“This lady is from Scotland Yard and she wishes to see him, Mrs. Inglethorne,” said the detective soothingly. “Don’t get worried.” “Worried! Me workin’ my fingers to the bone and my old man in ‘stir’ though as innocent as a babe unborn----” By this time Peter Dawlish had descended. “Do you wish to see me?” She nodded. “Where can I see you? Can you come out and sit in the cab for a few minutes?” “Certainly.” “There is another favour I want to ask you. Will you be very annoyed if I ask you to allow this police officer to search your room?” He was struck dumb for a second. “Certainly! Why, is something lost?” “Nothing.” She turned to the detective and gave him instructions in a low tone; he pushed past the frightened landlady and went upstairs. “Now come into the cab. You won’t catch cold?” He laughed irritatedly. “I’m so hot with righteous indignation that I would melt an iceberg!” he said. He stepped into the taxi and pulled the door tight. “Now, Miss Maughan!” She looked sideways at him; the white face of the lantern illuminating the taximeter formed a reflector that gave some light to the interior of the car. “What have you been doing all evening?” she asked. “From what hour?” “Eight o’clock.” “I’ve been in the house. A job came to me this morning addressing envelopes and I’ve been working since seven till within a few minutes of your arrival. About two thousand of them are already addressed; I think that accounts for my time. I only had the envelopes and lists at six-thirty. Why, what has happened?” “Druze is dead.” “Dead?” “Murdered! His body was found on Barnes Common some time between eleven forty-five and midnight.” He whistled softly. “That is a bad business. How was he killed?” “Shot--at close range.” He was silent for a time. “Naturally, after my wild and woolly threats, you suspected me. Come up and see the envelopes. My bedroom is the only decent room in the house.” She hesitated, then, stretching out her hand, pulled back the lock of the door. Mrs. Inglethorne was past surprising. She stood at the foot of the stairs, an old ulster over her dressing gown, and watched the two go up without comment. “There is nothing here, miss,” said the detective before he caught sight of Peter. “Nothing except these.” He indicated with a wave of his hand a deal table covered with small envelopes neatly packed. Leslie smiled. “You needn’t have told me you’d been working here, Mr. Dawlish,” she said. “It is like a smoke room!” The aroma of cigarettes still hung about in spite of the open windows; the tin she had sent to him was on the table, only half full. “I’ve been a little extravagant,” he said apologetically, “but the temptation was great.” The detective still lingered by the door, evidently in two minds as to whether it would be proper to leave them in this peculiar environment. Leslie saved him the responsibility of a decision by: “Thank you very much. I will be down in a minute or two,” she said.