“See who’s there, will you, Bruce?” said Robin. “Suppose it’s the police ...” began the boy. Robin shrugged his shoulders. “You can say I’m at home and ask them in,” he said. He heard the heavy oaken door swing open, a murmur of voices in the hall. The next moment Detective-Inspector Manderton entered the sitting-room. CHAPTER XIX. MR. MANDERTON LAYS HIS CARDS ON THE TABLE The detective’s manner had undergone some subtle change which Robin, watching him closely as he came into the room, was quick to note. Mr. Manderton made an effort to retain his old air of rather patronizing swagger; but he seemed less sure of himself than was his wont. In fact, he appeared to be a little anxious. He walked briskly into the sitting-room and looked quickly from Bruce to Robin. “Mr. Greve,” he said, “you can help me if you will by answering a few questions ...” With another glance at Bruce Wright he added: “... in private.” Bruce, obedient to a sign from Robin, said he would ring up in the morning and prepared to take his leave. Robin turned to the detective. “There are some of your men, I believe,” he said coldly, “watching this house. Would it be asking too much to request that my friend here might be permitted to return home unescorted?” “He needn’t worry,” replied Manderton with a significant smile. “There’s no one outside now!...” They watched Bruce Wright pass into the hall and collect his hat and coat. As the front door slammed behind him, the detective added: “I took ’em off myself soon after seven o’clock!” “Why?” asked Robin bluntly. Mr. Manderton dropped his heavy form into a chair. “I’m a plain man, Mr. Greve,” he said, “and I’m not above owning to it, I hope, when I’m wrong. For some little time now it has struck me that our lines of investigation run parallel ...” “Instead of crossing!” “Instead of crossing—exactly!” “It’s a pity you did not grasp that very obvious fact earlier,” observed Robin pointedly. Mr. Manderton crossed one leg over the other and, his finger-tips pressed together, looked at Robin. “Will you help me?” he asked simply. “Do you want my help?” Mr. Manderton nodded. “Allies, then?” “Allies it is!” Robin pointed to the table. “It’s dry work talking,” he said. “Won’t you take a drink?” “Thanks, I don’t drink. But I’ll have a cigar if I may. Thank you!” The detective helped himself to a cheroot from a box on the table and lit up. Then, affecting to scan the end of his cigar with great attention, he asked abruptly: “What do you know of the woman calling herself Madame de Malpas?” Robin pursed up his lips rather disdainfully. “One of the late Mr. Parrish’s lady friends,” he replied. “I expect you know that!” “Do you know where she lives?” pursued the detective, ignoring the implied question. “She’s dead.” A flicker of interest appeared for an instant in Mr. Manderton’s keen eyes. “You’re sure of that?” “Certainly,” answered Robin. “Who told you?”