A light footstep sounded on the cobbles behind the group, and a voice said: “You’ve got my car back, then?” CHAPTER II ENTER MISS VERA SLADE The two men turned about as a young girl, bareheaded, in a long ermine coat, slipped between them and laid her hand on the door of the Lancia. She was a dainty creature, very fashionably dressed, and little cloth-of-silver shoes peeped out from beneath the fringe of her white satin gown. Before they could stop her, she had pulled the car door wide. She gave one glance inside the cabriolet; then, with a little cry, she reeled back. Desmond Okewood caught her in his arms. “It’s . . . it’s horrible!” she gasped. “What . . . who is that inside my car?” A large policeman now lumbered up, panting. “It’s Miss Vera Slade,” he said to O’Malley, indicating the girl with a fat thumb. “She come into the station this afternoon and reported as how her Lancia had been stolen while she was having her lunch at the Oracle Club in Piccadilly. After you’d left to come here,” he added, turning to O’Malley, “the sergeant on duty noticed that the number of the missing car was the same as that of the Lancia here—the mechanic as fetched you reported the number, you know. So the sergeant sent round to Curzon Street at once to get Miss Slade. And here she is . . .” “You identify this car as yours, then?” O’Malley asked the girl. “Of course it’s mine!” she replied with spirit. “I left it outside the Oracle Club whilst I was lunching there to-day. When I came out, it had disappeared. I first thought that Mr. Törnedahl had taken it . . .” “Mr. Törnedahl?” repeated O’Malley. “Yes. The man I had lunching with me. Towards the end of lunch he was called away and was absent for some time—for about a quarter of an hour. When he came back to the table, he said he had been called away urgently on business and would I mind if he didn’t wait for coffee. And with that he went off. I had my coffee and wrote a couple of letters, and on going outside found that my car had gone.” “I suppose this Mr. Törnedahl didn’t say anything about taking your car, did he, Miss?” O’Malley asked. “Oh, no!” she replied positively. “Do you know why he left you at lunch?” “A page came and said a gentleman was asking for him.” “Who was it, do you know?” “No!” “And did you see Mr. Törnedahl again?” “I didn’t expect to. He was going to Paris this evening on his way back to Sweden.” “I see. Now about the car. Did the club people notice anybody suspicious hanging round?” The girl opened her clear eyes and looked at the detective. “They wouldn’t, you know,” she answered. “The police won’t let you leave a car unattended in Piccadilly, so we park our cars in a side street at the back.” “Who is this Mr. Törnedahl?” “He’s a timber merchant, a Swede. I met him abroad.” “What’s he like in appearance?” Desmond asked suddenly.