“Nobody at all,” said John, decisively. “You need n't trouble to pursue the matter any further, for the wound luckily is trifling, and in any case I should not prosecute.” “As you please, sir,” said the Sergeant. “Good evening, and thank you,” said John. “This is the hat-pin, sir.” “You can leave it with me,” said John. He went into his study and examined the thing. It was of common make, the head being a ball of black glass. A million such are sold in cheap shops. He had no doubt as to the owner. She had spied upon him craftily, bided her time, and had then struck. He had not seen her since the day they had met in Maida Vale and he had unceremoniously packed her home, and for the last few months she had not molested him. Now came this unforeseen, dastardly attack. He rang for Phoebe, gave a message for Miss Lindon, and went out with an ugly look on his face. A taxicab whirled him swiftly across London to Amelia Mansions in the Fulham Road. Mrs. Bence answered his ring. He stepped into the hall, and in his blundering way strode down the passage. The woman checked him. “Mrs. Rawlings is n't in, sir. She is with Mrs. Oscraft, the lady down-stairs.” He turned abruptly. “Has she been out this afternoon?” “She went out to lunch with Mrs. Oscraft and came back with her an hour ago.” He drew the hat-pin from the inside of his overcoat, where he had stuck it. “Do you recognize this?” The woman looked puzzled. “No, sir,” she said. “Mrs. Rawlings has n't any like it?” Mrs. Bence inspected the pin. “No, I'm sure. If she had, I would have known.” She saw the trouble in his face. “What has happened, sir?” He told her briefly. The woman knitted a perplexed brow. “I don't see how it could have been her, sir,” she said. “She's nearly always with Mrs. Oscraft, and very seldom goes out by herself, and to-day, as I 've said, she went out and came back with her. And I'm sure she has n't had a hat-pin like that in use.” “What exactly is this Mrs. Oscraft?” he asked. Mrs. Bence added to his vague knowledge. Her husband was a book-maker, very often absent from home, having to frequent race-meetings and taverns and other such resorts of his trade. She had many friends, male and female, of the same kidney, a crew rowdy and vulgar, but otherwise harmless. She and Mrs. Rawlings had become inseparable. “I 'll go down and see her,” said John. Mrs. Oscraft, an overblown blonde, floppily attired, opened the door of her flat. “Hello! Who are you?” she asked. He explained that he was the husband of Mrs. Rawlings. “So you are. She 's got a portrait of you. Besides, I 've seen you here. She 's in the drawing-room. Come along in and have a whisky and soda or a glass of champagne.” He declined. “I owe you a thousand apologies for intruding,” said he, “but if you would answer me just one question, I should be greatly obliged.” “Fire away,” said the lady. “Won't you really come in?”