She rested her arm on the back of the saddle-back chair, and her dark head close beside Kerry’s fiery red one. “I kenned ye had a new case on,” she said, “when it grew so late. How long can ye stay?” “An hour. No more. There’s a lot to do before the papers come out in the morning. By breakfast time all England, including the murderer, will know I’m in charge of the case. I wish I could muzzle the Press.” “’Tis a murder, then? The Lord gi’e us grace. Ye’ll be wishin’ to tell me?” “Yes. I’m stumped!” “Ye’ve time for a rest an’ a smoke. Put ye’re slippers on.” “I’ve no time for that, Mary.” She stood up and took the slippers from the hearth. “Put ye’re slippers on,” she repeated firmly. Kerry stooped without another word and began to unlace his brogues. Meanwhile from a side-table his wife brought a silver tobacco-box and a stumpy Irish clay. The slippers substituted for his shoes, Kerry lovingly filled the cracked and blackened bowl with strong Irish twist, which he first teased carefully in his palm. The bowl rested almost under his nostrils when he put the pipe in his mouth, and how he contrived to light it without burning his moustache was not readily apparent. He succeeded, however, and soon was puffing clouds of pungent smoke into the air with the utmost contentment. “Now,” said his wife, seating herself upon the arm of the chair, “tell me, Dan.” Thereupon began a procedure identical to that which had characterized the outset of every successful case of the Chief Inspector. He rapidly outlined the complexities of the affair in old Bond Street, and Mary Kerry surveyed the problem with a curious and almost fey detachment of mind, which enabled her to see light where all was darkness to the man on the spot. With the clarity of a trained observer Kerry described the apartments of Kazmah, the exact place where the murdered man had been found, and the construction of the rooms. He gave the essential points from the evidence of the several witnesses, quoting the exact times at which various episodes had taken place. Mary Kerry, looking straightly before her with unseeing eyes, listened in silence until he ceased speaking; then: “There are really but twa rooms,” she said, in a faraway voice, “but the second o’ these is parteetioned into three parts?” “That’s it.” “A door free the landing opens upon the fairst room, a door free a passage opens upon the second. Where does yon passage lead?” “From the main stair along beside Kazmah’s rooms to a small back stair. This back stair goes from top to bottom of the building, from the end of the same hallway as the main stair.” “There is na either way out but by the front door?” “No.” “Then if the evidence o’ the Spinker man is above suspeecion, Mrs. Irvin and this Kazmah were still on the premises when ye arrived?” “Exactly. I gathered that much at Vine Street before I went on to Bond Street. The whole block was surrounded five minutes after my arrival, and it still is.”