“Very well, madam,” said the voice respectfully. “Please hold on, and I will enquire if the Chief Inspector is here.” Mollie’s heart was beating rapidly with pleasurable excitement, and she was as confused as a maiden at her first rendezvous. Then: “Hello,” said the voice. “Yes?” “I am sorry, madam. But Chief Inspector Kerry is off duty.” “Oh, dear!” sighed Mollie, “what a pity. Can you tell me where I could find him?” “I am afraid not, madam. It is against the rules to give private addresses of members of any department.” “Oh, very well.” She sighed again. “Thank you.” She replaced the receiver and stood biting her finger thoughtfully. She was making a mental inventory of her many admirers and wondering which of them could help her. Suddenly she came to a decision on the point. Taking up the receiver: “Victoria 8440, please,” she said. Still biting one finger she waited, until: “Foreign office,” announced a voice. “Please put me through to Mr. Archie Boden-Shaw,” she said. Ere long that official’s secretary was inquiring her name, and a moment later: “Is that you, Archie?” said Mollie. “Yes! Mollie speaking. No, please listen, Archie! You can get to know everything at the Foreign office, and I want you to find out for me the private address of Chief Inspector Kerry, who is in charge of the Bond Street murder case. Don’t be silly! I’ve asked Scotland Yard, but they won’t tell me. _You_ can find out.... It doesn’t matter why I want to know.... Just ring me up and tell me. I _must_ know in half an hour. Yes, I shall be seeing you tonight. Good-bye....” Less than half an hour later, the obedient Archie rang up, and Mollie, all excitement, wrote the following address in a dainty scented notebook which she carried in her handbag. CHIEF INSPECTOR KERRY, 67 Spenser Road, Brixton. CHAPTER XXVII. CROWN EVIDENCE The appearance of the violet-enamelled motor brougham upholstered in cream, and driven by a chauffeur in a violet and cream livery, created some slight sensation in Spenser Road, S.E. Mollie Gretna’s conspicuous car was familiar enough to residents in the West End of London, but to lower middle-class suburbia it came as something of a shock. More than one window curtain moved suspiciously, suggesting a hidden but watchful presence, when the glittering vehicle stopped before the gate of number 67; and the lady at number 68 seized an evidently rare opportunity to come out and polish her letter-box. She was rewarded by an unobstructed view of the smartest woman in London (thus spake society paragraphers) and of the most expensive set of furs in Europe, also of a perfectly gowned slim figure. Of Mollie’s disdainful face, with its slightly uptilted nose, she had no more than a glimpse.