“Was anyone here with you?” “Not after six. Smithers and Varle, the two clerks leave then. After that I was alone.” “Did anyone see you leave?” “Canting may have—the hall-porter. He’s generally about—but he’d hardly remember the day.” “Nobody else?” “I don’t think so. I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it—or not.” “Thank you, Miss Saverel; now just one thing more. Would you mind telling me where you live?” He took out his note-book as if to compare her answer with an address in his book. The girl looked at him keenly, then moved towards the window. “It’s dark in here with that blind down,” she said, “you can hardly see your book.” She pulled the blind up the few inches that it had dropped, then turned back towards him. Poole realized that she now had her back to the light, whilst he had it in his eyes, his back to the door into the outer lobby. He thought, however, that he could still see her face sufficiently well to make it unnecessary for him to manœuvre for position. “It’s very charming of you to take such an interest in me,” she said. “I live in Bloomsbury Lane—94; fashionable neighbourhood—in my grandmother’s time.” “You haven’t ever lived in the Fulham Road, have you?” There was the merest fraction of a pause before the answer came. “The Fulham Road? No, never. You must be getting me mixed up with Captain Wraile, one of the directors—he lives there.” “But you haven’t lived there yourself?” “No, I told you I hadn’t.” “But you go there sometimes?” persisted Poole. “Aren’t you being rather offensive?” she said. “Please answer my questions; do you ever go to the Fulham Road?” The girl shrugged her shoulders. “I expect I’ve been down it at times—it’s not out of bounds, is it?” “Have you been there lately?” “I may have.” “Were you there last Friday morning?” Poole felt sure that there was a waver in the assurance of the fine brown eyes that had looked so calmly into his. “I think you’re trying to insinuate something beastly; I shan’t answer you.” “You refuse to answer?” “Certainly I do; I don’t know what right you have to ask me that.” “Then I will ask you something else; do you drive a car?” Before there was time for a reply, Poole heard the door of the room close—the door on to the landing. He turned quickly and saw standing just inside the room a well-built, soldierly-looking man—the man whom he had seen on Friday evening leaving this building in company with the girl whom Inez Fratten had declared to be “Daphne.” “Good afternoon, Inspector; my name is Wraile,” he said. “Blagge told me you were here. Miss Saverel is rather embarrassed by your question about the Fulham Road; you see, you’ve stumbled on a secret that we were trying to keep—Miss Saverel is my wife.” CHAPTER XXIII The Hotel “Antwerp”