And this time the shaft went home. The woman dropped her eyes, and a tell-tale flush spread above the rouge on her painted cheek. But she recovered herself quickly, walked to the door and flung it open. “For the second and last time, Mr. Sellars, I request you to bring this interview to a close.” He moved after her, speaking as he went. “I am sorry our acquaintance ends so abruptly. One last word—if a certain person would give you a handsome sum to disclose what you do know about these two people, would you be induced to speak?” And for the last time came the defiant answer: “I should be taking your money under false pretences. I have no information to sell.” CHAPTER XX RUPERT MORRICE SENDS FOR LANE Lane was as chagrined as Sellars himself when he learned the result of that interview with Alma Buckley, for he had rather pinned his hopes on it. The great majority of people who engaged in wrong-doing were corruptible, as he had found by long experience. This middle-aged music-hall artist was a striking exception. “Drawn into crooked paths by accident perhaps,” he commented, “and makes loyalty to her pals her first principle or, equally probable, is too well paid by the other side to consider it worth while treating with us.” He rose and paced the room, a sign with him of unusual mental activity. “Well, now, it is needless to say, I am very grievously disappointed, I looked for some good results, and the worst of it is, we have given ourselves away. In another twenty-four hours our friend the baronet and Mrs. Morrice will know of your visit, and will be on their guard.” Sellars agreed. “That is inevitable. Unless she happened to speak the truth when she said that she knew nothing of Mrs. Morrice and did not know whether she was dead or alive.” “That’s a lie like the other about Archie Brookes,” replied the detective grimly. “I don’t think I’ve told you before, but I have had Mrs. Morrice under observation by one of my best men for a little time. During that period she has paid two visits to the Kew flat. Alma Buckley is a useful friend in many ways, although she is not an official one and doesn’t show up at Deanery Street—and no doubt, she gets well paid for her services. It won’t be very long now before we shall have to open the eyes of the master of the house.” He was pacing up and down the room with very vigorous strides now, his physical energy reflecting his mental activity. In that keen and resourceful brain he was doubtless planning his campaign, determining the best method of exploding his bombshell in Deanery Street. He paused at last in his restless pacing and turned to his lieutenant, who knew the man too well to put any direct questions. “Well, Sellars, we have drawn a blank with Alma Buckley, through no fault of yours. You couldn’t have done more than you have. We shall have to precipitate matters, and blow up Clayton-Brookes and that young impostor, whom the world takes for his nephew, in the process.”