“She was on the stage at the time—quite a kid,” continued Elk. “They called her ‘The Child Mimic.’ There’s another thing I’ve noticed, Captain: if you take a magnifying glass and look at your skin, you see its defects, don’t you? That wireless telephone acts as a sort of magnifying glass to the voice. She always had a little lisp that I jumped at straight away. You may not have noticed it, but I’ve got pretty sharp ears. She can’t pronounce her ‘S’s’ properly, there’s a sort of faint ‘th’ sound in ’um. You heard that?” Dick had heard, and nodded. “I never knew that she was ever on the stage,” he said more calmly. “You are sure, Elk?” “Sure. In some things I’m . . . what’s the word?—infall-i-able. I’m a bit shaky on dates, such as when Henry the First an’ all that bunch got born—I never was struck on birthdays anyway—but I know voices an’ noses. Never forget ’um.” They were turning into the dark entrance of Scotland Yard when Dick said in a tone of despair: “It was her voice, of course. I had no idea she had been on the stage—is her father in this business?” “She hasn’t a father so far as I know,” was the staggering reply, and again Gordon halted. “Are you mad?” he asked. “Ella Bennett has a father——” “I’m not talking about Ella Bennett,” said the calm Elk. “I’m talking about Lola Bassano.” There was a silence. “Was it her voice?” asked Gordon a little breathlessly. “Sure it was Lola. It was a pretty good imitation of Miss Bennett, but any mimic will tell you that these soft voices are easy. It’s the pace of a voice that makes it . . .” “You villain!” said Dick Gordon, as a weight rolled from his heart. “You knew I meant Ella Bennett when I was talking, and you strung me along!” “Blame me,” said Elk. “What’s the time?” It was half-past three. He gathered his reserves, and ten minutes later the police cars dropped a party at the closed door of Caverley House. The bell brought the night porter, who recognized Elk. “More gas trouble?” he asked. “Want to see the house plan,” said Elk, and listened as the porter detailed the names, occupations and peculiarities of the tenants. “Who owns this block?” asked the detective. “This is one of Maitland’s properties—Maitlands Consolidated. He’s got the Prince of Caux’s house in Berkeley Square and——” “Don’t worry about giving me his family history. What time did Miss Bassano come in?” “She’s been in all the evening—since eleven.” “Anybody with her?” The man hesitated. “Mr. Maitland came in with her, but he went soon after.” “Nobody else?” “Nobody except Mr. Maitland.” “Give me your master-key.” The porter demurred. “I’ll lose my job,” he pleaded. “Can’t you knock?” “Knocking is my speciality—I don’t pass a day without knocking somebody,” replied Elk, “but I want that key.” He did not doubt that Lola would have bolted her door, and his surmise proved sound. He had both to knock and ring before the light showed behind the transom, and Lola in a kimono and boudoir cap appeared.