“He hadn’t a pistol yesterday,” she said, “and I doubt whether he’s got one now. If Druze had been shot dead in the street I should think he’d be under suspicion, but Peter Dawlish would hardly shoot a man, put him in a car, and drive him to Barnes.” The old man nodded. “I agree with you, Leslie, but we shall have to pull him in and make inquiries. Druze has been shot three times; that’s rather a queer thing, and he has been shot through the heart! We shan’t know exactly until the pathologist has seen him, but I think I am right. And listen, did you see the footprints?” He pointed to the smooth granite curb, and she saw for the first time the indubitable impressions of a bare foot; the ball of the foot and toe prints were unmistakable. He put the three packages Leslie had found in his overcoat pocket. “Go along and see Lady Raytham and tell her what has happened. Take this with you, and for the love of Mike don’t lose it!” He put the square emerald in her hand, and she dropped it into her bag. “If it’s the pendant, as you say, find out what has happened to the rest of the necklace.” He bundled her into the police car, and she was glad to escape, because by now the large force of police on the spot had been augmented by that curious crowd which sooner or later gathers from nowhere on the scene of any tragedy. The windows were in darkness when she drove up to the house in Berkeley Square, and instead of ringing she wielded the heavy knocker. She had to wait a little time, and then it was a footman who opened the door, and his manner and mien were both respectful and a little nervous. “Do you want to see her ladyship, miss?” he said. “She’s upstairs with Mrs. Gurden; there is Mrs. Gurden now.” Greta was coming down the stairs. She was in that peculiar style of evening dress which she affected. Greta made most of her own clothes from the latest Paris models and usually in the most unsuitable material. Their “home-madeness” was never blatant. They did not proclaim but hinted it. Leslie looked up at the rouged face and the black, staring eyes, and it required no particular acumen on her part to detect Greta Gurden’s agitation. “Oh, my dear Miss whatever-your-name is,” she said, “do come up and see Lady Raytham! You are Miss what-is-your-name? Maughan, isn’t it? I’m so glad! Druze has been a perfect beast.” She held out her hand dramatically; it was shaking. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you.” Her eyelids were blinking up and down with a rapidity that fascinated and would have amused Leslie in any other circumstances. “What has Druze been doing?” she asked. “Won’t you come up and see Lady Raytham?” begged Greta. “She’ll tell you so much better than I. My dear Jane can put everything into the most understandable terms. Druze has been simply awful: made a terrible scene and walked out quite suddenly. It’s dreadful what servants are coming to, isn’t it? I think it must be the war or----”