“Sergeant Godfrey!” Branston’s voice sounded outside. “You’re wanted on my telephone, downstairs.” “I’ll come with you,” said Bannister. “It may be news.” Godfrey took off the receiver, listened and replaced it. “It’s the ‘Lauderdale Hotel’—they think they can identify the lady. At my suggestion they’re sending the reception-clerk along to us immediately. He will be here any moment—the Manager’s coming along with him.” “Good,” said Bannister. “We are moving at last.” He offered his cigarette-case with a gesture of satisfaction to Sergeant Godfrey. And judging from the manner in which he selected a cigarette—Sergeant Godfrey thought so too! Chapter V John Martin’s Evidence For a few moments the two men smoked in silence, grateful doubtless for the short respite. The silence was soon disturbed by the ringing of the front door bell. Godfrey rose with an alert expectancy that he took no trouble to conceal. Bannister carefully shook his left trouser in an attempt to stabilise an immaculate crease. Mrs. Bertenshaw’s steps were heard hurrying to the front door to admit the two people whose visit had been so recently heralded by the telephone. Godfrey went to the door of the room and called down the hall. “Bring the two gentlemen in here, Mrs. Bertenshaw.” It was easy to see that the Manager of the “Lauderdale Hotel” was the man who entered first. A short, broad-shouldered, florid-faced man, he wore his dress-suit with that air of aggressive opulence that can only be captured with complete success by hotel managers, Sheikhs of the Box-office, and the gentlemen who hold undisputed sway in those cinemas usually designated as “super”—whatever that may mean. The reception-clerk was tall and thin and to all appearances, worried by the singular turn that events had taken. “Sergeant Godfrey?” questioned the first of the newcomers. Godfrey came forward to meet and to greet him. “I’m your man—Mr. Maynard—isn’t it?” “That’s right—and I’m pretty certain I’ve some news for you. Very likely the information you’re wanting. After your men had been round making those inquiries for you, I guessed it was something pretty serious that was engaging your attention. So I put a few feelers round my staff, off my own bat, so to speak and I reckon that Martin here has got something important to tell you. Of course, it may be a mare’s nest that I’m bringing you—but somehow I don’t think so.” He shifted his cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other with an adroitness that could only have been cultivated by assiduous practice. “Now, Martin,” he ordered rather imperiously, “spill your bib-ful.”