Poole busied himself in connecting up the carefully concealed threads which had united this latest Jekyll and Hyde. Travers Lessingham had apparently been in existence since the year following the war, though he had begun his operations in the City in a very minor key—feeling his way, as Poole phrased it. In addition to his arrangement with the Hotel Antwerp and Mme. Pintole of the Rue des Canetons, Hessel had kept a small studio in the neighbourhood of Gray’s Inn; this he had used for changing from one identity to the other, and as the tone of the lower grades of studio life is anything but inquisitive, there was small risk of anyone giving him away. The actual disguise was a simple matter; a wig of curly black hair, darkened eyebrows and whitened face, tinted spectacles (too common in these days to excite suspicion), a differently shaped dental plate, coat padded on the shoulder-blades, and waistcoat and trousers in front—these required no great skill to adjust and manipulate. His appearances as Lessingham in the City were so rare that no one had time to get to know him and so to begin to take an interest in his movements. That at least was how such of his City acquaintances as admitted to it explained their deception. The complete details of his performance would probably never be known unless the Wrailes chose to reveal it. They must, in the months of his more active life as Lessingham, have manipulated a great deal for him—and they would now, in all probability, never disclose the facts. Ten days after the escape of the Wrailes,—ten days in which not one whiff of scent came to the eager nostrils of the public, so that even their press-fed enthusiasm was beginning to wane—Inez and Ryland Fratten, with Laurence Mangane, were sitting at tea in the morning-room at Queen Anne’s Gate when Golpin entered to announce that Inspector Poole was waiting in the hall and would like to see either Miss or Mr. Fratten or both. “Oh, show him in, Golpin,” said Inez. “And bring another cup. He may have some news.” Mangane rose to his feet, but Inez stretched out a detaining hand. “Don’t go,” she said. “He can’t be here ‘with hostile intent’ now. Ah, there you are, Mr. Poole; come and have some tea. We thought you’d forgotten all about us. Have you got any news?” Poole smiled and took the chair that Ryland pushed across to him. “I haven’t quite forgotten about you, Miss Fratten; I’ve come to ask some questions.” “Oh-h!” groaned Inez. “I thought that was over.” “Not quite, but to show they aren’t of ‘hostile intent’—as I think I heard you say—I’ll accept your kind offer of some tea.” He turned to Ryland. “It’s you, sir, really, that I want to ask questions. They’re really more to satisfy my own curiosity than of official necessity. D’you mind if I do? They’re quite harmless.” “No, of course he doesn’t,” answered Inez, who had seen Ryland hesitate. “But remember—we’ve got our own curiosity—you won’t do all the asking.” Poole laughed.