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The consciousness of the horrid notoriety that had already attached itself to us was brought home to me once more when the taxi drew up at the house in Hilborough Square. I stepped out first to pay the driver, and Barbara following, with the latch-key ready in her hand, walked swiftly to the door, looking neither to the right nor left, opened it and disappeared into the hall; while the other two, lurking in the cab until the door was open, then darted across the pavement, entered and disappeared also. Nor was their hasty retreat unjustified. Lingering doggedly and looking about me with a sort of resentful defiance, I found myself a focus of observation. In the adjoining houses, not a window appeared to be unoccupied. The usually vacant foot-way was populous with loiterers whose interest in me and in the ill-omened house was undissembled; while raucous voices, strange to those quiet precincts, told me that the astute news-vendors had scented and exploited a likely market.

With ill-assumed indifference I entered the house and shut the door—perhaps rather noisily; and was about to enter the dining-room when I heard hurried steps descending the stairs and paused to look up. It was the woman—the cook’s sister, I think—who had been left to take care of the house while the servants were absent; and something of eagerness and excitement in her manner caused me to walk to the foot of the stairs to meet her.

“Is anything amiss?” I asked in a low voice as she neared the bottom of the flight.

She held up a warning finger, and coming close to me, whispered hoarsely:

“There’s two gentlemen upstairs, Sir, leastways they look like gentlemen, but they are really policemen.”

“What are they doing upstairs?” I asked.

“Just walking through the rooms and looking about. They came about a quarter of an hour ago, and when I let them in they said they were police officers and that they had come to search the premises.”

“Did they say anything about a warrant?”

“Oh, yes, Sir. I forgot about that. One of them showed me a paper and said it was a search warrant. So of course I couldn’t do anything. And then they started going through the house with their note-books like auctioneers getting ready for a sale.”

“I will go up and see them,” said I; “and meanwhile you had better let Mrs. Monkhouse know. Where did you leave them?”

“In the large back bedroom on the first floor,” she replied. “I think it was Mr. Monkhouse’s.”

On this I began quickly to ascend the stairs, struggling to control a feeling of resentment which, though natural enough, I knew to be quite unreasonable. Making my way direct to the dead man’s room, I entered and found two tall men standing before an open cupboard. They turned on hearing me enter and the elder of them drew a large wallet from his pocket.

“Mr. Mayfield, I think, Sir,” said he. “I am Detective Superintendent Miller and this is Detective-Sergeant Cope. Here is my card and this is the search warrant, if you wish to see it.”

I glanced at the document and returning it to him asked: “Wouldn’t it have been more in order if you had waited to show the warrant to Mrs. Monkhouse before beginning your search?”

“That is what we have done,” he replied, suavely. “We have disturbed nothing yet. We have just been making a preliminary inspection. Of course,” he continued, “I understand how unpleasant this search is for Mrs. Monkhouse and the rest of your friends, but you, Sir, as a lawyer will realize the position. That poor gentleman was poisoned with arsenic in this house. Somebody in this house had arsenic in his or her possession and we have got to see if any traces of it are left. After all, you know, Sir, we are acting in the interests of everybody but the murderer.”

This was so obviously true that it left me nothing to say. Nor was there any opportunity, for, as the superintendent concluded, Barbara entered the room. I looked at her a little anxiously as I briefly explained the situation. But there was no occasion. Pale and sombre of face, she was nevertheless perfectly calm and self-possessed and greeted the two officers without a trace of resentment; indeed, when the superintendent was disposed to be apologetic, she cut him short by exclaiming energetically: “But, surely, who should be more anxious to assist you than I? It is true that I find it incredible that this horrible crime could have been perpetrated by any member of my household. But it was perpetrated by somebody. And if, either here or elsewhere, I can help you in any way to drag that wretch out into the light of day, I am at your service, no matter who the criminal may be. Do you wish any one to attend you in your search?”

“I think, Madam, it would be well if you were present, and perhaps Mr. Mayfield. If we want any of the others, we can send for them. Where are they now?”

“Miss Norris and Mr. Wallingford are in the dining room. The servants have just come in and I think have gone to the kitchen or their sitting room.”

“Then,” said Miller, “we had better begin with the dining room.”

