“You mean that an actress is the worst kind of a wife a man can have, I suppose. I have heard all that rubbish before. Poor Uncle Jesse when I spoke about it--” “You spoke to him of your--liking for Ursula Ardfern?” asked Tab in surprise. “Of course I didn’t,” said the other scornfully. “I approached it in a round-about sort of way. Uncle Jesse foamed at the mouth. It was then he told me that he was going to leave all his money away from me. He said horrible things about actresses.” Tab was silent, a little puzzled at himself. What did it matter to him, anyway, that Rex Lander should be head over heels in love with the girl? Yet, for some mysterious reason, he regarded Babe’s passion as a personal affront to himself. It was ridiculous, childish in him and he laughed softly. “You think it is darned funny, I daresay,” growled Rex, getting up from the table in a huff. “I was laughing at myself for daring to give advice,” said Tab truthfully. IX Rex was in his own room when Carver called. “I have had a talk with some of the High Ones,” he said, “and put it up to them that you might be of assistance to me. First of all they were horrified at the idea of a newspaper reporter being allowed even to smell inside information, but I persuaded them at last. I am on my way down to the house now, and I thought I would pick you up. I am going through those boxes that we didn’t search on Saturday.” Tab heard with mingled feelings. To assist the police actively meant that his newspaper stories would suffer. He would not be allowed to use any of the information he secured, except in the tamest, most colourless form. If he remained outside, he was fairly certain to get a line to the crime, which he might use without laying himself open to the charge of breaking faith. There was no time to discover the mind of his chief on the subject--he had to make an instant decision. “I’ll go,” he said. “This means, of course, that I shall only be able to write the punk stuff that the evening papers print, but I’ll take a chance.” He was surprised, when he came out into Doughty Street, to find that a private car had been placed at Carver’s disposal. Knowing the parsimony of headquarters, he expressed his surprise. “It is Mr. Trasmere’s own. He has had it garaged for the past year, but Mr. Lander gave us permission to get it out and offered to pay the running expenses.” “Good old Babe,” said Tab, sinking back into the carriage seat. “He didn’t tell me anything about it.” Nearing the house, Carver broke the silence.