“No, sir, not to my knowledge. I am Chief Inspector Pointer, of the Yard, as you guessed. I'm on a queer suicide case which has taken place at the hotel Miss Leslie is stopping at—the Enterprise—in the room adjoining hers, in fact. We hope to keep it out of the papers till the inquest on Wednesday. Now, as you, of course, know, sir, every case of suicide that isn't as clear as daylight has to be sifted by us pretty thoroughly. Part of the sifting in this case is to place the people's whereabouts who were on the same floor—the first floor. It's a question, roughly, of the hours between four to six on last Saturday afternoon. Miss Leslie is among the other people. You quite understand, sir, that it's a mere matter of form, that we know from the hotel employés that she wasn't in the hotel till much later in the day; but that isn't enough. We must try to have alibis for everyone on the floor between those hours, if it's a possible thing; and if it isn't, we must know why it isn't. Now, sir, can you tell me where Miss Leslie _really_ was during those hours?” Major Thompson thought awhile. “I don't know that I care to make any statement in so serious a matter as this,” he said finally. “Miss Leslie will give you any information you ask for—any that you have a right to—I am quite sure,” and he turned away. Pointer stopped him. “Ah, but I can't explain things to Miss Leslie. Not a soul must know that the case isn't a perfectly clear suicide. That's why I adopted my little ruse with you just now, sir. I should have preferred not to have told even you about the matter. Doubtless the young lady would explain her movements on Saturday afternoon, if she knew _why_ I am interested in them; but as I can't explain my reasons to her, I doubt very much if she won't refuse to tell me anything.” “I see.” The major again thought awhile. “Yes, I see your point, Inspector, though I owe you something for pulling my leg in that unconscionable way, and stepping on the choicest sandwich.” Pointer repressed a grin.