Captain Flannery got up and took a turn about the room. He was a simple man and the look on his face suggested that the complexities of his calling were growing irksome. He stopped in front of Eileen Enderby.

“So⁠—the elevator girl in the Kirk Building was Jennie Jerome? Then you lied a few minutes ago when you told Miss Morrow you hadn’t seen her?”

“You can’t hold that against her,” Enderby protested. “She’s come back of her own free will to tell you the truth.”

“But why didn’t she tell it in the first place?”

“One doesn’t care to become involved in a matter of this sort. That’s only natural.”

“All right, all right.” Flannery turned back to Mrs. Enderby. “You say you recognized this girl when you were going down in the elevator, on your way home after the dinner? And you let her see that you recognized her?”

“Oh, yes. I cried out in surprise: ‘Jennie! Jennie Jerome! What are you doing here?’ ”

“You saw what she was doing, didn’t you?”

“It was just one of those questions⁠—it didn’t mean anything.”

“Yeah. And what did she say?”

“She just smiled quietly and said: ‘Hello, Eileen. I was wondering if you’d know me.’ ”

“Then what?”

“There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask of course. Why she ran away that time⁠—where she had been⁠—But she wouldn’t answer, she just shook her head, still smiling, and said maybe some other time she’d tell me everything. And then she asked me if I’d do this⁠—this favor for her.”

“You mean, keep still about the fact that you’d seen her?”

“Yes. She said she’d done nothing wrong, but that if the story about how she left New York came out it might create a lot of suspicion⁠—”

“According to your husband, you made no promise?” Flannery said.

“No, I didn’t. Under ordinary conditions, of course, I’d have promised at once. But I thought of Sir Frederic’s murder, and it seemed to me a very serious thing she was asking. So I just said I’d think it over and let her know when I saw her again.”

“And have you seen her again?”

“No, I haven’t. It was all so strange. I hardly knew what to do.”

“Well, you’d better keep away from her,” Flannery suggested.

“I’ll keep away from her all right. I feel as though I’d betrayed her.” Eileen Enderby glanced accusingly at her husband.

“You were not in her debt,” said Enderby. “Lying’s a dangerous business in a matter of this kind.”

“You’re lucky, Mrs. Enderby,” said the Captain. “You’ve got a sensible husband. Just listen to him, and you’ll be OK. I guess that’s all now. You can go. Only keep this to yourself.”

“I’ll certainly do that,” the woman assured him. She rose.

“If I want you again, I’ll let you know,” Flannery added.

Chan opened the door for her. “May I be permitted respectful inquiry,” he ventured. “The beautiful garment marked by iron rust stains⁠—it was not ruined beyond reclaim?”

“Oh, not at all,” she answered. She paused, as though she felt that the matter called for an explanation. “When I saw that man on the fire-escape I became so excited I leaned against the garden railing. It was dripping with fog. Careless of me, wasn’t it?”

“In moment of stress, how easy to slip into careless act,” returned Chan. Bowing low, he closed the door after the Enderbys.

“Well,” said Flannery, “I guess we’re getting somewhere at last. Though if you ask me where, I can’t tell you. Anyhow, we know that Sir Frederic was looking for Jennie Jerome the night he was killed, and that Jennie Jerome was running an elevator just outside his door. By heaven, I’ve a notion to lock her up right now.”

“But you haven’t anything against her,” Miss Morrow objected. “You know that.”

“No, I haven’t. However, the newspapers are howling for an arrest. They always are. I could give ’em Jennie Jerome⁠—a pretty girl⁠—they’d eat it up. Then, if nothing else breaks against her, I could let her off, sort of quiet.”

“Such tactics are beneath you, Captain,” Miss Morrow said. “I trust that when we make an arrest, it will be based on something more tangible than any evidence we’ve got so far. Are you with me, Mr. Chan?”

“Undubitably,” Chan replied. He glanced up at the frowning face of the Captain. “If I may make humble suggestion⁠—”

“Of course,” agreed Miss Morrow.

