“By Miss Bardale’s daily servant when she arrived at the apartment about half-past six this morning. Miss Bardale occupies a small flat consisting of a sitting-room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen on the top floor of a house in Crewdwell Street, off Baker Street. It appears that last night she went out to dinner with a young man, a certain Captain Reginald Hollingway, who brought her back to the flat shortly after eight o’clock. When Miss Bardale’s servant, a certain Mrs. Crump, entered the flat this morning, she found Miss Bardale lying dead in the sitting-room and all the rooms in the wildest confusion . . .” “How had she been killed?” “Strangled. There are deep finger-marks on her throat. There had obviously been a desperate struggle, for the carpet is disarranged, the remains of a vase lie scattered about the floor, and a clock had been knocked off the table. This clock, by the way, furnishes an important clue, for it had stopped at sixteen minutes past eight, showing at what time the murder was committed.” “And your report, you say, is not to be found?” Bannington shook his head dismally. “From what the police tell me, Miss Bardale was actually engaged in typing it out when she was attacked. The body was discovered lying beside her typewriter in the sitting-room. She had apparently reached the third page, for a sheet of paper bearing that number—just that and nothing else—was still in the typewriter. But the rest was gone.” “You mean”—Francis Okewood spoke for the first time—“that the assassin simply snatched your manuscript and as much of it as Miss Bardale had copied out from where it lay beside the typewriter?” “I suppose so, yes!” sighed the large man. “Then why was the flat ransacked?” It was Desmond’s turn to glance his appreciation at his brother. “By George!” the Air Marshal exclaimed, “I never thought of that. Then Hollingway must have made hay in the rooms just to mislead us . . .” “Hollingway?” ejaculated the two brothers simultaneously. “I was coming to him. Captain Hollingway, gentlemen, is undoubtedly the murderer. He is a young man of good family with an excellent war record, but since demobilization has done no work. He is an exhibition dancer at night-clubs, and is in grave money difficulties, so the police inform me.” “Is he under arrest?” asked Desmond. Bannington nodded. “The porter at Crewdwell Street saw him leave the building in a state of profound agitation about twenty-five minutes past eight or shortly after the murder was committed. The police arrested him at his rooms this morning. The report, of course, had disappeared. With a clear start of twelve hours he had naturally passed it on. Ah!” With a despairing exclamation the fat man dashed his fist into the palm of his hand and began to pace the room. “There was some party, then, who had an interest in obtaining possession of this report?” asked Desmond.