“Hello, Elizabeth!” It was Leslie’s interruption. The frail child stood in the doorway, shyly smiling at the beautiful lady of her dreams. She whispered something that the girl could not catch, and Leslie went nearer to her, took the two thin hands in hers, and, stooping, kissed the pale cheeks. “Tea?” she said with a laugh. “No, dear, I don’t think we want tea. It was very nice of you to come.” The child’s eyes were fixed on the table; they were wide open, and in their depths Leslie saw a look of fear. “What is it?” asked Leslie. “That big gun,” whispered the child. “Mother had it this morning, and I was so frightened.” The sharp-eared Coldwell heard. “Your mother had it this morning, my dear?” he said kindly. “Where did she have it?” “In the kitchen. A gentleman left it--a little gentleman with a yellow face. Mother brought it into the kitchen and said we all ought to be killed.” She clapped her hands to her mouth with an exclamation of fright, for only then did she remember the strict injunctions laid upon her. Coldwell strode out of the room to the head of the stairs and called Mrs. Inglethorne in a stentorian voice. It was a long time before he had an answer, and then by the tremulous voice he guessed that part of the conversation between himself and the child had been overheard. “Come up here,” he said curtly, and Mrs. Inglethorne came lumbering up the stairs. “This pistol came to your house this morning. From whom?” The woman’s mouth was dry with terror. She blinked from one to the other. “A gentleman brought it,” she gasped out. “He said it belonged to Mr. Dawlish, and would I put it under the floor--without a word of a lie, sir--if I never move from here.” Coldwell’s gimlet eyes searched her unwholesome face. “You told me you had never seen the pistol before. Who sent it?” She shook her head. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never seen the man before in my life--if I never move----” “You’ll move!” said Coldwell grimly. “And darned quick, if you don’t tell me the truth!” But to her story she stuck, swearing by numerous gods, some of whom were unfamiliar to Leslie, that she knew nothing whatever of the pistol except that it had been brought there by a perfect stranger who she thought was a friend of Peter Dawlish. To Leslie Maughan’s astonishment the inspector appeared to accept this story, and to find nothing venal in the act of concealment. “You did a very foolish thing, Mrs. Inglethorne. The next time a perfect stranger comes and asks you to conceal firearms in your lodger’s room, you had better notify the police.” He slipped the pistol into his pocket, and looked round for Elizabeth, but she had vanished. “That lets you out, Dawlish,” he said. “At least, it does for the moment. If I were you, I would make an inspection of the room and see if there are other likely hiding places where stuff could be planted.” He had a consultation with the local inspector, and then he and Leslie walked back to their cab.