“As far as we know the last person to speak to Finucane before he disappeared was Madeleine McKenzie,” he said. “By a fortunate coincidence there happened to be present at the Hexagon that night a young detective from Vine Street named Rimmer, who was keeping observation on a gang of West-End crooks. This bright young man remembers Finucane perfectly. Apparently Finucane spoke to the girl and, sitting down at her table, ordered a bottle of champagne. The McKenzie girl left first and Finucane remained to finish the bottle. Just before midnight he paid the bill and went away. The curious thing is that, while Finucane and the girl were drinking together at the table, the flower-woman approached, just as she did to-night, and gave the girl a bunch of flowers. And, again, just as we saw this evening, on receiving the nosegay the girl promptly left the place . . .” “A signal, eh?” queried Desmond. “Obviously,” said the Chief. “But what does it portend?” The door opened. Watkyn, the Chief’s butler, a massively built ex-petty officer, with a pair of shoulders like an ox, was there. “Captain Elliott!” he announced. “Perhaps Elliott can tell us!” remarked the great man as the butler ushered into the library that selfsame youth whom, slightly merry with wine, they had seen but half an hour ago at Madeleine McKenzie’s table at the Hexagon. The Chief wasted no time on introductions. “Well?” was his greeting. “We carried out your instructions to the letter, sir,” said the youth. “She’s a very ladylike, attractive girl, not a bit the sort of skirt you meet knockin’ about places like the ‘old Hex.’ I pressed her very hard to let me drive her home, and I really thought I was getting on with her pretty well. But all of a sudden she kind of dried up and said she had to go . . .” “When was that?” snapped the Chief. “How do you mean, ‘when’?” “At what stage of your conversation, with the lady did this change come over her?” said the Chief testily. “Oh! after she was given some flowers by old Bessie!” The Chief nodded grimly. “Well, and then?” “We followed her taxi. She went home to Duchess Street. I left Robin to keep watch and follow her if she should leave the house.” Again the Chief nodded. “Thank you, Peter,” he remarked, more gently this time. “That’ll be all for to-night. You can pick Robin up on your way home and send him to bed. And hark’ee, the pair of you steer clear of the Hexagon until further orders, do you understand?” “Yes, sir,” replied the young man. “Good-night, sir.” “Good-night, Peter.” After the door had closed on him the Chief turned to Desmond. “We took a statement from the girl. Her story absolutely tallies with Rimmer’s. She had a touch of neuralgia, she says, and went home early that night. She lives in furnished rooms in a most respectable house near the Langham Hotel, and if she is what she seems to be, she certainly does not ply her trade there. And yet what is the mystery of these flowers?”