“Perhaps you can help me a little more. I am getting interested in this Miss Lang, who seems to turn up at every point in the story. It now appears that Walter Brooklyn went to see her at the theatre on Tuesday afternoon. He saw her and Prinsep there separately.” “I know nothing about that. I told you he went off to see Prinsep; but I have no idea what he can have been doing with Miss Lang.” “Did Walter Brooklyn know Miss Lang?” “Quite probably. He had a large theatrical acquaintance. But I did not know he was friendly with her.” “But you said that Mr. George Brooklyn was to have seen Miss Lang on Tuesday evening.” The lawyer nodded. “And now,” the inspector continued, “we find Walter as well as George Brooklyn mixed up with her. May not she have had something to do with the evening meeting at Liskeard House?” “Really, inspector, that is a matter for you. I have never seen the young woman, and I know no more about her than I have already told you. You had better see her yourself.” “That is what I propose to do; but I thought you might be able to throw some light on Walter Brooklyn’s dealings with her.” “None at all, unfortunately. I wish I could; for there is nothing I want more than to get this horrible business cleared up.” The inspector saw that there was nothing more to be learned from Carter Woodman at that stage. He accordingly took his leave, and went in search of Charis Lang, who, he was beginning to feel, might well hold the clue to the whole mystery. His original idea had been to see her at her home; but he had decided that it would be better to talk to her at the theatre, where the event in which she was concerned had actually taken place. Accordingly, he took a taxi to the Piccadilly Theatre, and sent up his card to Miss Lang, who had just arrived, and been given his note and message. When he was shown into Charis Lang’s room, Inspector Blaikie had his first surprise. He had been expecting, without any good reason, to be confronted with a beauty of the picture post card type, some little bit of fluff from the musical comedy stage. But he saw at once that Charis Lang was not at all that kind of woman. She was a girl whom no one but an idiot—and Inspector Blaikie was far from being an idiot—would think of calling pretty. Beautiful, some people would call her, but less from any regularity of feature than from an effect of carriage and expression—a dignity without aloofness, a self-possession that was neither hard nor unwomanly. The inspector did not think her beautiful—she was not of the type he admired—but he said to himself that here was obviously a woman of character. And he at once changed his mind about the right way of tackling Miss Lang. She was, he recognised, a person with whom it would pay to be quite frank. “I understand,” she began, “that you wish to ask me some questions about”—she hesitated a moment—“this terrible affair.” The inspector could see that she was deeply moved.