Five minutes later Margaret entered her little consulting-room, where Kerry, having adjusted his tie, was standing before the mirror in the overmantle, staring at a large photograph of the charming lady doctor in military uniform. Kerry’s fierce eyes sparkled appreciatively as his glance rested on the tall figure arrayed in a woollen dressing-gown, the masculine style of which by no means disguised the beauty of Margaret’s athletic figure. She had hastily arranged her bright hair with deliberate neglect of all affectation. She belonged to that ultra-modern school which scorns to sue masculine admiration, but which cannot dispense with it nevertheless. She aspired to be assessed upon an intellectual basis, an ambition which her unfortunate good looks rendered difficult of achievement. “Good morning, Inspector,” she said composedly. “I was expecting you.” “Really, miss?” Kerry stared curiously. “Then you know what I’ve come about?” “I think so. Won’t you sit down? I am afraid the room is rather cold. Is it about—Sir Lucien Pyne?” “Well,” replied Kerry, “it concerns him certainly. I’ve been in communication by telephone with Hinkes, Mr. Monte Irvin’s butler, and from him I learned that you were professionally attending Mrs. Irvin.” “I was not her regular medical adviser, but—” Margaret hesitated, glancing rapidly at the Inspector, and then down at the writing-table before which she was seated. She began to tap the blotting-pad with an ivory paper-knife. Kerry was watching her intently. “Upon your evidence, Miss Halley,” he said rapidly, “may depend the life of the missing woman.” “Oh!” cried Margaret, “whatever can have happened to her? I rang up as late as two o’clock this morning; after that I abandoned hope.” “There’s something underlying the case that I don’t understand, miss. I look to you to put me wise.” She turned to him impulsively. “I will tell you all I know, Inspector,” she said. “I will be perfectly frank with you.” “Good!” rapped Kerry. “Now—you have known Mrs. Monte Irvin for some time?” “For about two years.” “You didn’t know her when she was on the stage?” “No. I met her at a Red Cross concert at which she sang.” “Do you think she loved her husband?” “I know she did.” “Was there any—prior attachment?” “Not that I know of.” “Mr. Quentin Gray?” Margaret smiled, rather mirthlessly. “He is my cousin, Inspector, and it was I who introduced him to Rita Irvin. I sincerely wish I had never done so. He lost his head completely.” “There was nothing in Mrs. Irvin’s attitude towards him to justify her husband’s jealousy?” “She was always frightfully indiscreet, Inspector, but nothing more. You see, she is greatly admired, and is used to the company of silly, adoring men. Her husband doesn’t really understand the ways of these Bohemian folks. I knew it would lead to trouble sooner or later.” “Ah!” Chief Inspector Kerry thrust his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Now—Sir Lucien?”