”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant’s voice.
Michael winked at the wall.
“Do you mind opening and reading it?”
There was a little pause and then the sergeant repeated into the receiver:
“To Inspector Michael Pretherston, Scotland House. Come up by the earliest train. Am staying at Adelphi. T. B.”
“Handed in at Manchester, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant, “at three-fifteen.”
“Is the chief in Manchester?”
“Yes, sir; he went by the morning train.”
“Excellent,” said Michael, “thank you very much, sergeant.”
He hung up the receiver.
This was Kate’s work—the beautiful detail of it, the knowledge she possessed of T. B. Smith’s movement. She had probably sent a man up on the same train with the chief and had given him the telegram in advance, with exact instructions as to the minute it was to be handed in. Yes, it was Kate. Yet (he became uncomfortable at the thought) it was not like her to leave things to chance. How came she to miss him at the Yard? He returned to the telephone and again called up his assistant.
“What time did the telegram arrive?” he asked.
The sergeant’s voice was apologetic.
“I am very sorry, sir, I am afraid it arrived while you were here, this afternoon. It was given to a messenger to take in to you and in some extraordinary way the constable forgot it. I have reprimanded him.”
“That’s all right,” said Michael, relieved.
His relief, curiously founded, he might have found it difficult to explain. It was the relief which the matador feels when he sees the bull, which steps so proudly into the ring, will put up a good fight. It was the relief of the huntsman when a strong fox breaks from covert. He wanted Kate and that extraordinary organization, which he had set himself to conquer, to be at its best that his victory might be the more satisfactory.
He looked at his watch. It was five minutes past eight. He knew that his visitor would give the servants an hour and he must employ that hour profitably. He began to write rapidly on a pad of scribbling paper, tearing off the sheets as fast as he had filled them. He had been working for an hour when he heard a bell tinkle. Someone was at the front door. He switched out the light, walked into the passage (he had already removed his shoes) and listened. Whoever was coming had sent an agent in advance to discover whether the flat was empty. Again the bell rang. Michael made no sign. It rang a third and last time. The detective made his way stealthily to the window and slipped behind the curtains. He had left his study door open, so that he could hear every sound. He had ten minutes to wait before the faint click of the lock told him that the door had been opened. He knew that the visitor would come to the study last, and he proved to be right. Three minutes passed—as near as he could judge—before he caught the flash of a lamp which was directed cautiously to the curtained window. The light passed slowly along the floor until it reached the skirting, travelled round until it found the lower edge of the drawn curtain. Through the slit he had cut in the heavy velvet hangings Michael witnessed the search. Presently the light went out after focusing itself upon the electric switch. There was a click and the room was illuminated.
The girl who stood by the desk was soberly dressed and was apparently in no hurry. She pulled her gloves off slowly, whilst
