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As Inspector Orpington, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, entered dusty, poverty-stricken Ferry Place, he made up his mind that he would be, so far as was possible in the circumstances, frank with the man he was on his way to see with regard to Jervis Lexton’s death.

Like many an Englishman of his type, he had his own clear, if unexpressed, philosophy of life. He preferred the straight to the tortuous way, and that, it may incidentally be observed, is true of all the really successful men in his peculiar line of work.

Such men naturally suffer from the defects of their qualities. Inspector Orpington had no belief in what he called to himself the French methods of criminal investigation. For one thing, he was convinced, and backed his conviction from experience, that in the vast majority of cases there is seldom anything mysterious, or out of the way, even in the best-planned and most intelligent type of crime.

With regard to the case concerning which he had just been ordered to make certain preliminary inquiries, the story he had been able to piece together was even now, from his point of view, a straightforward story of illicit love leading to a cold-blooded and cruel murder. He had already interviewed the dead man’s two regular medical attendants, his trained nurse, and last, but by no means least, his tearful, hysterical, and singularly attractive young widow.

Ivy Lexton remained, in Inspector Orpington’s mind, the one point of doubt and mystery, if indeed “mystery” you could call it, in the affair.

He had found it very difficult to make up his mind as to whether Mrs. Lexton was entirely innocent regarding the events which had led to Lexton’s death. He had detected certain flaws in the story she had appeared, in spite of her agitation, so willing to tell. But he had been naturally impressed by the firm conviction expressed by the two doctors who had attended Jervis Lexton. They had both declared that their patient’s wife had been not only innocent, but quite unsuspicious, of the sinister tragedy which had undoubtedly been enacted during the fortnight which had preceded her husband’s death.

Dr. Berwick had said brusquely: “Why, the woman was never there! She was out morning, noon, and night. I myself only saw her three times, each time only for a few minutes, and only once with her husband.”

Orpington had also been struck by the liking both the nurse and the cook showed for Lexton’s widow; and that though they both admitted she was selfish and pleasure-loving.

But what weighed the scale most of all in favour of Ivy’s complete innocence was the fact that the life of Jervis Lexton had not been insured, and that with her husband apparently disappeared the poor, pretty little woman’s only source of income.

Long experience had convinced Inspector Orpington that there are only two outstanding motives for secret murder⁠—money, and the passion called love. As he considered the story in all its bearings, it seemed plain to him that, whereas it had been very much to Ivy Lexton’s interest to keep her husband alive, this young man, Roger Gretorex, had undoubtedly had a strong motive for compassing his death. Mrs. Lexton, in the course of the long examination and cross-examination to which she had been submitted this morning, had admitted, albeit with a certain reluctance, that Roger Gretorex not only passionately loved her, but had also at various times pestered her with unwelcome attentions.

Everyone interested in the detection of crime is aware that persons arrested on a charge of murder are always solemnly warned that anything said by them may be used in evidence against them. But probably few people know that the giving of any such warning is left to the discretion of the C.I.D. men who are engaged in those preliminary inquiries which, in the majority of cases, do end by bringing a murderer to justice. Certain rules are laid down for their guidance; but even so a great deal is left to the ordering of their own consciences, to what each individual considers it fair or unfair to ask of one who may be actually suspected of having committed the crime under investigation.

Orpington’s object was to get at the truth. It was his considered opinion that the guilty are painfully alive to their danger, and will go to any length to protect themselves. In their case the plainest warning is wasted. As to an innocent witness, he believed the best way to put him or her at ease is to be reasonably frank.

He felt sure that, in Roger Gretorex, he would find one both forewarned and forearmed. What he desired to know, as a result of his coming interview with the young doctor, was how far Mrs. Lexton had told the truth as to her relations with the man who, owing to his passion for herself, had almost certainly poisoned her husband.

Slowly he walked, with the sergeant he had brought with him, down the now deserted, airless little street. What a contrast to the broad avenue in which stood the fine block of flats known as Duke of Kent Mansion! It was difficult to believe that the woman with whom he had spent over an hour this morning, in the shadowed drawing-room where everything spelt not only comfort, but affluence and luxury, could have been on terms of close intimacy with a man who lived in Ferry Place.