But Chan, it seemed, changed his mind. He kept his humble suggestion to himself. “Patience,” he finished lamely, “always brightest plan in these matters. Acting as champion of that lovely virtue, I have fought many fierce battles. American has always the urge to leap too quick. How well it was said, retire a step and you have the advantage.”

“But these newspaper men⁠—” protested the Captain.

“I do not wish to infest the picture,” Chan smiled, “but I would like to refer to my own habit in similar situation. When newspapers rage, I put nice roll of cotton in the ears. Simmered down to truth, I am responsible party, not newspaper reporter. I tell him with exquisite politeness to fade off and hush down.”

“A good plan,” laughed Miss Morrow. She turned to Barry Kirk. “By the way, do you know anything about this elevator girl? Grace Lane was, I believe, the name she gave the other night.”

Kirk shook his head. “Not a thing. Except that she’s the prettiest girl we’ve ever employed in the building. I’d noticed that, of course.”

“I rather thought you had,” Miss Morrow said.

“Lady, I’m not blind,” he assured her. “I notice beauty anywhere⁠—in elevators, in cable cars⁠—even in a lawyer’s office. I tried to talk to this girl once or twice, but I didn’t get very far. If you like, I’ll try it again.”

“No, thanks. You’d probably be away off the subject.”

“Well, it all sounds mighty mysterious to me,” he admitted. “We thought Sir Frederic was on the trail of Eve Durand, and now it seems it must have been a couple of other women. The poor chap is gone, but he’s left a most appalling puzzle on my doorstep. You’re all such nice detectives⁠—I don’t want to hurt your feelings⁠—but will you kindly tell me whither we are drifting? Where are we getting? Nowhere, if you ask me.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Miss Morrow sighed.

“Maybe if I locked this woman up⁠—” began Flannery, attached to the idea.

“No, no,” Miss Morrow told him. “We can’t do that. But we can shadow her. And since she is one who has some talent for walking off into the night, I suggest that you arrange the matter without delay.”

Flannery nodded. “I’ll put the boys on her trail. I guess you’re right⁠—we might get on to something that way. But Mr. Kirk has said it⁠—we’re not progressing very fast. If there was only some clue I could get my teeth into⁠—”

Chan cut in. “Thanks for recalling my wandering ideas,” he said. “So much has happened the matter was obscure in my mind. I have something here that might furnish excellent teeth-hold.” He removed an envelope from his pocket and carefully extracted a folded sheet of paper and a picture postcard. “No doubt, Captain, you have more cleverness with fingerprints than stupid man like me. Could you say⁠—are these thumb prints identically the same?”

Flannery studied the two items. “They look the same to me. I could put our expert on them⁠—but say, what’s this all about?”

“Blank sheet of paper,” Chan explained, “arrive in envelope marked Scotland Yard. Without question Miss Morrow has told you?”

“Oh, yes⁠—she mentioned that. Somebody tampering with the mail, eh? And this thumb print on the postcard?”

“Bestowed there last night by digit of Paradise, Mr. Kirk’s butler,” Chan informed him.

Flannery jumped up. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Now we’re getting on. You’ve got the makings of a detective after all, Sergeant. Paradise, eh⁠—fooling with Uncle Sam’s mail. That’s good enough for me⁠—I’ll have him behind the bars in an hour.”

Chan lifted a protesting hand. “Oh, no⁠—my humblest apologies. Again you leap too sudden. We must watch and wait⁠—”

“The hell you say,” Flannery cried. “That’s not my system. I’ll nab him. I’ll make him talk⁠—”

“And I,” sighed Barry Kirk, “will lose my perfect butler. Shall I write him a reference⁠—or won’t they care, at the jail?”

“Captain, pause and listen,” pleaded Chan. “We have nothing here to prove Paradise fired fatal bullet into Sir Frederic. Yet somehow he is involved. We watch his every move. Much may be revealed by the unsuspecting. We hunt through his effects. Today, I believe, he enjoys weekly holiday. Is that not so?” He looked at Kirk.

