“I think not. He's more likely to wait for instructions from his principal.” “His principal?” “Certainly. You don't think Soames did the murder, do you?” “No; but he's obviously an accessory.” “I'm not so sure even of that.” “Then why did he bolt?” “Because he had a guilty conscience.” “Yes,” agreed Sowerby; “it does turn out that way sometimes. At any rate, Stringer is after him, but he's got next to nothing to go upon. Has any reply been received from Mrs. Leroux in Paris?” “No,” answered Dunbar, frowning thoughtfully. “Her husband's wire would reach her first thing this morning; I am expecting to hear of a reply at any moment.” “They're a funny couple, altogether,” said Sowerby. “I can't imagine myself standing for Mrs. Sowerby spending her week-ends in Paris. Asking for trouble, I call it!” “It does seem a daft arrangement,” agreed Dunbar; “but then, as you say, they're a funny couple.” “I never saw such a bundle of nerves in all my life!”... “Leroux?” Sowerby nodded. “I suppose,” he said, “it's the artistic temperament! If Mrs. Leroux has got it, too, I don't wonder that they get fed up with one another's company.” “That's about the secret of it. And now, I shall be glad, Sowerby, if you will be after that taxi-man again. Report at one o'clock. I shall be here.” With his hand on the door-knob: “By the way,” said Sowerby, “who the blazes is Mr. King?” Inspector Dunbar looked up. “Mr. King,” he replied slowly, “is the solution of the mystery.” VII THE MAN IN THE LIMOUSINE The house of the late Horace Vernon was a modern villa of prosperous appearance; but, on this sunny September morning, a palpable atmosphere of gloom seemed to overlie it. This made itself perceptible even to the toughened and unimpressionable nerves of Inspector Dunbar. As he mounted the five steps leading up to the door, glancing meanwhile at the lowered blinds at the windows, he wondered if, failing these evidences and his own private knowledge of the facts, he should have recognized that the hand of tragedy had placed its mark upon this house. But when the door was opened by a white-faced servant, he told himself that he should, for a veritable miasma of death seemed to come out to meet him, to envelop him. Within, proceeded a subdued activity: somber figures moved upon the staircase; and Inspector Dunbar, having presented his card, presently found himself in a well-appointed library. At the table, whereon were spread a number of documents, sat a lean, clean-shaven, sallow-faced man, wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez; a man whose demeanor of business-like gloom was most admirably adapted to that place and occasion. This was Mr. Debnam, the solicitor. He gravely waved the detective to an armchair, adjusted his pince-nez, and coughed, introductorily. “Your communication, Inspector,” he began (he had the kind of voice which seems to be buried in sawdust packing), “was brought to me this morning, and has disturbed me immeasurably, unspeakably.”