"So soon? I suppose you knew her?" "Yes. Oh, yes." "Nice girl?" The agent bent over some papers. He seemed to be unable to bear Harcourt's steady glance. "She was exceedingly good-looking," he answered; "tall, elegant figure, head well poised, kind of a face you see in a Romney, high forehead, large eyes, small nose and mouth--sort of artist type." "Wore a lot of lace about the throat?" "What? You know that?" "Oh, don't be startled," said Harcourt. "There is her head in chalks you know, over the mantelpiece--" "Ah, true, true." "I wonder if it was she or some other lady who was in my flat last night at half-past eleven." Dibbin again started, stared at Harcourt, and groaned. "If it distresses you, I will talk of something else," said Harcourt. "Mr. Harcourt, you don't realize what this means to me. That block of buildings brings me an income. Any more talk of a ghost at No. 7 will cause dissatisfaction, and the proprietary company will employ another agency." "Now, let us be reasonable. Even if I hold a séance every night, I shall stick to my contract without troubling a board of directors. I am that kind of man. But, meantime, you should help me with information." Dibbin blinked, and dabbed his face with a handkerchief. "Ask me anything you like," he said. "When did Miss Barnes die?" "On July 28 of last year. She lived alone in the flat, employing a non-resident general servant. This woman left the flat at six o'clock on the previous evening. At half-past eight A. M. next day, when she tried to let herself in, the latch appeared to be locked. After some hours' delay, when nothing could be ascertained of Miss Barnes's movements, though she was due at a music-master's that morning and at a rehearsal in the afternoon, the door was forced, and it was discovered that the latch was not only locked but a lower bolt had been shot home, thus proving that the unhappy girl herself had taken this means of showing that her death was self-inflicted." "Why do you say that, if a coroner's jury brought in a verdict of 'Death from Misadventure'?" Mr. Dibbin's eyes shifted again slightly. "That was--er--what one calls--" "I see. The verdict was virtually one of suicide?" "It could not well be otherwise. She had purchased the sleeping-draft herself, but, unfortunately, fortified it with strychnine. How else could the precautions about the door be explained? That is the only means of egress. Each window is sixty feet from the ground." "Did she rent the flat herself?" "No. That is the only really mysterious circumstance about the affair. It was taken on a three years' agreement, and furnished for her, by a gentleman." "Who was he?" "No one knows. He paid cash in advance for everything." David was surprised. "Say, Mr. Dibbin," he queried, "how about the 'references' upon which the over-landlord insisted in my case?"