Before he had time to ring the bell, the narrow front door of the tiny two-storied house opened, and the person he had come to see and, he felt sure, to convict of the most hideous and cruel form of murder known to civilised man, stood before him.

What a fine young chap! And what a haughty, sombre, defiant countenance!

Yet the voice in which Gretorex uttered the commonplace words, “Will you come in?” was a deep, pleasant, cultivated voice.

The doctor led his two visitors into his consulting-room, a room which, though poorly furnished, was yet, as the inspector quickly noted, that of a man accustomed to the amenities of life. For one thing he noticed the lovely bunch of fragrant hothouse flowers standing in a glass on the writing-table. He felt what he very seldom did feel⁠—surprised.

As the three men sat down, Gretorex full in what light came in through his one window, the inspector observed:

“My name, doctor, as I told you over the telephone, is Orpington, and I am attached to the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard. I have come to ask you certain questions concerning the death of a gentleman who was at one time, I understand, a patient of yours.”

“If you will tell me his name, I will look up his case,” said Gretorex quickly.

“His name was Jervis Lexton, and his death took place last Tuesday in Flat 9 of Duke of Kent Mansion, Kensington.”

“Jervis Lexton was never a patient of mine,” the young man answered firmly; and then he hesitated, and finally added, “He was a friend⁠—I suppose I might even say a great friend.”

“Are you already aware of the circumstances concerning Mr. Jervis Lexton’s death, Dr. Gretorex?”

And then Roger Gretorex told the first of the lies he felt it incumbent on him to tell during this, to him, terrible interview.

“I’ve been in the country for nearly a week, and I only learnt on my return here, this morning, of Mr. Lexton’s death. I am as yet unaware of the circumstances to which I presume I owe your visit.”

He waited a moment, then told the inspector what was indeed the truth:

“I was exceedingly surprised to learn of his death, for I had seen him just before leaving town. Though I thought him far less well than the last time I had been with him, there was nothing to indicate the seriousness of his condition.”

“Yet you told the nurse that you were dismayed by the charge in his appearance?”

“I daresay I did. She thought him distinctly better, I do remember that, and I disagreed with her.”

“You did not ask to see Mr. Lexton, Dr. Gretorex. The nurse tells me your call was on Mrs. Lexton. As that lady was out, Nurse Bradfield, I understand, suggested you should see her patient, as she thought it would cheer him up.”

“That is so, and I was not with him for more than ten minutes.”

“You were, I think, alone with him during that time?”

“Yes, I was.”

“You went down to the country immediately after seeing him?”

“Yes. I went to my home in the country the same afternoon, and, as I told you just now, I only came back this morning.”

“Mr. Jervis Lexton died during the evening of the day you saw him⁠—that is, on Tuesday, the 16th of November. His regular medical attendant, Dr. Berwick, was not satisfied as to the cause of death. A postmortem was held on the Thursday, and revealed the fact that Lexton’s death was due to a large dose of arsenic administered some hours before death. According to Nurse Bradfield, you, Dr. Gretorex, were the last person, apart from herself and, I believe, the cook, who saw him alive. That is why I am here.”

Gretorex stared at the speaker in silence; and, gradually, all the colour ebbed from his face.

In spite of himself the inspector felt sorry for the young man. He told himself that Roger Gretorex evidently saw the game was up. Still, the doctor looked the sort of chap who would put up a fight for it.

Inspector Orpington made an almost imperceptible sign to the sergeant he had brought with him, and the man at once quietly left the room.

Orpington got up and looked out of the window until he saw his sergeant in the street outside. Then he turned and said to Gretorex:

“I sent my sergeant out of the room, doctor, because I am obliged now to ask you a question which I thought you would prefer to have put to you privately. You were, I understand, a friend of Mrs. Lexton’s as well as a friend of her husband?”

“I was on terms of friendship with them both,” and his face turned deeply red.

“But you saw much more of Mrs. Lexton than you did of her husband?”

This was a bow drawn at a venture, and it brought down the quarry.

