In this house it appeared that there was a chronic invalid, a sister of the woman who opened the door. This poor creature was confined permanently to bed, and in the hope of relieving the tedium of the days, she had had the bed drawn close to her window, so as to extract what amusement she could from the life of the street. If there had been any unusual happenings in front of No. 12, she would certainly have witnessed them. Yes, the woman was sure her sister would see the visitors. “Lucky chance, that,” French said, as they waited to know if they might go up. “If this woman’s eyes and brain are unaffected she’ll have become an accurate observer, and we’ll probably learn all there is to know.” In a moment the sister appeared beckoning, and going upstairs they found in a small front room a bed drawn up to the window, in which lay a superior looking elderly woman with a pale patient face, lined by suffering, in which shone a pair of large dark intelligent eyes. She was propped up the better to see out, and her face lighted up with interest at her unexpected callers, as she laid down among the books on the coverlet an intricate looking piece of fancy sewing. Inspector French bowed to her. “I’d like to say how much I appreciate your kindness in letting us come up, madam,” he said with his pleasant kindly smile, “but when you hear that we are trying to find a young lady who we fear has been kidnaped, I am sure you will be glad to help us. The matter is connected with No. 12 opposite. Can you tell me if any persons arrived or left it this morning?” “Oh, yes, I can,” the invalid replied in cultivated tones—a lady born, though fallen on evil days, thought Cheyne—“I like to watch the people passing and I did notice arrivals and departures at No. 12. About, let me see—half past eleven, or perhaps a minute or two later a motor drove up to No. 12, a yellow car, fair size and covered in. Three men got out and went into the house. One was Mr. Sime, who lives there, the others I didn’t know. Mr. Sime opened the door with his latch-key. In a couple of minutes one of the strangers came out again, got into the car, and drove off.” “That the car you saw outside Earlswood, Mr. Cheyne?” asked French. “Certain to be,” Cheyne nodded. “It was a yellow covered-in car of medium size, No. XL7305.” “I didn’t observe the number,” the lady remarked. “The bonnet was facing towards me.” “What was the driver like, madam?” queried Cheyne. “One of Mr. Sime’s companions drove. He was short and rather stout, with a round face, and what, I believe, is called a toothbrush mustache.” “That’s Blessington all right. And was the third man of medium height and build, with a clean-shaven, somewhat rugged face?” “Yes, that exactly describes him.” “And that’s Dangle. There’s no question about the party, Inspector.” “None. Then, madam, you saw—?”