“Yes, it’s Black Thursday⁠—the servants’ day off,” Kirk said. “Paradise is probably at the movies⁠—he adores them. Melodrama⁠—that’s his meat.”

“Fortunate event,” continued Chan. “Cook too is out. We return to bungalow and do some despicable prying into private life of Paradise. Is that not better, Captain, than searching through crowded atmosphere of movie theaters to make foolish arrest?”

Flannery considered. “Well, I guess it is, at that.”

“Back to the bungalow,” said Kirk, rising. “If Miss Morrow will lend a hand, I’ll give you tea.”

“Count me out,” said Flannery.

“And other liquids,” amended Kirk.

“Count me in again,” added Flannery. “You got your car?” Kirk nodded. “You take Miss Morrow then, and the Sergeant and I will follow in mine.”

In the roadster on their way to the Kirk Building, Barry Kirk glanced at Miss Morrow and smiled.

“Yes?” she inquired.

“I was just thinking. I do, at times.”

“Is it necessary?”

“Perhaps not. But I find it exhilarating. I was thinking at that moment about you.”

“Oh, please don’t trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I was wondering. There are so many mysterious women hovering about this case. And no one is asking you any questions.”

“Why should they?”

“Why shouldn’t they? Who are you? Where did you come from? Since you’re not very likely to investigate yourself, perhaps I should take over the job.”

“You’re very kind.”

“I hope you won’t object. Of course, you look young and innocent, but I have your word for it that men are easily fooled.” He steered round a lumbering truck, then turned to her sternly. “Just what were you doing on the night Eve Durand slipped from sight at Peshawar?”

“I was probably worrying over my home work,” the girl replied. “I was always very conscientious, even in the lowest grades.”

“I’ll bet you were. And where was this great mental effort taking place? Not in San Francisco?”

“No, in Baltimore. That was my home before I came west to law school.”

“Yes? Peering further into your dark past⁠—why, in heaven’s name, the law school? Disappointed in love, or something?”

She smiled. “Not at all. Father was a judge, and it broke his heart that I wasn’t a boy.”

“I’ve noticed how unreasonable judges are. Times when they’ve talked to me about my automobile driving. So the judge wanted a boy? He didn’t know his luck.”

“Oh, he gradually discovered I wasn’t a total loss. He asked me to study law, and I did.”

“What an obedient child,” Kirk said.

“I didn’t mind⁠—in fact, I rather liked it. You see, frivolous things never have appealed to me.”

“I’m afraid that’s true. And it worries me.”

“Why should it?”

“Because, as it happens, I’m one of those frivolous things.”

“But surely you have your serious side?”

“No⁠—I’m afraid that side was just sketched in⁠—never finished. However, I’m working on it. Before I get through you’ll be calling me deacon.”

“Really? I’m afraid I’ve never cared much for deacons, either.”

“Well, not exactly deacon, then. I’ll try to strike a happy medium.”

“I’ll help you,” smiled the girl.

Kirk parked his car in a side street, and they went round the corner to the Kirk Building. It was Grace Lane who took them aloft. Kirk studied her with a new interest. Strands of dark red hair crept out from beneath her cap; her face was pale, but unlined and young. Age uncertain, Kirk thought, but beauty unmistakable. What was the secret of her past? Why had Sir Frederic brought to the Kirk Building that clipping about Jennie Jerome?

“I’ll be along in a minute,” Miss Morrow said, when the elevator stopped at the twentieth floor. Kirk nodded and preceded her to the roof. She followed almost immediately. “I wanted to ask a question or two,” she explained. “You see, I gave Grace Lane very little attention on the night Sir Frederic was killed.”

“What do you think of her⁠—now that you’ve looked again?”

“She’s a lady⁠—if you don’t mind an overworked word. This job she has now is beneath her.”

“Think so?” Kirk took Miss Morrow’s coat. “I should have said that most of the time, it’s over her head.”

The girl shrugged. “That from you, deacon,” she said, reproachfully.