“I sometimes escorted Mrs. Lexton to a picture gallery, and now and again we went to a theatre together. But⁠—” he waited a moment, and the colour ebbed from his face. Though what he was going to say was true, he hated saying it⁠—“Mr. and Mrs. Lexton always seemed on the best of terms together.”

“So I understand. But I am not seeking information as to the relations of Mr. and Mrs. Lexton. What I wish to suggest, without offence, is that you, Dr. Gretorex, would have liked to have been on closer terms of friendship with Mrs. Lexton than she thought it right to allow? I will be frank with you⁠—Mrs. Lexton has admitted as much.”

A burning flush again rose to Gretorex’s dark face. Poor Ivy! Poor, foolish little darling! He did not feel the slightest feeling of anger with her. He only felt a choking sensation of dismay. Whatever had possessed her to say such a thing?

He answered, speaking quietly, passionlessly, “Mrs. Lexton is a very attractive woman, and a beautiful woman. It is difficult to be with her without feeling inclined to⁠—well⁠—” and as he hesitated, the older man smiled.

“To make love to her? I absolutely agree, Dr. Gretorex. Though she was naturally very much upset when I saw her this morning, I thought Mrs. Lexton one of the most engaging, as well as one of the best-looking, young ladies I had ever come across.”

Poor Gretorex! He would have liked to have struck Inspector Orpington across the face, and yet his own words had called up the look that had so grossly offended him on the other’s countenance, and had also provoked his remark.

“Do you admit, Dr. Gretorex, that you were very much attracted to this lady?”

“You put me in a difficult position; but I admit that perhaps I did say one or two foolish things to her.”

He was wondering, with a feeling of agonising anxiety, whether Ivy had kept his letters.

“Did Mrs. Lexton ever by chance come here, to 6 Ferry Place?”

“She came to tea on one occasion, but not alone, of course. A friend of hers, a widow called Mrs. Arundell, and a man friend of Mrs. Arundell’s, came with her.”

And then Roger Gretorex leant forward:

“I do hope that you will believe me when I tell you that any⁠—well, feeling of attraction, was entirely on my side. When I did, I admit very foolishly, once try to tell her⁠—”

He stopped, and the other interjected, not unkindly, “How much she attracted you?”

Gretorex nodded, and then he gasped out the lying words⁠—“She made me feel at once she was not that kind of woman.”

“I suppose,” said the inspector with a twinkle in his eyes, “that Mrs. Lexton used that very expression.”

Gretorex tried to smile back.

“Well, yes, I believe she did. It happened a long time ago, in fact when I first made the Lextons’ acquaintance.”

Now this observation gave the direct lie to Ivy Lexton’s statement, which Orpington honestly believed had been extracted from her against her will.

“I suppose that you can suggest no reason why this man, Jervis Lexton, should have wished to take his own life?”

“No, none at all. He had just obtained an excellent job.”

“You can throw no light either, I presume, as to how the arsenic which undoubtedly caused his death can have been administered to him?”

“Not only can I throw no light on it, but I find it almost impossible to believe what my reason tells me is true⁠—your assertion that his death was directly due to the administration of arsenic.”

The speaker’s voice was strong, assured. At last he was on firm ground.

“I take it there is a surgery attached to this house, and that you make up your own medicines?”

The inspector asked that vital question in a very quiet tone, but Gretorex realised its purport as he answered, “I do⁠—for the most part.”

“I should like to see the surgery.”

“By all means.”

Roger Gretorex got up. Then he placed his back against the door.

Instantly Inspector Orpington, though he was a brave man, and had been in more than one very tight corner, felt a cold tremor run through him. Was this fine-looking young chap going to whip out a revolver and kill, not only himself, but also the man whose unpleasant duty it had been to show him that the game he had been so mad as to play was up?

But he need not have been afraid.

“Look here! Before I take you into my surgery, where you will find a jar of arsenic as likely as not on an open shelf⁠—for I am a careless chap, and no one has access to the place but myself and my old charwoman⁠—I want to say something to you. I don’t suppose you will believe me, but I wish to tell you, here and now, that I have no more idea of how poor Lexton got at the arsenic which caused his death⁠—if it did cause it⁠—than you have, and that the one thing of which I am quite sure is that it did not come out of my surgery.”