Two hours later he stood looking down at the slight body and the scorched wound in that pale face while a police surgeon demonstrated to him how the shot was fired. The pistol was gripped with the rigour of death in the woman’s right hand, the bullet that was taken from the base of the skull fitted it, the muzzle--remark the stained, scorched flesh--must have been held close to her face when the shot was fired. And Reggie listened and nodded. “Yes, yes. All very clear, isn’t it? A straight case.” He drew the sheet over the body and paid compliments to the doctor as they went out. Lomas was in a hurry to meet them. Reggie shook his head. “There’s nothing for me, Lomas. And nothing for you. The medical evidence is suicide. Scotland Yard is acquitted without a stain on its character.” “No sort of doubt?” said Lomas. “You can bring all the College of Surgeons to see her. You’ll get nothing else.” And so they climbed into the car again. “Finis, thank God!” said Mr. Fortune as the little town ran by. Lomas looked at him curiously. “Why did she commit suicide, Fortune?” he said. “There are also other little questions,” Reggie murmured. “Why did she murder Bigod? Why did she murder the lady doctor? Why did she try to murder the child?” Lomas continued to stare at him. “How do you know she did?” he said in a low voice. “You’re making very sure.” “Great heavens! You might do some of the work. I know Scotland Yard isn’t brilliant, but it might take pains. Who was present at all the murders? Who was the constant force? Haven’t you found that out yet?” “She was staying near Bigod’s place. She was at the orphanage. She was at the child’s party. And only she was at all three. It staggered me when I got the evidence complete. But what in heaven makes you think she is the murderer?” Reggie moved uneasily. “There was something malign about her.” “Malign! But she was always doing philanthropic work.” “Yes. It may be a saint who does that--or the other thing. Haven’t you ever noticed--some of the people who are always busy about distress--they rather like watching distress?” “Why, yes. But murder! And what possible motive is there for killing these different people? She might have hated one or another. But not all three.” “Oh, there is a common factor. Don’t you see? Each one had somebody to feel the death like torture--the girl Bigod was engaged to, the girl who was devoted to the lady doctor, the small Gerald’s mother. There was always somebody to suffer horribly--and the person to be killed was always somebody who had a young good life to lose. Not at all nice murders, Lomas. Genus diabolical, species feminine. Say that Lady Chantry had a devilish passion for cruelty--and it ended that night in the motor-car.” “But why commit suicide? Do you mean she was mad?”