The Case of Miss Elliott by Baroness Orczy Published 1909, Greening & Co., Ltd. (London) Contents. I. The Case of Miss Elliott II. The Hocussing of Cigarette III. The Tragedy in Dartmoor Terrace IV. Who Stove the Black Diamonds? V. The Murder of Miss Pebmarsh VI. The Lisson Grove Mystery VII. The Tremarn Case VIII. The Fate of the “Artemis” IX. The Disappearance of Count Collini X. The Ayrsham Mystery XI. The Affair at the Novelty Theatre XII. The Tragedy of Barnsdale Manor [Frontispiece: A horse-drawn hansom cab at night-time. In the shadowy interior of the cab sits a man in evening dress, leaning against the side of the cab as if dozing. Another man stands beside the cab, tentatively reaching in. Caption: “’E was dead and no mistake.”] I. The Case of Miss Elliott Chapter I The man in the corner was watching me over the top of his great bone-rimmed spectacles. “Well?” he asked, after a little while. “Well?” I repeated with some acerbity. I had been wondering for the last ten minutes how many more knots he would manage to make in that same bit of string, before he actually started undoing them again. “Do I fidget you?” he asked apologetically, whilst his long bony fingers buried themselves, string, knots, and all, into the capacious pockets of his magnificent tweed ulster. “Yes, that is another awful tragedy,” he said quietly, after a while. “Lady doctors are having a pretty bad time of it just now.” This was only his usual habit of speaking in response to my thoughts. There was no doubt that at the present moment my mind was filled with that extraordinary mystery which was setting all Scotland Yard by the ears, and had completely thrown into the shade the sad story of Miss Hickman’s tragic fate. The _Daily Telegraph_ had printed two columns headed “Murder or Suicide?” on the subject of the mysterious death of Miss Elliott, matron of the Convalescent Home, in Suffolk Avenue—and I must confess that a more profound and bewildering mystery had never been set before our able detective department. “It has puzzled them this time, and no mistake,” said the man in the corner, with one of his most gruesome chuckles, “but I daresay the public is quite satisfied that there is no solution to be found, since the police have found none.” “Can you find one?” I retorted with withering sarcasm. “Oh, my solution would only be sneered at,” he replied. “It is far too simple—and yet how logical! There was Miss Elliott, a good-looking, youngish, lady-like woman, fully qualified in the medical profession and in charge of the Convalescent Home in Suffolk Avenue, which is a private institution largely patronised by the benevolent.