She busied herself for some time changing her dress and removing the signs of her hasty journey from London. Her maid brought her dinner on a tray, and when she had finished she went again into her boudoir, and opening the drawer of her bureau she took out a slender-barrelled revolver. She looked at it for some time, carefully examined the chambers and into each dropped a nickel-tipped cartridge. She snapped back the hinged chamber and slipped the pistol into a pocket of her woollen cloak. She locked the bureau again and went out through the door and down the stairs. Her car was still waiting, but she turned to the servant who stood deferentially by the door. "Have the car put in the garage," she said; "I am going to see Mrs. Jackson." "Very good, my lady," said the man. CHAPTER IX T. B. Smith came down to Great Bradley with only one object in view. He knew that the solution to the mystery, not only of Farrington's disappearance, but possibly the identity of the mysterious Mr. Fallock, was to be found rather in this small town than in the metropolis. Scotland Yard was on its mettle. Within a space of seven days there had been two murders, a mysterious shooting, and a suicide so full of extraordinary features as to suggest foul play, without the police being in the position to offer a curious and indignant public the slightest resemblance of a clue. This, following as it had upon a shooting affray at the Docks, had brought Scotland Yard to a position of defence. "There are some rotten things being said about us," said the Chief Commissioner on the morning of T. B.'s departure. He threw a paper across the table, and T. B. picked it up with an enigmatic smile. He read the flaring column in which the intelligence of the police department was called into question, without a word, and handed the paper back to his chief. "I think we might solve all these mysteries in one swoop," he said. "I am going down to-day to inspect the Secret House--that is where one end of the solution lies." The Chief Commissioner looked interested. "It is very curious that you should be talking about that," he said. "I have had a report this morning from the chief constable of the county on that extraordinary menage." "And what has he to say about it?" Sir Gordon Billings shrugged his shoulders. "It is one of those vague reports which chief constables are in the habit of furnishing," he said, drily. "Apparently the owner is an American, an invalid, and is eccentric. More than this--and this will surprise you--he has been certified by competent medical authorities as being insane." "Insane?" T. B. repeated in surprise. "Insane," nodded the chief; "and he has all the privileges which the Lunacy Act confers upon a man. That is rather a facer." T. B. looked thoughtful. "I had a dim idea that I might possibly discover in the occupant one who was, at any rate, a close relative to Fallock."