Chan and Captain Flannery were at the door, and Kirk let them in. The Captain was all business.

“Hello,” he said. “Now if you’ll show us that butler’s room, Mr. Kirk, we’ll get busy right away. I’ve brought a few skeleton keys. We’ll go over the place like a vacuum cleaner.” Kirk led them into the corridor.

“How about the cook’s room?” Flannery added. “We might take a look at that.”

“My cook’s a Frenchman,” Kirk explained. “He sleeps out.”

“Humph. He was here the other night at the time of the murder?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I’d better have a talk with him some time.”

“He speaks very little English,” Kirk smiled. “You’ll enjoy him.” He left the two in the butler’s bedroom, and returned to Miss Morrow.

“I suppose you hate the sight of a kitchen,” he suggested.

“Why should I?”

“Well⁠—a big lawyer like you⁠—”

“But I’ve studied cookbooks, too. You’d be surprised. I can cook the most delicious⁠—”

“Rarebit,” he finished. “I know. And your chocolate fudge was famous at the sorority house. I’ve heard it before.”

“Please let me finish. I was going to say, pot roast. And my lemon pie is not so bad, either.”

He stood solemnly regarding her. “Lady,” he announced, “you improve on acquaintance. And if that isn’t gilding the lily, I don’t know what is. Come with me and we’ll dig up the tea things.”

She followed him to the kitchen. “I’ve got a little apartment,” she said. “And when I’m not too tired, I get my own dinner.”

“How are you on Thursday nights?” he asked. “Pretty tired?”

“That depends. Why?”

“Servants’ night out. Need I say more?”

Miss Morrow laughed. “I’ll remember,” she promised. With deft hands she set the water to boiling, and began to arrange the tea tray. “How neat everything is,” she remarked. “Paradise is a wonder.”

“Tell that to my grandmother,” Kirk suggested. “She believes that a man who lives alone wallows in grime and waste. Every home needs a woman’s touch, according to her story.”

“Absurd,” cried the girl.

“Oh, well⁠—grandmother dates back a few years. In her day women were housekeepers. Now they’re movie fans, club members, lawyers⁠—what have you? Must have been a rather comfortable age at that.”

“For the men, yes.”

“And men don’t count any more.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I guess we’re ready now.”

Kirk carried the tray to the living-room, and placed it on a low table before the fire. Miss Morrow sat down behind it. He threw a couple of logs on to the glowing embers, then, visiting the dining-room, returned with a bottle, a siphon and glasses.

“Mustn’t forget that Captain Flannery doesn’t approve of tea,” he said.

Miss Morrow looked toward the passageway. “They’d better hurry, or they’ll be late for the party,” she remarked.

But Chan and Flannery did not appear. Outside the March dusk was falling; a sharp wind swept through the little garden and rattled insistently at the casements. Kirk drew the curtains. On the hearth the fresh logs flamed, filling the room with a warm, satisfying glow. He took from Miss Morrow’s hand his cup of tea, selected a small cake, and dropped into a chair.

“Cozy⁠—that would be my word for this,” he smiled. “To look at you now, no one would ever suspect that old affair between you and Blackstone.”

“I’m versatile, anyhow,” she said.

“I wonder,” he replied.

“Wonder what?”

“I wonder just how versatile you are. It’s a matter I intend to investigate further. I may add that I am regarded throughout the world as the greatest living judge of a lemon pie.”

“You frighten me,” Miss Morrow said.

“If your testimony has been the truth, so help you,” he answered, “what is there to be frightened about?”

At that moment Chan and Flannery appeared in the doorway. The Captain seemed very pleased with himself.

“What luck?” Kirk inquired.

“The best,” beamed Flannery. He carried a piece of paper in his hand. “Ah⁠—shall I help myself?”

“By all means,” Kirk told him. “A congratulatory potion. Mr. Chan⁠—what’s yours?”

“Tea, if Miss Morrow will be so kind. Three lumps of sugar and the breath of the lemon in passing.”

