"By no means," Hanaud answered, waking from his reverie and tucking briskly away the paper into the tail pocket of his coat. "We will hear what Miss Joan Carew has to say, with our minds undisturbed by any discoveries. I was wondering about something totally different." "Yes?" Mr. Ricardo encouraged him. "What was it?" "I was wondering, since it is only ten o'clock, at what hour the first editions of the evening papers appear." "It is a question," Mr. Ricardo replied sententiously, "which the greatest minds have failed to answer." And they walked along the street to the house. The front door stood open during the day like the front door of any other house which is let off in sets of rooms. Hanaud and Ricardo went up the staircase and rang the bell of Calladine's door. A middle-aged woman opened it. "Mr. Calladine is in?" said Hanaud. "I will ask," replied the woman. "What name shall I say?" "It does not matter. I will go straight in," said Hanaud quietly. "I was here with my friend but a minute ago." He went straight forward and into Calladine's parlour. Mr. Ricardo looked over his shoulder as he opened the door and saw a girl turn to them suddenly a white face of terror, and flinch as though already she felt the hand of a constable upon her shoulder. Calladine, on the other hand, uttered a cry of relief. "These are my friends," he exclaimed to the girl, "the friends of whom I spoke to you"; and to Hanaud he said: "This is Miss Carew." Hanaud bowed. "You shall tell me your story, mademoiselle," he said very gently, and a little colour returned to the girl's cheeks, a little courage revived in her. "But you have heard it," she answered. "Not from you," said Hanaud.