“As far as the station,” said the doctor, “which reminds me that I forgot to let her out of the garage where I locked her.” “Let her stay,” said Four Square Jane. “I hate the idea of she-detectives, anyway--it’s so unwomanly.” II The chairman of the Bloxley Road Hospital for Women took his seat at the head of the table, with a grim nod of recognition for his colleagues, and a more respectful inclination of his head for that eminent surgeon, Sir John Denham, who was attending this momentous meeting of the Governors by special invitation. Doctor Parsons, the chairman, pushed aside a little brown paper parcel which lay on his blotting pad, and which he saw, after a cursory glance, was addressed to himself. Presumably this contained the new vaccine tubes which he had ordered from the research laboratory. He cast a swift glance from left to right, smiling a little bitterly at the glum faces of the staff. “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “Bloxley Road Hospital looks like closing.” “Is it as bad as that, sir?” asked one of the surgeons with a troubled face, and Dr. Parsons nodded. “I suppose you didn’t have any luck, Sir John?” Sir John Denham shook his head. “I have been to everybody in London who is likely to help. It is little short of a crime that the hospital should have to close down, and that’s just how it stands, doesn’t it, Parsons?” The doctor nodded his head. “I’ve already shut two wards out of four,” he said. “We ourselves have had no salaries for a fortnight, but that, of course, does not matter. And the devil of it is that women are clamouring to get into this hospital--I’ve got a waiting list of nearly eighty.” Sir John nodded gravely. “It’s a terrible state of affairs,” he said. “Do you know Lewinstein?” “Slightly,” said the doctor with a faint smile. “I know him well enough to cadge from him; but it was no go. Mr. Lewinstein would get no credit from having his name on our subscription list, and he is rather out for credit. As a matter of fact, he did subscribe once before. By the way, talking of Lewinstein reminds me that Lord Claythorpe, a close friend of his, has bought his niece a £50,000 pearl necklace as a wedding present. It was in all the morning papers.” “I saw it,” said Sir John. “Really, I sometimes feel that I would like to turn burglar,” said the exasperated chairman, “and join the gang of that--what do you call the lady?--the person who stole that Venetian armlet that is being advertised for so industriously. She went down in the guise of a detective to Lewinstein’s house. Apparently she cleared out all the guests and bolted in the night, and amongst the things she took was an armlet belonging to one of the Doges of Venice, worth a fortune. At any rate, they are advertising for its return.” “Whose is it?”