“If the poor nut had only had the pluck to telephone to the police when the girl first told him the story, we could have caught those birds. As it is, there’s no sense in keeping the house under observation any longer. Who was the woman? That puzzles me. Who was the woman who, night after night, garaged her car in Trasmere’s garden and let herself into the house carrying a square black bag?” Tab did not answer. The identity of the woman was no mystery to him. She was Ursula Ardfern. The fabric of supposition fitted piece to piece. He remembered how he had come upon her in the deserted streets at dawn surveying a burst tyre and the plainness of her dress. Inside the car was a square black case, but-- Ursula working hand in glove with Chinamen; Ursula privy to these stealthy coming and goings, these midnight burglaries at Mayfield? That was unthinkable. “--their reason for breaking in after we had left the place is beyond me,” Carver was saying. “I can only suppose that they hoped that we had overlooked something of value.” “In Mayfield?--there is nothing there now?” “Only the furniture and one or two articles we took away but have since returned, such as the green lacquer box. As a matter of fact, they only went back yesterday. Mr. Lander thought of selling all the furniture and effects by auction, and I believe that before he left he put the matter in the hands of an agent. The Chinamen intrigue me,” he said, “though it is by no means certain that both Stott and his servant aren’t mistaken. I gather they were considerably panic stricken and even I wouldn’t undertake to distinguish a Chinaman from a European by the light of a match.” Tab went up into Carver’s private office, and they sat talking until close on eleven o’clock, at which hour their conversation was violently interrupted by the ring of the telephone. “Call through for you, sir,” said the voice of the sergeant on the desk, and a second later Carver recognised the agitated voice of Mr. Stott. “They’re here now! They’ve just gone in! The woman has opened the door--they’ve just gone in!” “Who? Is that Stott--do you mean into Mayfield?” asked Carver quickly. “Yes! I saw them with my own eyes. The woman’s car is outside the door.” “Go and get its number, quick,” said Carver sharply, “find a policeman and tell him, and if you can’t find one, detain the woman yourself.” He heard Mr. Stott’s feeble expostulation, and jumped for his hat. They boarded the first taxi-cab they could find, and raced through the town at a break-neck pace, turning into one end of the quiet avenue in which Mayfield was situated, just as the tail lights of a car turned the corner at the other end. Mr. Stott was standing on the side-walk, pointing dumbly, but with hysterical gestures, at the place where the car had been. “They’ve gone,” he said hollowly. “--couldn’t find a policeman: they’ve gone!” “So I notice,” said Carver. “Did you take the number of the car?”