“Describe a woman she’d never seen, I suppose,” snapped Goodall. “Come now.” Druce pulled up with a jerk. “Well, she ’ad on dark clothes and some sort of an ’at—and was about middle height.” He concluded hopefully. Goodall turned away with a gesture of dismay. “And yet we’re informed that all undiscovered crimes are the fault of the Police,” he said bitterly. “When we get civilian help like this.” “What age would you say the woman was, Druce?” asked Mr. Day. Druce hesitated. He seemed to find this another poser. Then he committed himself. “Well, I ain’t certain, sir, not by no manner of means, but I should say somewhere between thirty and forty.” “Dark or fair?” “I couldn’t see, sir. Honest, I couldn’t—so it’s no use askin’ me, sir.” Day turned in Goodall’s direction. “I’m afraid that’s about all we shall get, Inspector,” he declared semi-humorously. “Do you want to ask him any more?” “I’m thirsting to,” drawled Goodall. “He’s such a mine of information. Let him go,” he muttered with a tinge of disgust. Druce turned with relief written on every line of his face. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, gentlemen. I’m glad to ’ave been of assistance to you.” He made his way to the door. Then he turned to the group again. “I’ll tell you what I _did_ notice about that woman, now I come to think of it,” he announced with an air of extreme wisdom. “You don’t say!” declared Goodall. “Don’t tell me she walked with one shoulder lower than the other—all suspected persons do.” “No!” replied Druce with disappointment in his tone. “Nothink so important as that, sir. But when she walked away up the street, sir, she sneezed several times. That’s what I’ve just thought of, sir.” Goodall threw his head up hopelessly. “Can you beat that?” he said plaintively. “The stiff!” He heard Druce slowly descending the stairs, proudly aware no doubt of a very perfect piece of Pelmanism. “There you are,” asserted Goodall, “there you have——” His remarks were interrupted by a ring of the telephone from the private office. Mr. Day went into his room and picked up the receiver. The others outside heard him say, “Yes! He’s here now. I’ll bring him to the ’phone.” He came out. “Mr. Linnell,” he announced, “Mr. Daventry, your partner, would like to speak to you on the telephone.” “Thank you,” said Linnell. He entered and took the message. “What?” he said. “Good God, Peter—you can’t mean it. It’s impossible.” He stayed a minute or two longer—then replaced the receiver with trembling finger. For the moment he had a hard task to control himself. Then he pulled himself together and reëntered the Gallery. “Gentlemen,” he said very gravely, “Mr. Laurence P. Stewart was murdered last night in his library at Assynton. He was found with his skull battered in!” CHAPTER IV Peter Daventry Is Mindful of Mr. Bathurst