“All right, get into bed, Elizabeth.” He covered her up with the pitifully thin bedclothes, and without apology took Mrs. Inglethorne’s heavy coat that lay over the bed rail and put it on top. “Sleep well,” he said, and patted her cheek. She was safe for the night. What happened in the morning depended entirely on the view which Leslie Maughan took of a scheme that was beginning to take definite shape. Mrs. Inglethorne was a fence, a buyer of stolen property. He had lived too long in association with the worst criminals of England to have any doubt upon the point, and, squinting through the keyhole one day in his curiosity, he had seen enough to remove the last remnants of doubt that remained. He went to bed, determined to interview Leslie at the earliest opportunity, and it was not only on Elizabeth’s account that the thought pleased him. When he arrived at the flat in Charing Cross Road next morning, Lucretia did not recognize him, and scowled fearfully at the suggestion that he should be admitted. She looked at his shabby attire and shook her head. “It’s no good your trying to see Miss Maughan. You’d better call on her at Scotland Yard. She’s very busy now.” “Who is it, Lucretia?” Leslie was leaning over the rails of the landing; she could not see the visitor, but she could hear the uncompromising note in Lucretia’s voice. “A young man wants to see you, miss. What’s your name again? Dawlish.” “Oh, is that you, Peter Dawlish? Come up, will you?” Peter ran up the stairs, followed by the muttered protests of the maid. “You’re in time for breakfast. How are the envelopes going?” “They’re melting!” he said. He was conscious of a certain indefinable change in her tone. It was not that she was more serious, but there seemed some listlessness about her, as though she were tired. It was almost an effort to talk. She looked weary, he saw, when they passed from the dark landing, and he commented on this. “I’ve been up half the night,” she said, “wandering about in a very cold garden, watching an elderly lady searching the ground with an electric lamp. That sounds mysterious, doesn’t it?” She pointed to a chair and Peter sat down. “It sounds almost romantic. Where was this?” “At Wimbledon.” She waved the matter out of discussion. “Well,” she asked, “what brings you to West Central London at this unholy hour?” Her grave eyes were fixed on his; there was something of reproach in them, something of hurt. He was puzzled; he felt that he had fallen short in her estimation, that she was disappointed with him for some reason. So strong was this impression that he grew uncomfortable under her gaze, and as though she were aware of this, she dropped her eyes to the table and began slowly to stir her coffee. “I’ve come on a fool errand, with a wild and impossible suggestion.” And then he told her of what had happened overnight, of the merciless flogging which Mrs. Inglethorne had administered.