HODSON and Grant dined together that evening in the latter’s room, and Grant was in the middle of his promised story of Funderstrom’s abduction when the telephone rang. A man’s voice asked for Colonel Hodson. Grant passed over the receiver.

“An urgent call for you, Hodson,” he announced.

Hodson spoke a few brief words and listened.

“We’ll be along in ten minutes,” he said as he laid down the receiver.

“Slattery,” he went on, “that was a man from Poynter’s Detective Agency speaking. They’re the people we called on this morning about this young woman. They think they’ve found her. Will you come along with me?”

“Sure,” Grant assented. “Anything wrong, do you think?”

“I rather gathered so,” was the grave reply.

They jumped into a taxi and Hodson gave the man an address on the other side of the Park. In about twenty minutes they pulled up outside what was evidently a second-class lodging house. On the steps a young man was waiting.

“Colonel Hodson?” he asked.

“Right,” Hodson answered. “Are you from Poynter’s?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Poynter’s upstairs himself. He left me here to wait for you. Will you go up to the top floor?”

They climbed six flights of stairs—narrow stairs, and dark—passing through mixed atmospheres of cooking, stale tobacco, of beer and patchouli. There were theatrical cards stuck on some of the panels; now and then a door was stealthily opened and the intruders scrutinised. On the sixth floor Mr. Poynter, the famous detective, who had once been in the Government service, stood waiting. He shook hands with Hodson and nodded to Grant.

“We’re up against a nasty piece of business, Colonel,” he announced. “I wanted you to see exactly how things stood for yourself before the police got hold of it.”

“Get on with the story, Poynter,” Hodson invited.

“In the first place,” the detective pointed out, “the girl’s bell is cut. You see the wire there. It’s a clean cut, been done with a pair of nippers, within the last hour or two. Now come inside, sir. But,” he added, his hand upon the handle of the door, “you must be prepared for something unpleasant.”

“The young lady?” Grant exclaimed.

“She is dead,” Poynter answered gravely. “The scene is set for suicide. Personally I think there is not the slightest doubt but that she was murdered. The door of her room was locked and the key is nowhere in her room. I picked the lock after I had tracked her down. This way, sir. The smell is still bad, but I have had the window open an hour.”

They entered what was little more than a garret bedroom. On the bed lay the body of Mademoiselle Cleo. Mr. Poynter raised the sheet which he had drawn over her face and let it drop almost immediately. Above the girl’s head was the gas jet and from it a small piece of tube hung downwards. The remains of the imprisoned gas were still escaping by the open window.

“She was quite dead when I picked the lock,” Poynter told them, “and for the moment I thought that the gas would get me. I managed to make a rush for it to the window, though.”

“But surely all this points to her having committed suicide?” Grant queried.

“I am perfectly certain all the same that she did not,” the detective replied. “Not only has her bell been cut but the telephone is cut too. She was lying half across the floor, trying to reach it or the window when I found her, and the window was fastened down with a nail which had only recently been driven in. There is not the least doubt but that some powerful person entered her room, held her down until the last moment, then rushed out, locking the door behind him. There are marks upon the girl’s throat which could not possibly have been self-inflicted.”

Grant searched the room for a note or letter, but in vain.

“What she knew,” Hodson decided at last, “she has taken with her. You had better notify the police, Poynter, and stand by while they take note of the things you have pointed out to me. You can say that we two have seen them.”

“And don’t let them take her away,” Grant insisted. “I will be responsible for the funeral arrangements.”

“There’s just one thing,” Mr. Poynter said, casting his professional eye once more around the room. “I have a perfectly definite idea of my own as to the type of person who was following this poor girl. Am I to go on?”

“Absolutely,” Hodson replied. “You can treat it as a Government affair, Poynter, and take your orders from me. The young lady was suspected of having political secrets in her possession.”

“I’ll make a report in a few days,” Poynter promised.

They ............