Without replying, the detective walked through the bathroom into the kitchen and there lifted a chintz curtain, disclosing a door. He turned the handle and showed a series of iron staircases leading down. “It’s really a fire-escape,” he remarked, “but apparently Miss Bardale used it as a tradesman’s entrance to the flat.” It was chilly outside and they soon re-entered the flat where Farandol resumed his story. “Hollingway left her at the door of the flat, he says. He declares he did not go in. He remained talking to the girl for about ten minutes at the top of the staircase outside her flat, and then went down while she went indoors. Webb, the porter, who is on duty all day long in the hall below—he’s an old man with a game leg and can’t get about much—saw them come in soon after eight and saw Hollingway leave alone about twenty minutes later. He knows Hollingway well, and states that he was struck by the change in the young man’s manner. He was pale and upset-like and made no reply when Webb bade him good-night. As far as the police is concerned, Major Okewood, the case is as clear as daylight; but it doesn’t bring you any nearer what you’re after; I quite realize that.” With an abstracted air Desmond, who was poking about amid the confusion of the sitting-room, nodded. “Does Hollingway attempt to account for his agitation?” Francis said to Farandol. “Oh, rather!” The detective replied. “He’s got it all pat. Says he was in love with the girl, has been for years, and last night, when he again asked her to marry him, she turned him down good and hard, told him that a professional dancer was no good to her as a husband and all the rest of it. He tells it all very well,” the Inspector added, musingly. He picked up his hat and gloves. “They’ll be coming along presently to take the body to the mortuary,” he said. “I’m leaving one of my men to stand by. I shall be at the Yard all the morning if I can be of any assistance, gentlemen . . .” “Right!” Desmond replied. “I’ll probably be telephoning you, Inspector. I should rather like to have a word with this porter fellow, what’s his name—ah, yes, Webb. Send him up, would you?” Farandol laughed. “He’s a proper thickhead,” he observed. “That dense, you couldn’t hammer a tenpenny nail into his skull without blunting it. I’ll send him up!” “Pompous ass!” commented Francis as the Inspector shut the front door behind him. Then he swung round sharply. Desmond had called to him in a tense voice. His brother stood behind him holding a torn envelope in his hand. He thrust it, and with it a folded letter, at Francis. “Look at that!” he exclaimed. The envelope was addressed, in what seemed to be a woman’s hand, to Miss Enid Bardale, Flat 7, 31, Crewdwell Street, W.I. The letter, written from an address at Saint John’s Wood, and signed “Your affectionate Mother, M. Bardale,” was to remind “Dearest E.” that she was expected to dinner on the following Saturday at seven-thirty.