A FRUITLESS SEARCH A light glowed in the hall, the door was opened and the doctor, in slippers and velvet coat, stood in the entrance. He showed no resentment nor did he have time to show it. "I want a word with you," said Beale. "Twenty if you wish," said the doctor cheerfully. "Won't you come in?" Beale was half-way in before the invitation was issued and followed the doctor to his study. "Are you alone?" he asked. "Quite alone. I have very few visitors. In fact, my last visitor was that unhappy man Jackson." "When did you see Miss Cresswell last?" The doctor raised his eyebrows. "By what right----?" he began. "Cut all that out," said Beale roughly. "When did you see Miss Cresswell last?" "I have not seen her to-day," said the doctor. "I have not been out of my flat since I came back from the inquest." "I should like to search your flat," said Beale. "Policeman, eh?" smiled the doctor. "Certainly you can search the flat if you have a warrant." "I have no warrant, but I shall search your flat." The doctor's face went dull red. "I suppose you know you are liable to an action for trespass?" "I know all about that," said Beale, "but if you have nothing to conceal, Dr. van Heerden, I don't see why you should object." "I don't object," shrugged the doctor, "search by all means. Where would you like to start? Here?" He pointed to three upright cases which stood at the end of the room nearest the door. "You will see nothing very pleasant here, they are anatomical models which have just arrived from Berlin. In fact, I have been trading with the enemy," he smiled. "They are screwed up, but I have a screwdriver here." Beale hesitated. "There is only another room," the doctor went on, "my bedroom, but you will not find her there." Beale twisted round like lightning. "Her?" he asked. "Who said Her?" "I gather you are looking for Miss Cresswell," said the doctor coolly. "You are searching for something, and you ask me when I saw her last. Who else could you be looking for?" "Quite right," he said quietly. "Let me show you the way." The doctor walked ahead and turned on the light in the inner bedroom. It was a large apartment, simply furnished with a small steel bed, a hanging wardrobe and a dressing-chest. Beyond that was his bath-room. Beale was making a casual survey of this when he heard the door of the bedroom click behind him. He turned round, jumped for the door, turned the handle and pulled, but it did not yield. As he did so he thought he heard a mutter of voices. "Open the door!" he cried, hammering on the panel. There was no answer. Then: "Mr. Beale!" His blood froze at the wild appeal in the tone, for it was the voice of Oliva Cresswell, and it came from the room he had quitted. He smashed at the panel but it was made of tough oak. His revolver was in his hand and the muzzle was against the lock when the handle turned and the door opened.