Back at the Yard, Poole telephoned through to the appropriate Divisional police-station and inquired as to the name and whereabouts of the police constable on duty in St. James’s Park at the point nearest to the scene of Sir Garth’s death on that night; he learnt that the man—P. C. Lolling—was at that moment off duty but would be back at the station a little before two in preparation for his next tour. Poole was just wondering what to do in the meantime when he was summoned to Chief Inspector Barrod’s room. “What’s this young Fratten up to?” the latter asked as Poole entered. Poole’s expression was sufficient answer to the question. “That chap that you put on to watch him, Fallows, rang up when you were out to say that Fratten had slipped him—a deliberate slip, he thought it was—the old back-door trick. What’s his game?” “Has he taken anything with him, sir—luggage?” “Fallows didn’t know—I asked him that; he’d rung up directly he realized that Fratten was gone. He’s gone back to Fratten’s lodgings now to find out about his kit. You must get on to this, Poole; I don’t mind telling you that I think you’ve given that young man too much rope—you haven’t pressed him hard enough. This business of Hessel’s now; what’s your idea there? What’s the motive?” “Not much at the moment, sir. He’s down for £5,000 in the will, of course—not much, unless a man’s desperately in need of money; I’ve no proof that Hessel is—but then I haven’t been looking for it. I’m going to now, though. I haven’t been through Sir Garth’s Fratten’s Bank papers yet; there may be a suggestion there, though it’s hardly possible that Sir Garth suspected anything wrong—he seems to have trusted Hessel completely.” “Well, I don’t think much of that line,” said Barrod. “Hessel could have found a better place than that to hit Fratten in—St. James’s Park’s a bit public.” “Exactly, sir; that’s got to be explained, whoever did it. But we must remember this—barring his son and daughter, nobody’s so likely to have known about the aneurism as his best friend, Hessel.” The Chief Inspector shrugged his shoulders. “Did you ever ask him if he knew?” “No, but I’m going to.” “Well, I don’t mind your following that up so long as you don’t drop young Fratten. If he slips you, Poole, you’re for it.” There was a knock at the door and a constable came in. “Young lady to see Inspector Poole, sir,” he said. “Name of Fratten.” The two seniors exchanged glances. “Show her in here,” said Barrod. In half a minute, Inez Fratten appeared. Her cheeks were flushed and her eye sparkled. “I’ve foun . . .” she began, but Barrod interrupted her. “Where’s your brother, Miss Fratten?” he asked abruptly. Inez stared at him. “My brother?” “I beg your pardon, miss; I mean Mr. Ryland Fratten.” “But what do you mean— ‘where is he?’” “Was he at your house this morning?” “No; no, as a matter of fact, he wasn’t.” “Or last night?”