We went down the stairs, preceded by Barbara, who opened the dining room door and introduced the visitors to the two inmates in tones as quiet and matter-of-fact as if she were announcing the arrival of the gas-fitter or the upholsterer. I was sorry that the other two had not been warned, for the announcement took them both by surprise and they were in no condition for surprises of this rather alarming kind. At the word “search,” Madeline started up with a smothered exclamation and then sat down again, trembling and pale as death; while as for Wallingford, if the two officers had come to pinion him and lead him forth to the gallows, he could not have looked more appalled.

Our visitors were scrupulously polite, but they were also keenly observant and I could see that each had made a mental note of the effect of their arrival. But, of course, they made no outward sign of interest in any of us but proceeded stolidly with their business; and I noticed that, before proceeding to a detailed inspection, they opened their note-books and glanced through what was probably a rough inventory, to see that nothing had been moved in the interval since their preliminary inspection.

The examination of the dining room was, however, rather perfunctory. It contained nothing that appeared to interest them, and after going through the contents of the sideboard cupboards methodically, the superintendent turned a leaf of his note-book and said:

“I think that will do, Madam. Perhaps we had better take the library next. Who keeps the keys of the bureau and the cupboard?”

“Mr. Wallingford has charge of the library,” replied Barbara. “Will you give the superintendent your keys, Tony?”

“There’s no need for that,” said Miller. “If Mr. Wallingford will come with us, he can unlock the drawers and cupboard and tell us anything that we want to know about the contents.”

Wallingford rose with a certain alacrity and followed us into the library, which adjoined the dining room. Here the two officers again consulted their note-books, and having satisfied themselves that the room was as they had left it, began a detailed survey, watched closely and with evident anxiety by Wallingford. They began with a cupboard, or small armoire, which formed the upper member of a large, old-fashioned bureau. Complying with Miller’s polite request that it might be unlocked, Wallingford produced a bunch of keys, and, selecting from it, after much nervous fumbling, a small key, endeavoured to insert it into the keyhole; but his hand was in such a palsied condition that he was unable to introduce it.

“Shall I have a try, Sir?” the superintendent suggested, patiently, adding with a smile, “I don’t smoke quite so many cigarettes as you seem to.”

His efforts, however, also failed, for the evident reason that it was the wrong key. Thereupon he looked quickly through the bunch, picked out another key and had the cupboard open in a twinkling, revealing a set of shelves crammed with a disorderly litter of cardboard boxes, empty ink-bottles, bundles of letters and papers and the miscellaneous rubbish that accumulates in the receptacles of a thoroughly untidy man. The superintendent went through the collection methodically, emptying the shelves, one at a time, on to the flap of the bureau, where he and the sergeant sorted the various articles and examining each, returned it to the shelf. It was a tedious proceeding and, so far as I could judge, unproductive, for, when all the shelves had been looked through and every article separately inspected, nothing was brought to light save an empty foolscap envelope which had apparently once contained a small box and was addressed to Wallingford, and two pieces of what looked like chemist’s wrapping-paper, the creases in which showed that they had been small packets. These were not returned to the shelves, but, without comment, enclosed in a large envelope on which the superintendent scribbled a few words with a pencil and which was then consigned to a large handbag that the sergeant had brought in with him from the hall.

The large drawers of the bureau were next examined. Like the shelves, they were filled with a horrible accumulation of odds and ends which had evidently been stuffed into them to get them out of the way. From this collection nothing was obtained which interested the officers, who next turned their attention to the small drawers and pigeonholes at the back of the flap. These, however, contained nothing but stationery and a number of letters, bills and other papers, which the two officers glanced through and replaced. When all the small drawers and pigeonholes had been examined, the superintendent stood up, fixing a thoughtful glance at the middle of the range of drawers; and I waited expectantly for the next development. Like many old bureaus, this one had as a central feature a nest of four very small drawers enclosed by a door. I knew the arrangement very well, and so, apparently, did the superintendent; for, once more opening the top drawer, he pulled it right out and laid it on the writing flap. Then, producing from his pocket a folding foot-rule, he thrust it into one of the pigeonholes, showing a depth of eight and a half inches, and then into the case of the little drawer, which proved to be only a fraction over five inches deep.

“There is something more here than meets the eye,” he remarked pleasantly. “Do you know what is at the back of those drawers, Mr. Wallingford?”

