He nodded to the little group, and accompanied by McNorton left the room. "There goes a pretty bad man," said Kitson, "or I am no judge of character. He's an old lag, isn't he?" Beale nodded. "Murder," he said laconically. "He lived after his time. He should have been a contemporary of the Borgias." "A poisoner!" shuddered one of the under-secretaries. "I remember the case. He killed his nephew and defended himself on the plea that the youth was a degenerate, as he undoubtedly was." "He might have got that defence past in America or France," said Beale, "but unfortunately there was a business end to the matter. He was the sole heir of his nephew's considerable fortune, and a jury from the Society of Eugenics would have convicted him on that." He looked at his watch and turned his eyes to Kitson. "I presume Miss Cresswell is bored and has retired for the night," he said. "I'll find out in a moment," said Kitson. "Did you speak to her?" Beale nodded, and his eyes twinkled. "Did you make any progress?" "I broke the sad news to her, if that's what you mean." "You told her she was married to you? Good heavens! What did she say?" "Well, she didn't faint, I don't think she's the fainting kind. She is cursed with a sense of humour, and refused even to take a tragic view." "That's bad," said Kitson, shaking his head. "A sense of humour is out of place in a divorce court, and that is where your little romance is going to end, my friend." "I am not so sure," said Beale calmly, and the other stared at him. "You have promised me," he began, with a note of acerbity in his voice. "And you have advised me," said Beale. Kitson choked down something which he was going to say, but which he evidently thought was better left unsaid. "Wait," he commanded, "I will find out whether Miss Cresswell," he emphasized the words, "has gone to bed." He passed through the door to Oliva's sitting-room and was gone a few minutes. When he came back Beale saw his troubled face, and ran forward to meet him. "She's not there," said Kitson. "Not in her room?" "Neither in the sitting-room nor the bedroom. I have rung for her maid. Oh, here you are." Prim Minnie came through the bedroom door. "Where is your mistress?" "I thought she was with you, sir." "What is this?" said Beale, stooped and picked up a white kid glove. "She surely hasn't gone out," he said in consternation. "That's not a lady's glove, sir," said the girl, "that is a gentleman's." It was a new glove, and turning it over he saw stamped inside the words: "Glebler, Rotterdam." "Has anybody been here?" he asked. "Not to my knowledge, sir. The young lady told me she did not want me any more to-night." The girl hesitated. It seemed a veritable betrayal of her mistress to disclose such a sordid matter as the search for a pawn ticket. Beale noticed the hesitation. "You must tell me everything, and tell me quickly," he said.