“Let’s have it, Godfrey!” “You said just now that we had only one person’s corroboration of Branston’s story of his temporary imprisonment in his work-room.” “That’s so—go on, I don’t see——” “Has it ever struck you that Mrs. Bertenshaw, the housekeeper who arrived so opportunely, shall we say, to release Branston—might just as easily have shot the bolt that held him prisoner? She was the only person that you can swear was in the house with Branston and the murdered girl.” He looked at Bannister anxiously—scanning the Inspector’s impassive face to see how his theory was being received. “By Jove,” whispered Bannister—almost to himself. Then he shook his head in disagreement. “Where did she get the poison from, Godfrey—have you thought of that?” Godfrey shrugged his shoulders. “Of course, I can’t answer that for the moment—but it might be answered in several ways.” “Have you looked her up at all? I’m relying on you for spade work,” asked Bannister. Godfrey was ready with his facts. “She’s a widow—lost her husband about nine years ago. She’s got one son—believed to be abroad—in India, I believe. She herself comes of a West Country family. Her maiden name was Warrimore.” “Nothing against her, then?” “Nothing.” “How do you explain the stolen notes getting to Branston? You can’t get away from Morley’s story.” “Suppose we go to see him, Inspector,” declared Godfrey. “I don’t think we can do better. We’ll go up by car at once. Get one sent up here, will you?” As they rounded the corner to Coolwater Avenue half an hour later, Bannister touched the Sergeant on the arm. “Something I’ve had on the tip of my tongue to ask you all day, Godfrey. Finger-prints! What results are there? I hear the report’s through—I’m told it came through this morning.” “Scarcely any help at all. The brass bolt on the door of the room where Branston was imprisoned, gave us Mrs. Bertenshaw and Branston himself. The glass gave us Branston and Miss Delaney. Nothing there, you see—that you wouldn’t naturally expect.” For the second time in a few days Bannister was admitted by Mrs. Bertenshaw and on this occasion he subjected her to a more careful scrutiny than on the occasion before. She piloted them into what was evidently Branston’s library. The Inspector seized the occasion to have a good look round. Like the other parts of the establishment that he had previously seen, it was handsomely furnished. Moreover, the books on the shelves displayed the discriminating taste of the cultured reader. A cough heralded Ronald Branston’s entry. “Good afternoon, gentlemen—what can I do for you—or is there news of importance?” His dark, good-looking face broke into a slight smile.