“Listen!” Coldwell had a very direct way with criminals. “Whether you’ll get a nine-month or more depends on the answer you give me, Mrs. Inglethorne. There’s just a chance that you may get something worse.” She scowled up at him. “What do you mean?” Very deliberately he sketched a portion of her life: told her where she had lived, and how long she had stayed in her various places of abode. She made no comment or correction, looking down at her hands, and only when he paused did she meet his eyes. “Is that all?” she asked insolently. “Not quite all. You have been engaged in baby farming for the past twenty years. In 1916, in the month of July, you received from one called Arthur Druze a baby boy of a few days old. Where is that child?” “You’d better find out,” she said. The detective’s eyes narrowed. “It is for you to find out,” he said, in that hard, metallic voice which he adopted on occasions. “You have to prove to me that that child is alive or there’s another charge against you.” “Eh?” She was startled. The big mouth trembled. “You can’t charge me----” “I’ll charge you with murder, and I’ll dig up the garden of every house you’ve occupied in the past six years to find evidence.” Mrs. Inglethorne’s many-chinned jaw dropped; her eyes stared wildly, and in their depths Coldwell read the very terror of death. “I’ve done nothing--like that!” She almost screamed. “You were Martha’s servant, weren’t you?” She nodded dumbly, and then, throwing herself on the couch, she writhed like a woman demented. And in her dementia she broke the habit of a lifetime and told the truth. A policeman was standing outside the door of Leslie’s flat when Coldwell came back, and a dozen men stood about on the sidewalk. He beckoned Peter to him. “You had better come along,” he said. “Where are you going?” “To Wimbledon. Do you feel fit enough? There may not be a scrap, but I rather imagine that her supreme and exalted highness will die fighting.” “Is Leslie there?” Coldwell nodded. A hundred yards short of May Towers the policemen stopped and the little army of men got down. On the journey Coldwell had made his arrangements. Four of the detectives were to make their way to the back of the house; the remainder were to force the entrance. It was Coldwell who rang the bell. In his right hand he gripped an ax, ready to strike at the chain the moment the door was opened. Standing behind him, Peter saw him stoop his head. “Can you hear anything?” he whispered. “No, sir.” “Thought I heard a scream.” He waited a few seconds longer, and then: “Give me the crowbar.” Somebody passed him up the long steel bar, and with a swing he drove the clawed ends between door and lintel. Again he struck, and this time he succeeded. Pulling back with all his strength, the door cracked open. Two blows from the ax broke the chain, and they streamed into the dark hall and up the stairs.