The latter smiled at Bathurst’s keenness. “Perhaps,” he rejoined. “For the moment I would rather concentrate on my own little idea and stick to that. You’re inclined, if you’ll allow me to say so, Mr. Bathurst, to _imagine_ ‘data.’ I prefer to work upon the ‘data’ that lie in front of me. It’s usually a more profitable proposition, I find.” He glanced at the Crown Prince and thence to Daphne Carruthers and Anthony read unmistakably the marks of approval in their eyes. Before he could reply to Bannister’s sally—a smart young constable entered and announced Captain Willoughby. Mr. Bathurst eyed the newcomer with more than ordinary interest. He saw a tall, well-groomed man who was plainly not looking at his best. His finely-cut features, beautifully even teeth and glossy raven hair gave him a patrician appearance that was marred on this particular morning by the pallor and anxiety of his face. “Chief-Inspector Bannister?” he inquired—then as his eyes caught sight of the Crown Prince of Clorania and Miss Carruthers, his apprehension seemed to increase. “Good morning”—he bowed to the two whom he knew. “Good morning,” said Bannister. “Sergeant Godfrey has told you what I want of you—hasn’t he?” Willoughby nodded—then broke in quickly and impetuously. “I feel certain you’re on the wrong track, Inspector,” he urged. “Miss Travers, my fiancée, is miles away from Seabourne——” “We shall see,” said Bannister interrupting him. “For your sake—I sincerely hope you’re right—naturally—but personally—I’m not so sure! Come this way.” He conducted them across the stone-flagged station-yard to the small building in the corner that served Seabourne as a mortuary. Anthony and Sergeant Godfrey followed—separated from Bannister by Captain Willoughby, his fingers working nervously round his silver-knobbed stick. The Crown Prince and Daphne brought up the rear—the lady apparently having to some extent overcome her reluctance. The Inspector gave orders for the door of the mortuary to be unlocked and they passed in—the Crown Prince and his lady still last. Captain Willoughby braced his well-knit shoulders and walked to the white slab bare-headed—hat in hand. For one nerve-shattering second his shoulders remained braced. Then the rigid tension of his body relaxed. “No—Inspector,” he said very quietly—his face ashen-pale—“this is not Miss Travers. This lady is a complete stranger to me.” Bannister threw him a shrewd and challenging glance. “Then I’m glad and sorry,” he declared. “Sorry, of course, to have troubled you so needlessly.” Willoughby bowed his thanks and as the light caught his face Anthony was able to discern the extent to which the ordeal had tried him. Then he noticed with surprise that the Crown Prince and Miss Carruthers had approached the white slab more closely. Daphne’s eyes were agleam with a mingled horror and excitement. “That girl, Inspector,” she cried uncontrollably, “I _can_ identify her—I know her well—it’s Sheila Delaney!!!” Chapter IX