"Humph!" said the doctor, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "A pretty bad business." He looked at the other curiously. "What sort of a man was Thornton Lyne?" he asked. Tarling shrugged his shoulders. "Not the best of men, I'm afraid," he said; "but even the worst of men are protected by the law, and the punishment which will fall to the murderer----" "Or murderess," smiled the doctor. "Murderer," said Tarling shortly. "The punishment will not be affected by the character of the dead man." Dr. Saunders puffed steadily at his pipe. "It's rum a girl like that being mixed up in a case of this description," he said. "Most extraordinary." There was a little tap at the door and the matron appeared. "Miss Stevens is ready," she said, and Tarling rose. Dr. Saunders rose with him, and, going to a shelf took down a large ledger, and placing it on his table, opened it and took up a pen. "I shall have to mark her discharge," he said, turning over the leaves, and running his finger down the page. "Here she is--Miss Stevens, concussion and shock." He looked at the writing under his hand and then lifted his eyes to the detective. "When was this murder committed?" he asked. "On the night of the fourteenth." "On the night of the fourteenth?" repeated the doctor thoughtfully. "At what time?" "The hour is uncertain," said Tarling, impatient and anxious to finish his conversation with this gossiping surgeon; "some time after eleven." "Some time after eleven," repeated the doctor. "It couldn't have been committed before. When was the man last seen alive?" "At half-past nine," said Tarling with a little smile. "You're not going in for criminal investigation, are you, doctor?" "Not exactly," smiled Saunders. "Though I am naturally pleased to be in a position to prove the girl's innocence." "Prove her innocence? What do you mean?" demanded Tarling quickly. "The murder could not have been committed before eleven o'clock. The dead man was last seen alive at half-past nine." "Well?" said Tarling. "Well," repeated Dr. Saunders, "at nine o'clock the boat train left Charing Cross, and at half-past ten Miss Rider was admitted to this hospital suffering from shock and concussion." For a moment Tarling said nothing and did nothing. He stood as though turned to stone, staring at the doctor with open mouth. Then he lurched forward, gripped the astonished medical man by the hand, and wrung it. "That's the best bit of news I have had in my life," he said huskily. CHAPTER XIII TWO SHOTS IN THE NIGHT The journey back to London was one the details of which were registered with photographic realism in Tarling's mind for the rest of his life. The girl spoke little, and he himself was content to meditate and turn over in his mind the puzzling circumstances which had surrounded Odette Rider's flight.