Sir Alexander Bannington stopped in his stride and turned round. “Yes,” he said. “But in the present state of international politics it is hardly safe even to mention the name of the Power in question.” He leant forward and whispered something in Desmond’s ear. “Ah! . . . yes!” was that young man’s brief comment. The large man extended two shaking hands towards his visitors. “You must get this report back for me. If it’s a question of money you can draw on me up to any reasonable amount. Hollingway must be made to talk. The police will give you every facility: I have arranged that. I shall be here all day. I am not going to the Ministry. I can’t face them. Let me know to-day . . . soon . . . how you get on . . .” Desmond and his brother had risen to their feet. “One question before we leave you, sir,” said Desmond. “Are you quite satisfied that Miss Bardale was trustworthy?” “Enid Bardale,” the Air Marshal replied in a voice that shook with emotion, “gave her life for her trust. She was a splendid girl and absolutely invaluable to me in my work. I trusted her as I would trust my own daughter. As a matter of fact, she was a relative of my dead wife. She may have been indiscreet in the matter of her friendship with this scoundrel Hollingway; but there was no question of collusion between them in this affair.” They left him bowed over his desk, his face sunk in his plump, red hands. The girl’s body lay on its side on the black carpet of the little sitting-room, the face an agonized mask in a frame of clustering brown hair. The sight was not pleasant, and they did not let their glance dwell on it, for, after all, their immediate business was not with the murdered woman. They looked long enough, however, to notice the deep bluish-black marks on the throat, indicative of a ferocious grip. The flat, skyed at the top of a big mansion which had been converted into apartments, was tiny. The hall led into the small sitting-room, very gay with its primrose-yellow distempered walls and orange lamp-shades, with bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen beyond. Detective-Inspector Farandol, of Scotland Yard, who opened the door in answer to their ring, showed them the rooms. One of the most reliable and experienced officers of the older school of detectives, both Desmond and Francis had come across him more than once in the course of their work in the Secret Service. He was a self-opinionated person with a profound contempt for amateurs. “Fourth floor,” remarked the Inspector. “Nothing above and nothing below, for this is the only flat in the building. The other floors are let off as offices, and after 6 P.M. the rest of the house is empty except for the porter who lives in the basement. No wonder no sounds of the struggle were heard.”