“Yes, I’ll manage it.” “Right. Then I shall ring up Valentine.” Five hours later the two friends found their way into the strangers’ room of the Junior Services Club in Leeds. There in a few moments Chief Constable Valentine joined them, and soon they were settled in a private room with whiskies and sodas at their elbows and three of the excellent cigars the Chief Constable favoured between their lips. Mr. Tarkington propounded his theory in detail, explaining that he was not sure enough of his facts even to put forward a definite suspicion, but that he and his friend Oxley agreed that Major Valentine ought to know what was in his mind. The major could then, if he thought fit, investigate the affair. That the Chief Constable was impressed by the statement was obvious. He listened with the keenest interest, interjecting only an occasional “By Jove!” as Mr. Tarkington made his points. Then he thanked the two men for their information, and promised to institute inquiries into the whole matter without delay. Two days later Mr. Tarkington received a letter from Major Valentine saying that he thought it only fair to inform him in the strictest confidence that his belief that the safe was fireproof was well founded, that he, the Chief Constable, strongly suspected that more had taken place at Starvel on that tragic night than had come out in the inquest, and that as he considered the matter was rather outside the local men’s capacity he had applied to Scotland Yard for help in the investigation. Mr. Tarkington, honouring the spirit rather than the letter of the Chief Constable’s communication, showed the note to Mr. Oxley, and the two men sat over the former’s study fire until late that night, discussing possible developments in the situation. CHAPTER FOUR Inspector French Goes North The stone which Messrs. Tarkington and Oxley had thrown into the turbid waters of the British Police Administration produced ripples which, like other similar wave forms, spread slowly away from their point of disturbance. One of these ripples, penetrating into the grim fastness of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard, had the effect of ringing the bell of a telephone on the desk of Detective Inspector Joseph French and of causing that zealous and efficient officer, when he had duly applied his ear to the instrument, to leave his seat and proceed without loss of time to the room of his immediate superior. “Ah, French,” Chief Inspector Mitchell remarked on his entry. “You should be about through with that Kensington case, I fancy?” “Just finished with it, sir,” French answered. “I was putting the last of the papers in order when you rang.” “Well, you’ve had a lot of trouble with it and I should have liked to have given you a breather. But I’m afraid I can’t.” “Something come in, sir?”