“A fair man,” the girl replied, “with very blue eyes and a blond beard, a typical Scandinavian . . .” The two men exchanged glances. “When did this car come in?” demanded O’Malley, excitedly, addressing Fink. George, the mechanic, was thrust forward. About half-past five, was his answer to the detective’s question. A young man in a dark suit had brought it. He seemed to be in a great hurry. He backed the cabriolet into a place in the line and made off hastily, saying he would be back before midnight to fetch the car away. He was a fairish sort of chap, rather foreign-looking. He had a long scar on his cheek, high up, near the right eye. “Was he alone?” O’Malley asked. “Yes!” said George. But here Jake intervened. Coming back from tea, it appears, he had met the young man passing under the archway. He had seen him join a man outside and go off with him. “What was this man like?” was O’Malley’s question. “A biggish sort o’ chap, ’e wor,” replied the washer vaguely, “an’ went with a bit of a limp!” Anything more precise than this the most persistent cross-examination of the old man failed to elicit. There was a pause. The rain poured pitilessly down. Mournfully the twelve strokes of midnight were hammered out from the steeple of Saint James’s Church. Presently Desmond turned to the girl, who was sheltering beneath Fink’s umbrella. “That dead man in your car,” he said diffidently, “do you recognize him?” The girl shuddered. “Why, no!” she said. “How should I?”. “I don’t want to frighten you,” the young man resumed, “but I think you ought to look again.” He took the policeman’s lamp and opened the car door. With awe-struck eyes the girl approached slowly. She glanced quickly within, then turned away her head. “He looks so dreadful,” she said. “No, no! I don’t know him!” “You’re quite sure?” queried the other. “Absolutely!” said she. O’Malley was about to speak when he felt a foot firmly press his. Desmond Okewood was looking at him. “I think we need not detain Miss Slade any longer,” he observed. “If one of your men could get her a taxi . . .” A taxi was procured and they helped her in. “I shall hope to see you again in the morning, Miss!” said O’Malley as he closed the door. When the cab had rattled out of the yard, he turned to Desmond. “Why did you tread on my foot just now?” he demanded. “Never force an identification, O’Malley!” Desmond replied with his winning smile. “I see!” remarked the young detective. “Well, I must be getting back to the station to see about having him”—he jerked his head toward the Lancia—“removed. I want to call in at the Oracle Club on my way, late as it is. Are you coming along with me, Major?” Desmond Okewood laughed and shook his head. “Not on your life!” he retorted. “I’m out of the game for good . . .”