The girl prepared his cup. Flannery dropped into a chair.

“I see you’ve found something,” Kirk suggested.

“I certainly have,” the Captain replied. “I’ve found the letter from Scotland Yard that Paradise nabbed from the mail.”

“Good enough,” cried Kirk.

“A slick bird, this Paradise,” Flannery went on. “Where do you think he had it? All folded up in a little wad and tucked into the toe of a shoe.”

“How clever of you to look there,” Miss Morrow approved.

Flannery hesitated. “Well⁠—er⁠—come to think of it, I didn’t. It was Sergeant Chan here dug it up. Yes, sir⁠—the Sergeant’s getting to be a real sleuth.”

“Under your brilliant instruction,” smiled Chan.

“Well, we can all learn from each other,” conceded the Captain. “Anyhow, he found it, and turned it right over to me. The letter that came in the Scotland Yard envelope⁠—no question about it. See⁠—at the top⁠—the Metropolitan Police⁠—”

“If it’s not asking too much,” said Kirk, “what’s in the letter?”

Flannery’s face fell. “Not a whole lot. We’ll have to admit that. But little by little⁠—”

“With brief steps we advance,” put in Chan. “Humbly suggest you read the epistle.”

“Well, it’s addressed to Sir Frederic, care of Cook’s, San Francisco,” said Flannery. He read:

“Dear Sir Frederic: I was very glad to get your letter from Shanghai and to know that you are near the end of a long trail. It is indeed surprising news to me that the murder of Hilary Galt and the disappearance of Eve Durand from Peshawar are, in your final analysis, linked together. I know you always contended they were, but much as I admire your talents, I felt sure you were mistaken. I can only apologize most humbly. It is a matter of regret to me that you did not tell me more; what you wrote roused my interest to a high pitch. Believe me, I shall be eager to hear the end of this strange case.

“By the way, Inspector Rupert Duff will be in the States on another matter at about the time you reach San Francisco. You know Duff, of course. A good man. If you should require his help, you have only to wire him at the Hotel Waldorf, New York.

“With all good wishes for a happy outcome to your investigation,

Flannery stopped reading and looked at the others. “Well, there you are,” he said. “The Galt affair and Eve Durand are mixed up together. Of course that ain’t exactly news⁠—I’ve known it right along. What I want to find out now is, why did Paradise try to keep this information from us? What’s his stake in the affair? I could arrest him at once, but I’m afraid that if I do, he’ll shut up like a clam and that will end it. He doesn’t know we’re wise to him, so I’m going to put this letter back where we found it and give him a little more rope. The Sergeant here has agreed to keep an eye on him, and I rely on you, too, Mr. Kirk, to see that he doesn’t get away.”

“Don’t worry,” said Kirk. “I don’t want to lose him.”

Flannery rose. “Sir Frederic’s mail isn’t coming here any more?” he inquired of Miss Morrow.

“No, of course not. I arranged to have it sent to my office. There’s been nothing of interest⁠—purely personal matters.”

“I must put this letter back, and then I’ll have to run along,” the Captain said. He went into the passageway.

“Well,” remarked Kirk, “Paradise hangs on a little longer. I see your handiwork there, Sergeant, and you have my warmest thanks.”

“For a brief time, at least,” Chan said. “You will perceive I am no person’s fool. I do not arrange arrest of butler in house where I am guest. I protect him, and I would do same for the cook.”

Flannery returned. “I got to get back to the station,” he announced. “Mr. Kirk, thanks for your⁠—er⁠—hospitality.”

Miss Morrow looked up at him. “You are going to wire to New York for Inspector Duff?” she asked.

“I am not,” the Captain said.

“But he might be of great help⁠—”

“Nix,” cut in Flannery stubbornly. “I got about all the help I can stand on this case now. Get him here and have him under foot? No, sir⁠—I’m going to find out first who killed Sir Frederic. After that, they can all come. Don’t you say so, Sergeant?”

Chan nodded. “You are wise man. The ship with too many steersmen never reaches port.”