The unfortunate secretary, who had been watching the officer’s proceedings with a look of consternation, did not reply for a few moments, but remained staring wildly at the aperture from which the drawer had been taken out.

“At the back?” he stammered, at length. “No, I can’t say that I do. It isn’t my bureau, you know. I only had the use of it.”

“I see,” said Miller. “Well, I expect we can soon find out.”

He drew out a second drawer and, grasping the partition between the two, gave a gentle pull, when the whole nest slid easily forward and came right out of its case. Miller laid it on the writing flap, and, turning it round, displayed a sliding lid at the back, which he drew up; when there came into view a set of four little drawers similar to those in front but furnished with leather tabs instead of handles. Miller drew out the top drawer and a sudden change in the expression on his face told me that he had lighted on something that seemed to him significant.

“Now I wonder what this is?” said he, taking from the drawer a small white-paper packet. “Feels like some sort of powder. You say you don’t know anything about it, Mr. Wallingford?”

Wallingford shook his head but made no further reply, whereupon the superintendent laid the packet on the flap and very carefully unfolded the ends—it had already been opened—when it was seen that the contents consisted of some two or three teaspoonfuls of a fine, white powder.

“Well,” said Miller, “we shall have to find out what it is. Will you pass me that bit of sealing-wax, Sergeant?”

He reclosed the packet with the greatest care and having sealed both the ends with his signet-ring, enclosed it in an envelope and put it into his inside breast pocket. Then he returned to the little nest of drawers. The second drawer was empty, but on pulling out the third, he uttered an exclamation.

“Well, now! Look at that! Somebody seems to have been fond of physic. And there’s no doubt as to what this is. Morphine hydrochlor, a quarter of a grain.”

As he spoke, he took out of the drawer a little bottle filled with tiny white discs or tablets and bearing on the label the inscription which the superintendent had read out. Wallingford gazed at it with a foolish expression of surprise as Miller held it up for our—and particularly Wallingford’s—inspection; and Barbara, I noticed, cast at the latter a side-long, inscrutable glance which I sought in vain to interpret.

“Morphine doesn’t seem much to the point,” Miller remarked as he wrapped the little bottle in paper and bestowed it in his inner pocket, “but, of course, we have only got the evidence of the label. It may turn out to be something else, when the chemical gentlemen come to test it.”

With this he grasped the tab of the bottom drawer and drew the latter out; and in a moment his face hardened. Very deliberately, he picked out a small, oblong envelope, which appeared once to have contained a box or hard packet, but was now empty. It had evidently come through the post and was addressed in a legible business hand to “A. Wallingford Esq., 16 Hilborough Square.” Silently the superintendent held it out for us all to see, as he fixed a stern look on Wallingford. “You observe, Sir,” he said, at length, “that the post-mark is dated the 20th of August; only about a month ago. What have you to say about it?”

“Nothing,” was the sullen reply. “What comes to me by post is my affair. I am not accountable to you or anybody else.”

For a moment, the superintendent’s face took on a very ugly expression. But he seemed to be a wise man and not unkindly, for he quickly controlled his irritation and rejoined without a trace of anger, though gravely enough:

“Be advised by me, Mr. Wallingford, and don’t make trouble for yourself. Let me remind you what the position is. In this house a man has died from arsenic poisoning. The police will have to find out how that happened and if any one is open to the suspicion of having poisoned him. I have come here to-day for that purpose with full authority to search this house. In the course of my search I have asked you for certain information, and you have made a number of false statements. Believe me, Sir, that is a very dangerous thing to do. It inevitably raises the question why those false statements should have been made. Now, I am going to ask you one or two questions. You are not bound to answer them, but you will be well advised to hold nothing back, and, above all, to say nothing that is not true. To begin with that packet of powder. What do you say that packet contains?”

Wallingford, who characteristically, was now completely cowed by the superintendent’s thinly-veiled threats, hung his head for a moment and then replied, almost inaudibly, “Cocaine.”

“What were you going to do with cocaine?” Miller asked.

“I was going to take a little of it for my health.”

The superintendent smiled faintly as he demanded:

“And the morphine tablets?”

“I had thought of taking one of them occasionally to—er—to steady my nerves.”

Miller nodded, and casting a swift glance at the sergeant, asked:

“And the packet that was in this envelope: what did that contain?”

