“I went to Cumberland just to loaf around,” she said. “I was most anxious to pretend that there wasn’t such a place in the world as Scotland Yard. But I’ve got that prowling, inquisitive spirit that would have made me the first woman inspector of the C.I.D. if the commissioners were not such stuffy, old-fashioned gentlemen! One day I was loafing through a little village, when I found something which brought me eventually to this conclusion, that Druze doesn’t like children. And one day, when he discovers the fact, Peter Dawlish will kill him for it!” “More mysterious than ever!” exclaimed Coldwell. “You’re probably chasing a boojum. It is the fate of all enthusiastic young officers--not that you’re an officer.” Leslie Maughan had started her police career as a very junior stenographer at Scotland Yard. Her father had been that famous Assistant Commissioner Maughan whose exploits have formed the basis for so many stories of police work, and he had left his daughter with an income which put her above the necessity of working for her living. But police investigation was in her blood, and she had graduated through successive stages, until the authorities, reluctant to admit that any woman had an executive position at police headquarters, admitted her to the designation of “assistant” to the chief of the Big Four. “She’s brilliant; there’s no other word for her,” he had told the chief commissioner. “And although I don’t think it’s much of a woman’s job, there never was a woman who was better fitted to hold down a high position at the Yard.” “What are her chief qualifications?” asked the commissioner, slightly amused. “She thinks quick and she’s lucky,” was the comprehensive reply. This question of luck exercised the mind of Leslie as she walked home to her flat in the Charing Cross Road. The very fact that that apartment was hers was strong support for the theory of luck. She had taken a long lease of a floor above a moving-picture house at a time when flats were going begging. She might have drawn double the rent from a subtenant; but the place was central, comparatively cheap, and she withstood all temptations to change her abode at a profit. A side door led to the apartments, and she had hardly closed the door behind her when a voice hailed her from the top of the stairs. “That you, Miss Maughan?” “That’s me,” said Leslie. She hung her coat in the narrow hall and went upstairs to the girl who was waiting on the landing. Lucretia Brown, her one servant, was a very tall, broad-shouldered girl, with a round and not unpleasant face. She stood now with her hands on her hips, surveying her mistress. “I thought you were----” she began. “You thought I’d been murdered and thrown into the river,” said Leslie good-humouredly. “As you always think if I am not back on the tick!” “I don’t trust London,” said Lucretia.