Feverishly he untied the other bundles but found no further clue. His knees were trembling as he mounted the stairs, the precious garments close to his heart. Putting down the lamp on the table, he examined again these pitiful souvenirs. He must see Leslie at once. Not daring to leave the clothes behind, he folded them and put them into his pocket. He used the silk shawl as a neckcloth under his thin overcoat; the night was bitterly cold, but it was not the warmth of the soft fabric which brought a glow to his heart. The windows of the flat were in darkness, but he remembered that they had heavy velvet curtains, and possibly they were drawn. Ringing the bell, he waited. There was no answer. He rang again. And then a man appeared from a near-by doorway and strolled up to him. “Who do you want?” he asked, in a tone of authority. Peter guessed that he was a detective. “I want Miss Maughan. My name is Dawlish.” “Oh, Dawlish, yes. Miss Maughan isn’t in. She is staying at Inspector Coldwell’s house in Finchley. There is nobody in the flat.” He did not hide his disappointment; he was so full of his discovery that he had to tell somebody. He had to see her. The detective gave him the inspector’s address and he walked across the Charing Cross Road, intending to make his way to the tube station. He reached the other side of the road, and then something made him look back at the windows of her apartments. And in that instant he saw a quick flicker of light, as though somebody had turned on an electric hand lamp for the fraction of a second and had extinguished it immediately. Peter stopped. Somebody was in Leslie’s room. He walked slowly across the road. The detective had disappeared; was, in point of fact, walking to the back of the block to visit his fellow watcher. As Peter stood, hesitating, he saw the street door move slightly, and, acting on an impulse, he pushed it wide open and took one step into the darkness. “Who’s there?” he said, and that was all that he remembered. Something soft and heavy fell with a thud on his head, crushing his soft hat as though it were paper. He stumbled on to his knees, and a second blow laid him prostrate, the blood trickling down his face and staining the soft silk that had once enwrapped his child. There were no loiterers in Charing Cross Road that bitter night, when a chill northwest wind sent people hurrying to the shelter of their homes. There was no lounger to tell the detective of three people who had walked hurriedly across the sidewalk into the car which was drawing to the curb at the very moment Peter pushed open the door. CHAPTER XXI. ANITA’S CARDS