Wallingford hesitated and was so obviously searching for a plausible lie that Miller interposed, persuasively: “Better tell the truth and not make trouble”; whereupon Wallingford replied in a barely audible mumble that the packet had contained a very small quantity of cocaine.

“What has become of that cocaine?” the superintendent asked.

“I took part of it; the rest got spilt and lost.”

Miller nodded rather dubiously at this reply and then asked:

“Where did you get this cocaine and the morphine?”

Wallingford hesitated for some time and at length, plucking up a little courage again, replied:

“I would rather not answer that question. It really has nothing to do with your search. You are looking for arsenic.”

Miller reflected for a few moments and then rejoined, quietly:

“That isn’t quite correct, Mr. Wallingford. I am looking for anything that may throw light on the death of Mr. Monkhouse. But I don’t want to press you unduly, only I would point out that you could not have come by these drugs lawfully. You are not a doctor or a chemist. Whoever supplied you with them was acting illegally and you have been a party to an illegal transaction in obtaining them. However, if you refuse to disclose the names of the persons who supplied them, we will let the matter pass, at least for the present; but I remind you that you have had these drugs in your possession and that you may be, and probably will be compelled to give an account of the way in which you obtained them.”

With that he pocketed the envelope, closed the drawers and turned to make a survey of the room. There was very little in it, however, for the bureau and its surmounting cupboard were the only receptacles in which anything could be concealed, the whole of the walls being occupied by open book-shelves about seven feet high. But even these the superintendent was not prepared to take at their face value. First, he stood on a chair and ran his eye slowly along the tops of all the shelves; then he made a leisurely tour of the room, closely inspecting each row of books, now and again taking one out or pushing one in against the back of the shelves. A set of box-files was examined in detail, each one being opened to ascertain that it contained nothing but papers, and even one or two obvious portfolios were taken out and inspected. Nothing noteworthy, however, was brought to light by this rigorous search until the tour of inspection was nearly completed. The superintendent was, in fact, approaching the door when his attention was attracted by a row of books which seemed to be unduly near the front edge of the shelf. Opposite this he halted and began pushing the books back, one at a time. Suddenly I noticed that one of the books, on being pushed, slid back about half an inch and stopped as if there were something behind it. And there was. When the superintendent grasped the book and drew it out, there came into view, standing against the back of the shelf, a smallish bottle, apparently empty, and bearing a white label.

“Queer place to keep a bottle,” Miller remarked, adding, with a smile, “unless it were a whiskey bottle, which it isn’t.” He drew it out, and after looking at it suspiciously and holding it up to the light, took out the cork and sniffed at it. “Well,” he continued, “it is an empty bottle and it is labelled ‘Benzine.’ Do you know anything about it, Mr. Wallingford?”

“No, I don’t,” was the reply. “I don’t use benzine, and if I did I should not keep it on a book-shelf. But I don’t see that it matters much. There isn’t any harm in benzine, is there?”

“Probably not,” said Miller; “but, you see, the label doesn’t agree with the smell. What do you say, Mrs. Monkhouse?”

He once more drew out the cork and held the bottle towards her. She took it from him and having smelled at it, replied promptly:

“It smells to me like lavender. Possibly the bottle has had lavender water in it, though I shouldn’t, myself, have chosen a benzine bottle to keep a perfume in.”

“I don’t think it was lavender water,” said the superintendent. “That, I think, is nearly colourless. But the liquid that was in this bottle was red. As I hold it up to the light, you can see a little ring of red round the edge of the bottom. I daresay the chemists will be able to tell us what was in the bottle, but the question now is, who put it there? You are sure you can’t tell us anything about it, Mr. Wallingford?”

“I have never seen it before, I assure you,” the latter protested almost tearfully. “I know nothing about it, whatsoever. That is the truth, Superintendent; I swear to God it is.”

“Very well, Sir,” said Miller, writing a brief note on the label and making an entry in his note-book. “Perhaps it is of no importance after all. But we shall see. I think we have finished this room. Perhaps, Sergeant, you might take a look at the drawing room while I go through Mr. Monkhouse’s room. It will save time. And I needn’t trouble you any more just at present, Mr. Wallingford.”

