“That’s the natural conclusion to reach,” he said, “and I didn’t reach it! And why I didn’t reach it I don’t know! Just let me think this out, will ye?” The silence was unbroken until they reached Scotland Yard. “I’m still thinking it out,” he said dismally as he stepped out of the cab behind her and paid the taxi man. There was a bearded man in the hall, doctor written in every line of him. He was talking to the officer at the desk, and evidently Coldwell was being pointed out to him, for he walked to the door to meet the inspector as he entered. “You’re Mr. Coldwell? My name is Simmson. I am Doctor Simmson of Marylebone Road.” “Yes, Doctor?” said Coldwell, politely attentive. “A friend of mine has suggested that I should go to Scotland Yard and report rather a curious circumstance,” he said awkwardly. “I have never done such a thing before, and I’m a little at sea as to how I should begin. But I have a patient who is suffering from a gunshot wound, and I am not quite satisfied as to how she received her injury, which is a slight one.” Coldwell was all attention now. “Through the calf; no artery has been injured. And really, I feel I’m being terribly disloyal to a patient----” “What is her name?” asked Coldwell. “Mrs. Greta Gurden,” was the reply. CHAPTER XI. THE DOCUMENT The apartment that Greta Gurden occupied was on the first floor of a house in Portman Crescent. Hers was one of those artistic little flats that reflected every taste but her own. She slept in a red lacquer bed, ornamented by golden devils, a bargain acquired many years before in the Caledonian Market, and renovated by her own hands. Life is rather a tragedy for the lonely woman; there was a shadowy husband very much in the background, but he had either run away from her or was in a lunatic asylum or something equally unsatisfactory. She was one of the thousands who were endeavouring to keep an expensive establishment on an insufficient income. By profession she was a journalist; edited a mildly scurrilous little paper called _Mayfair Gossip_ which enjoyed a very limited circulation, and in truth took up very little of her time. It was certainly not in the paper’s interest that she fostered the delusion that her life was one of hectic gayety. For she was to be seen occasionally at the most exclusive night clubs; more frequently at less exclusive establishments of the same order, her visitations being governed entirely by the wealth and taste of her escort. And numerically she had many friends. Her expansiveness and lack of reticence had been tersely and uncharitably condemned into the vulgar word “gush.” Still, however it might sicken the more sophisticated, it was very pleasant to those who discovered from her for the first time how important or good looking or well dressed they were, what taste, discrimination, or tact they displayed upon every conceivable occasion, and how anxiously or impatiently Greta was looking forward to their next meeting.