“What I want to see you about is this, Miss Moran,” he said more gravely. “Since our last interview I have learnt that this matter of Mr. Welland is even more serious than I thought. I want to tell you what I know and to ask your further help. And first, are you quite satisfied that I really am from Scotland Yard? Would you like to go with me to the Yard where I am known?”
“Oh, no, Mr. French,” she answered hastily, “that’s not necessary at all. I am perfectly satisfied.”
“Very good. Now I told you before that I believed you were in personal danger from your association with this man. I want to tell you why I think so.”
She did not reply, but sat with a bored expression, evidently trying to conceal her interest.
“Nearly three months ago,” went on French, “a young lady named Thurza Darke was sent to the Yard by a solicitor. This man had found out that she had got into the clutches of a gang of crooks, and he sent her to us for protection. Now, Miss Moran, this young lady was employed in the box office of the Milan Cinema in Oxford Street. That is the first point.
“She said that on her way to business she had met a young lady in the train, a Miss Gwen Lestrange. She was a wealthy young lady, or seemed to be, and they got talking about her money. As Miss Lestrange said she was only a barmaid in a theatre, Miss Darke asked where it came from. With some appearance of hesitation she was told it was from gambling at second hand on the Monte Carlo tables. After further conversation Miss Lestrange suggested that Miss Darke should have a fling in the same way, and agreed to introduce her to the man with whom she herself dealt. He was then called Westinghouse. They met here in this garden, and Westinghouse arranged the gambling.”
There was no question now of Miss Moran’s attention. She was watching French with tense interest, in fact with an expression almost of horror.
He glanced at her with satisfaction.
“Is there any need for me to go on, Miss Moran?” he said gently. “Can you not imagine the rest? How Miss Darke won fair sums at first and thought she was going to make her fortune. Then how she began to lose; how at last she got into debt to Westinghouse; how he became threatening and swore he would report her to the cinema authorities; how he threatened prosecution, imprisonment, until the poor girl was almost beside herself with terror. You can picture it, can you not, Miss Moran?”
That she could picture it in vivid detail was evident. Her eyes were dilating and her face had paled.
“The remainder I’m sure you can imagine also,” went on French. “How at this crisis Miss Lestrange turned up unexpectedly; how she was sympathetically concerned about Miss Darke’s woebegone appearance, and how she recommended recourse to her cousin, who, she said, had helped her out of a similar difficulty. Then how this man played on Miss Darke’s fears in order to entrap her in his evil schemes. Ah, I see I needn’t go into it further. You evidently know as much as I do about it.”
In truth the girl’s appearance left no doubt on the point. French, pausing for a moment, continued:
“Now I must tell you something that had happened before. A very great friend of Miss Darke’s, a young lady also employed in the box office of a cinema, had recently died. She was a jolly, gay young thing, but for several weeks she had appeared to be in trouble. Then one day she disappeared and later her body was found in a pool in a quarry. There was a verdict of suicide, but Miss Darke never believed she had committed suicide. She said she was not that kind of girl, and she was convinced that she had been murdered.
“Now Miss Darke had tried to get out of her friend the cause of her trouble, but beyond the fact that it was due to some man who had got her into his power, the girl would not say. But she had described the man, and what had terrified Miss Darke was that the man to whom Miss Lestrange had sent her exactly answered the description.
“This was his description: middling tall, thinnish, fair haired, rather terrifying eyes, and”—French paused for a moment, then added—“a purple scar shaped like a sickle on the inside of his left wrist.”
Miss Moran gave a little gasping cry. She had gone dead white and swayed as if faint.
“Steady on, Miss Moran,” French said sharply, but in low tones. “You don’t want to attract attention. You’re all right and perfectly safe. Pull yourself together.”
With an evident effort the girl did so. She did not belie the evidence of her firm little chin. Again French told himself she was a young woman of character.
“You mustn’t be alarmed,” he went on. “I’m here to help you out of your difficulties. We’ll discuss that in a moment. Meanwhile I must finish my story.
“As I say, Miss Darke recognized the man, and very wisely she temporized. If he would give her a couple of days to think it over she would come to a decision. He agreed. By friends about whom I needn’t explain she was persuaded to report the circumstances at the Yard. Miss Moran,” French’s voice became very grave, “she was evidently watched. That night she disappeared, and two days later her body was found in the sea near Portsmouth. In this case there was no question of suicide. The poor girl had been murdered before being thrown into the sea.”
Once again his listener’s pallor grew deathlike, and once again with an evident effort she pulled herself together.
“I have one other thing to tell you. Inquiries revealed the fact that some five months before Miss Darke’s