The secretary retired, somewhat reluctantly, to the dining room while Barbara led the way to the first floor. As we entered the room in which that unwitnessed tragedy had been enacted in the dead of the night, I looked about me with a sort of shuddering interest. The bed had been stripped, but otherwise nothing seemed to be changed since I had seen the room but a few days ago when it was still occupied by its dread tenant. The bedside table still bore its pathetic furnishings; the water-bottle, the little decanter, the books, the candle-box, the burnt-out lamp, the watch—though that ticked no longer, but seemed, with its motionless hands, to echo the awesome stillness that pervaded that ill-omened room.

As the superintendent carried out his methodical search, joined presently by the sergeant, Barbara came and stood by me with her eyes fixed gloomily on the table.

“Were you thinking of him, Rupert?” she whispered. “Were you thinking of that awful night when he lay here, dying, all alone, and I— Oh! the thought of it will haunt me every day of my life until my time comes, too, however far off that may be.”

I was about to make some reply, as consolatory as might be, when the superintendent announced that he had finished and asked that Wallingford might be sent for to be present at the examination of his room. I went down to deliver the message, and, as it would have appeared intrusive for me to accompany him, I stayed in the dining room with Madeline, who, though she had recovered from the shock of the detectives’ arrival, was still pale and agitated.

“Poor Tony seemed dreadfully upset when he came back just now,” she said. “What was it that happened in the library?”

“Nothing very much,” I answered. “The superintendent unearthed his little stock of dope; which, of course, was unpleasant for him, but it would not have mattered if he had not been fool enough to lie about it. That was a fatal thing to do, under the circumstances.”

As Wallingford seemed not to have said anything about the bottle, I made no reference to it, but endeavoured to distract her attention from what was going on in the house by talking of other matters. Nor was it at all difficult; for the truth is that we all, with one accord, avoided any reference to the horrible fact which was staring us in the face, and of which we must all have been fully conscious. So we continued a somewhat banal conversation, punctuated by pauses in which our thoughts stole secretly back to the hideous realities, until, at length, Wallingford returned, pale and scowling, and flung himself into an arm-chair. Madeline looked at him inquiringly, but as he offered no remark but sat in gloomy silence, smoking furiously, she asked him no questions, nor did I.

A minute or two later, Barbara came into the room, quietly and with an air of calm self-possession that was quite soothing in the midst of the general emotional tension.

“Do you mind coming up, Madeline?” she said. “They are examining your room and they want you to unlock the cupboard. You have your keys about you, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Madeline replied, rising and taking from her pocket a little key-wallet. “That is the key. Will you take it up to them?”

“I think you had better come up yourself,” Barbara replied. “It is very unpleasant but, of course, they have to go through the formalities, and we must not appear unwilling to help them.”

“No, of course,” said Madeline. “Then I will come with you, but I should like Rupert to come, too, if he doesn’t mind. Will you?” she asked, looking at me appealingly. “Those policemen make me feel so nervous.”

Of course, I assented at once; and as Wallingford, muttering “Damned impertinence! Infernal indignity!” rose to open the door for us, we passed out and took our way upstairs.

“I am sorry to trouble you, Miss Norris,” said Miller, in a suave tone, as we entered, “but we must see everything if only to be able to say that we have. Would you be so kind as to unlock this cupboard?”

He indicated a narrow cupboard which occupied one of the recesses by the chimney-breast, and Madeline at once inserted the key and threw open the door. The interior was then seen to be occupied by shelves, of which the lower ones were filled, tidily enough, with an assortment of miscellaneous articles—shoes, shoe-trees, brushes, leather bags, cardboard boxes, note-books and other “oddments”—while the top shelf seemed to have been used as a repository for jars, pots and bottles, of which several appeared to be empty. It was this shelf which seemed to attract the superintendent’s attention and he began operations by handing out its various contents to the sergeant, who set them down on a table in orderly rows. When they were all set out and the superintendent had inspected narrowly and swept his hand over the empty shelf, the examination of the jars and bottles began.

The procedure was very methodical and thorough. First, the sergeant picked up a bottle or jar, looked it over carefully read the label if there was one, uncovered or uncorked it, smelled it and passed it to the superintendent, who, when he had made a similar inspection, put it down at the opposite end of the table.

“Can you tell us what this is?” Miller asked, holding out a bottle filled with a thickish, nearly black liquid.

“That is caramel,” Madeline replied. “I use it in my cookery classes and for cooking at home, too.”

