Now that he was in London, French decided that he should complete certain enquiries. First he should satisfy himself that everything possible had been done to trace the letter-writers of the Euston and St. Pancras hotels and the purchaser of the money order for £62.10.0. Next he must visit the manufacturers of the Ardlo magneto and get their views on short-circuited windings. Lastly he must have an interview with Mrs. Berlyn. As it happened, he took the last of these items first, and three o’clock that afternoon found him ascending the stairs of No. 70b Park Walk, Chelsea. The house was divided into a number of what seemed small but comfortable flats. Pretty expensive, French thought, as he rang. A neatly dressed maid opened the door and, after taking in his card, announced that Mrs. Berlyn would see him. He followed her to a tiny, but pleasantly furnished drawing room, and there in a few minutes he was joined by the lady of the house. French looked at her with some curiosity. Of medium height and with a slight, graceful figure, she still gave an impression of energy and competent efficiency. She was not beautiful, but her appearance was arresting and French felt instinctively that she was a woman to be reckoned with. Her manner was vivacious and French could imagine her dancing all night and turning up next morning to breakfast as cool and fresh and ready for anything as if she had had her accustomed eight hours’ sleep. “Inspector French, Scotland Yard,” she said, briskly, glancing at the card in her hand. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. French, and tell me what I can do for you?” “Thank you, Mrs. Berlyn. I am sorry to say I have called on distressing business. It may or may not concern your late husband. I am hoping for information from you which may decide the point.” The lady’s expression became grave. “Suppose you give me the details,” she suggested. “I am about to do so, but I warn you that you must prepare yourself for a shock. It is in connection with the tragedy by which Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke were believed to have lost their lives.” Mrs. Berlyn started and her gaze became fixed intently on French. “It has been discovered that Mr. Pyke was not lost on the moor as was supposed. Of Mr. Berlyn’s fate nothing new has been learnt. But I deeply regret to inform you that Mr. Pyke was murdered.” “Stanley Pyke murdered! Oh, impossible!” Horror showed on the lady’s face and her lips trembled. For a moment it looked as if she would give way to her emotion, but she controlled herself and asked for details. French told her exactly what had occurred, from the discovery of the crate to Jefferson Pyke’s identification of the birthmark.