"Produce them," I replied, and I made a movement as though I would signal to some porters who were standing near and would call upon them to judge between me and herself. The ruse succeeded. With a muttered curse the woman placed a small silver whistle to her lips and blew thereon a curious signal, rather low, but very penetrating and distinctive. The next moment she was answered. Two women in the uniform of hospital nurses appeared suddenly at the window, and, obeying a sign from their superior, they sprang into the carriage and took seats, one on one side of, and the other opposite to, Camille Velasquon, who, now fearing that I had muddled everything, began to cry in sober earnest. Undaunted, I held on to the course I had marked out for myself when I started. Turning to the woman, as the train once again steamed off, I said with ironical politeness: "I must really apologise for the scepticism with which I treated you. I see, now, that you have two assistants from Broadmoor, but why don't they wear Broadmoor uniforms?" "They do," she cried, and then she stopped and bit her lip. All at once she realised she had fallen into the pit I had dug so carelessly in front of her. "Oh no, indeed, they do not," I answered sweetly. "The uniforms which these women have on are only worn by nurses at Guy's Hospital. The fact is, I have been often to Broadmoor myself, and I know the nurses there wear a totally different garb." And I shot a glance out of the corner of my eyes at the pseudo-nurses themselves. One had flushed crimson, the other had gone deathly white, and was playing nervously with her pocket-handkerchief. They were impostors, I am certain. The woman in black, however, rose with magnificent impudence to the occasion. "You, sir," she said, "have been good enough to brand me with falsehood, and I have borne it without a murmur, striving only to prove to you, in the discharge of my duty, that I spoke fairly and truthfully. Now, however, you go too far when you attack my assistants. I repeat they are dressed properly, and I say that your statement that you have been often in our asylum, is so much fudge. Only doctors and police and inspectors from the Home Office go there as a regular rule." I waited for a moment before I answered, like a clever actor pauses before he puts in his most effective point. "You are impetuous, madam," I said, taking out my snuff-box with studied deliberation and pretending to take a pinch; "very impetuous. You ought to have asked who I was before you branded me, too, as an impostor. As a matter of fact, I do belong to the police. Here is my card." And I quietly produced a card of Detective-Inspector Naylor's which I happened to have in my waistcoat pocket.