The superintendent regarded the bottle a little dubiously but set it down at the end of the table without comment. Presently he received from the sergeant a glass jar filled with a brownish powder.

“There is no label on this,” he remarked, exhibiting it to Madeline.

“No,” she replied. “It is turmeric. That also is used in my classes; and that other is powdered saffron.”

“I wonder you don’t label them,” said Miller. “It would be easy for a mistake to occur with all these unlabelled bottles.”

“Yes,” she admitted, “they ought to be labelled. But I know what each of them is, and they are all pretty harmless. Most of them are materials that are used in cookery demonstrations, but that one that you have now is French chalk, and the one the sergeant has is pumice-powder.”

“H’m,” grunted Miller, dipping his finger into the former and rubbing it on his thumb; “what would happen if you thickened a soup with French chalk or pumice-powder? Not very good for the digestion, I should think.”

“No, I suppose not,” Madeline agreed, with the ghost of a smile on her pale face. “I must label them in future.”

During this colloquy I had been rapidly casting my eye over the collection that still awaited examination, and my attention had been almost at once arrested by an empty bottle near the end of the row. It looked to me like the exact counterpart of the bottle which had been found in the library; a cylindrical bottle of about the capacity of half a pint, or rather less, and like the other, labelled in printed characters “Benzine.”

But mine was not the only eye that had observed it. Presently, I saw the sergeant pick it up—out of its turn—scrutinize it suspiciously, hold it up to the light, take out the cork and smell both it and the bottle, and then, directing the latter, telescope-fashion, towards the window, inspect the bottom by peering in through the mouth. Finally, he clapped in the cork with some emphasis, and with a glance full of meaning handed the bottle to the superintendent.

The latter repeated the procedure in even more detail. When he had finished, he turned to Madeline with a distinctly inquisitorial air.

“This bottle, Miss Norris,” said he, “is labelled ‘Benzine.’ But it was not benzine that it contained. Will you kindly smell it and tell me what you think it did contain. Or perhaps you can say off-hand.”

“I am afraid I can’t,” she replied. “I have no recollection of having had any benzine and I don’t remember this bottle at all. As it is in my cupboard I suppose I must have put it there, but I don’t remember having ever seen it before. I can’t tell you anything about it.”

“Well, will you kindly smell it and tell me what you think it contained?” the superintendent persisted, handing her the open bottle. She took it from him apprehensively, and, holding it to her nose, took a deep sniff; and instantly her already pale face became dead white to the very lips.

“It smells of lavender,” she said in a faint voice.

“So I thought,” said Miller. “And now, Miss Norris, if you will look in at the mouth of the bottle against the light you will see a faint red ring round the bottom. Apparently, the liquid that the bottle contained was a red liquid. Moreover, if you hold the bottle against the light and look through the label, you can see the remains of another label under it. There is only a tiny scrap of it left, but it is enough for us to see that it was a red label. So it would seem that the liquid was a poisonous liquid—poisonous enough to require a red poison label. And then you notice that this red poison label seems to have been scraped off and the benzine label stuck on over the place where it had been, although, as the lavender smell and the red stain clearly show, the bottle never had any benzine in it at all. Now, Miss Norris, bearing those facts in mind, I ask you if you can tell me what was in that bottle.”

“I have told you,” Madeline replied with unexpected firmness, “that I know nothing about this bottle. I have no recollection of ever having seen it before. I do not believe that it ever belonged to me. It may have been in the cupboard when I first began to use it. At any rate, I am not able to tell you anything about it.”

The superintendent continued to look at her keenly, still holding the bottle. After a few moments’ silence he persisted:

“A red, poisonous liquid which smells of lavender. Can you not form any idea as to what it was?”

I was about to enter a protest—for the question was really not admissible—when Madeline, now thoroughly angry and quite self-possessed, replied, stiffly: “I don’t know what you mean. I have told you that I know nothing about this bottle. Are you suggesting that I should try to guess what it contained?”

“No,” he rejoined hastily; “certainly not. A guess wouldn’t help us at all. If you really do not know anything about the bottle, we must leave it at that. You always keep this cupboard locked, I suppose?”

“Usually. But I am not very particular about it. There is nothing of value in the cupboard, as you see, and the servants are quite trustworthy. I sometimes leave the key in the door, but I don’t imagine that anybody ever meddles with it.”

