"That's as it ought to be, Sam," said the detective genially. "You can tell Mr. Tarling or Mr. Whiteside and they'll make it worth your while." The detective called a cab and together they drove, not to Scotland Yard, but to Tarling's little office in Bond Street. It was here that the man from Shanghai had established his detective agency, and here he waited with the phlegmatic Whiteside for the return of the detective he had sent to withdraw Sam Stay from his shadower. The man shuffled into the room, looked resentfully from one to the other, nodded to both, and declined the chair which was pushed forward for him. His head was throbbing in an unaccountable way, as it had never throbbed before. There were curious buzzes and noises in his ears. It was strange that he had not noticed this until he came into the quiet room, to meet the grave eyes of a hard-faced man, whom he did not remember having seen before. "Now, Stay," said Whiteside, whom at least the criminal recognised, "we want to hear what you know about this murder." Stay pressed his lips together and made no reply. "Sit down," said Tarling, and this time the man obeyed. "Now, my lad," Tarling went on--and when he was in a persuasive mood his voice was silky--"they tell me that you were a friend of Mr. Lyne's." Sam nodded. "He was good to you, was he not?" "Good?" The man drew a deep breath. "I'd have given my heart and soul to save him from a minute's pain, I would, sir! I'm telling you straight, and may I be struck dead if I'm lying! He was an angel on earth--my God, if ever I lay me hands on that woman, I'll strangle her. I'll put her out! I'll not leave her till she's torn to rags!" His voice rose, specks of foam stood on his lips his whole face seemed transfigured in an ecstasy of hate. "She's been robbing him and robbing him for years," he shouted. "He looked after her and protected her, and she went and told lies about him, she did. She trapped him!" His voice rose to a scream, and he made a move forward towards the desk, both fists clenched till the knuckles showed white. Tarling sprang up, for he recognised the signs. Before another word could be spoken, the man collapsed in a heap on the floor, and lay like one dead. Tarling was round the table in an instant, turned the unconscious man on his back, and, lifting one eyelid, examined the pupil. "Epilepsy or something worse," he said. "This thing has been preying on the poor devil's mind--'phone an ambulance, Whiteside, will you?" "Shall I give him some water?" Tarling shook his head. "He won't recover for hours, if he recovers at all," he said. "If Sam Stay knows anything to the detriment of Odette Rider, he is likely to carry his knowledge to the grave." And in his heart of hearts J. O. Tarling felt a little sense of satisfaction that the mouth of this man was closed. CHAPTER IX WHERE THE FLOWERS CAME FROM