Mr. Maverick Narkom, Superintendent of Scotland Yard, looked up from the letter he was perusing, a wrinkle in his brow and one hand spread out over the sheet to keep it open, as the sound of a soft knock broke through the stillness, and with an exasperation born of the knotty problem upon which he was at work, called out an irritable "Come in." Inspector Petrie's head appeared in the aperture, stiff hand at the salute. "I know you wasn't to be disturbed, sir," he began apologetically, "but there's a leddy come to see you. Seemed distressed, and said it was urgent, and begged me for the love of 'even to let her in." "And, being a religious man, you succumbed, of course," rapped out Mr. Narkom in a tone of exasperation. "Oh, well, where's her card? What with one thing and another, this morning's work has practically gone to blazes. Not a minute's peace, by James! What's the lady's name, Petrie?" Inspector Petrie came forward, a strip of pasteboard in his hand upon which was engraved a name and something written in a woman's hand underneath. "_Miss Maud Duggan._ H'm. Scotch, I take it. And what's this! _School friend of Miss Ailsa Lorne._--Ailsa Lorne, eh? Haven't heard from her in a month of Sundays. Said her business was important--eh, Petrie?" "Very important, sir." "Oh, well, then, show her up. This cipher business requires entire quiet, and so long as I can't seem to enforce that, I might as well attend to the matter in hand." "Very good, sir." Bowing, Petrie withdrew. Meanwhile Mr. Narkom slipped his arms into his coat--it was June, and the heat-wave had London in its grip, and allied with an equally warm problem he had thought himself fully justified in shedding it--and sat at his desk, drumming his fingers upon the top of it to the tune of "God Save the King." A moment later "Miss Maud Duggan" was standing before him--a slim, pale-faced woman with dark-ringed eyes and a twitching, nervous mouth. She came toward him, hands clasped over heaving breast, entire body aflame with the intensity of her quest. Mr. Narkom, waving her to a seat with none too much cordiality, mentally labelled her "highly strung," and seated himself with an effort to interest himself in what she had to say. "Miss Duggan, I believe?" he began, with a creditable attempt at cordiality. "Friend of Miss Lorne's?" "That's right," she said in a hesitating voice, with just a trace of Scotch accent that told of the part of the British Isles which gave her birth. "I _am_ a friend of Ailsa's--an old school friend--although we haven't seen each other for a matter of five years. But I wrote to her--when the trouble began--and she told me to come to you. Here is her letter, if you care to see it."