The superintendent took the key out of the lock and regarded it attentively. Then he examined the lock itself, and I also took the opportunity of inspecting it. Both the lock and the key were of the simplest kind, just ordinary builder’s fittings, which, so far as any real security was concerned, could not be taken seriously. In the absence of the key, a stiff wire or a bent hair-pin would probably have shot the little bolt quite easily, as I took occasion to remark to the superintendent, who frankly agreed with me.

The bottle having been carefully wrapped up and deposited in the sergeant’s hand-bag, the examination was resumed; but nothing further of an interesting or suspicious character was discovered among the bottles or jars. Nor did the sorting-out of the miscellaneous contents of the lower shelves yield anything remarkable with a single exception. When the objects on the lowest shelf had been all taken out, a small piece of white paper was seen at the back, and on this Miller pounced with some eagerness. As he brought it out I could see that it was a chemist’s powder paper, about six inches square (when Miller had carefully straightened it out), and the creases which marked the places where it had been folded showed that it had contained a mass of about the bulk of a dessert-spoonful. But what attracted my attention—and the superintendent’s—was the corner of a red label which adhered to a torn edge in company with a larger fragment of a white label on which the name or description of the contents had presumably been written or printed. Miller held it out towards Madeline, who looked at it with a puzzled frown.

“Do you remember what was in this paper, Miss Norris?” the former asked.

“I am afraid I don’t,” she replied.

“H’m,” grunted Miller; “I should have thought you would. It seems to have been a good-sized powder and it had a poison label in addition to the descriptive label. I should have thought that would have recalled it to your memory.”

“So should I,” said Madeline. “But I don’t remember having bought any powder that would be labelled ‘poison.’ It is very odd; and it is odd that the paper should be there. I don’t usually put waste paper into my cupboard.”

“Well, there it is,” said Miller; “but if you can’t remember anything about it, we must see if the analysts can find out what was in it.” With which he folded it and having put it into an envelope, bestowed it in his pocket in company with his other treasures.

This was the last of the discoveries. When they had finished their inspection of Madeline’s room the officers went on to Barbara’s, which they examined with the same minute care as they had bestowed on the others, but without bringing anything of interest to light. Then they inspected the servants’ bedrooms and finally the kitchen and the other premises appertaining to it, but still without result. It was a tedious affair and we were all relieved when, at last, it came to an end. Barbara and I escorted the two detectives to the street door, at which the superintendent paused to make a few polite acknowledgments.

“I must thank you, Madam,” said he, “for the help you have given us and for the kind and reasonable spirit in which you have accepted a disagreeable necessity. I assure you that we do not usually meet with so much consideration. A search of this kind is always an unpleasant duty to carry out and it is not made any more pleasant by a hostile attitude on the part of the persons concerned.”

“I can understand that,” replied Barbara; “but really the thanks are due from me for the very courteous and considerate way in which you have discharged what I am sure must be a most disagreeable duty. And of course, it had to be; and I am glad that it has been done so thoroughly. I never supposed that you would find what you are seeking in this house. But it was necessary that the search should be made here if only to prove that you must look for it somewhere else.”

“Quite so, Madam,” the superintendent returned, a little drily; “and now I will wish you good afternoon and hope that we shall have no further occasion to trouble you.”

As I closed the street door and turned back along the hall, the dining room door—apparently already ajar—opened and Madeline and Wallingford stepped out; and I could not help reflecting, as I noted their pale, anxious faces and shaken bearing, how little their appearance supported the confident, optimistic tone of Barbara’s last remarks. But, at any rate, they were intensely relieved that the ordeal was over, and Wallingford even showed signs of returning truculence. Whatever he was going to say, however, was cut short by Barbara, who, passing the door and moving towards the staircase, addressed me over her shoulder.

“Do you mind coming up to my den, Rupert? I want to ask your advice about one or two things.”

The request seemed a little inopportune; but it was uttered as a command and I had no choice but to obey. Accordingly, I followed Barbara up the stairs, leaving the other two in the hall, evidently rather disconcerted by this sudden retreat. At the turn of the stairs I looked down on the two pale faces. In Madeline’s I seemed to read a new apprehensiveness, tinged with suspicion; on Wallingford’s a scowl of furious anger which I had no patience to seek to interpret.