The conviction that there was more than met the eye in Hannaford's cutting out and putting away the handsome and distinguished woman's photograph grew mightily in Hetherwick's mind during the next few days. He recalled all that Hannaford had said about it in the train in those few short minutes before his sudden death. Why had he been so keen about showing it to the other man? Was he taking the other man specially to his hotel to show it to him—at that time of night? Why did the recollections which his possession of it brought up afford him—obviously—so much interest and, it seemed, amusement? And what, exactly, was meant by the pencilled words in the margin of the cutting?—Through my hands ten years ago! Under what circumstances had this woman been through Hannaford's hands? And who was she? The more he thought of it, the more Hetherwick was convinced that there was more importance in this matter than the police attached to it. They had proved utterly indifferent to Hetherwick's account of the conversation in the train—that, said Matherfield, with official superiority, was nothing but a bit of chat, reminiscence, recollection, on the ex-superintendent's part; old men, he said, were fond of talking about incidents of the past. The only significance Matherfield saw in it was that it seemed to argue that whoever the man who had disappeared was, he and Hannaford had known each other ten years ago.  
At the end of a week the police had heard nothing of this man. Nor had they made any discovery in respect of the other man whom Ledbitter swore he had seen with Hannaford at Victoria. The best Scotland Yard hands had been hard and continuously at work, and had brought nothing to light. Only one person had seen the first man after he darted up the stairs of Charing Cross calling out that he was going for a doctor; this was a policeman on duty at the front of the Underground Station. He had seen the man run out; had watched him run at top speed up Villiers Street, and had thought no more of it than that he was some belated passenger hurrying to catch a last bus in the Strand. But with that, all news and trace of him vanished. Of the tall man in the big blue spectacles and white muffler there never was any trace, nor any news beyond Ledbitter's. Yet Ledbitter was a thoroughly dependable witness, and there was no doubt that he had seen Hannaford in this man's company. So, without question, Hannaford, during his last few hours of life, had been with two men—neither of whom could be found. Within twenty-four hours of his death several men came forward voluntarily who had had dealings or conversation with Hannaford since his arrival in London. But there was a significant fact about the news which any of them could give—not one knew anything of the tall man seen by Ledbitter, or of the shabby man seen by Hetherwick, or of the secret which Hannaford carried in his sealed packet. The story of that sealed packet had been told plentifully in the newspapers—but nobody came forward who knew anything about it. And when a week had elapsed after the ex-Superintendent's burial, the whole mystery of his undoubted murder seemed likely to become one of the many which are never solved.
 
But Hetherwick was becoming absorbed in this affair into which he had been so curiously thrown head-first. He had leisure on his hands; also, he was well off in this world's goods, and much more concerned with the psychology of his profession than with a desire to earn money by its practice. From the moment in which he heard that the doctors had found that Hannaford had been poisoned, he felt that here was a murder mystery at the bottom of which he must get—it fascinated him. And all through his speculations and theorisings about it, he was obsessed by the picture in his pocket. Who was that woman—and what did the dead man remember about her?
 
Suddenly, one morning, after a visit from Matherfield, who looked in at his chambers casually, to tell him that the police had discovered nothing, Hetherwick put on his hat and went round to Surrey Street. He found Rhona Hannaford busy in preparing to leave Maker's Hotel: she was going to live, for a time at any rate, with Mrs. Keeley. Hetherwick went straight to the matter that had brought him.
 
"That print of a woman's photograph which your grandfather had in his pocket-book," he said, "and that's now in mine. Out of what paper did he cut it?—a newspaper, evidently."
 
"Yes, but I don't know what paper," answered Rhona. "All I know is that it was a paper which he got by post, the morning that he left Sellithwaite. We were just leaving for the station when the post came. He put his letters and papers—there were several things—in his overcoat pocket, and opened them in the train. It was somewhere on the way to London that he cut out that picture. He threw the paper away—with others. He had a habit of buying a lot of papers, and used to cut out paragraphs."
 
"Well—I suppose it can be traced," muttered Hetherwick, thinking aloud. He glanced at the evidences of Rhona's departure. "So you're going to live with your aunt?" he said.
 
"For a time—yes," she answered.
 
"I hope you'll let me call?" suggested Hetherwick. "I'm awfully interested in this affair, and I may be able to tell you something about it."
 
"We'd be pleased," she replied. "I'll give you the address. I don't intend to be idle though—unless you call in the evening, you'll probably find me out."
 
"What are you thinking of doing?" he asked.
 
"I think of going in for secretarial work," she answered. "As a matter of fact, I had a training for that, in Sellithwaite. Typewriting, correspondence, accounts, French, German—I'm pretty well equipped."
 
"Don't think me inquisitive," said Hetherwick, suddenly. "I hope your grandfather hasn't forgotten you in his will—I heard he'd left one!"
 
"Thank you," replied Rhona. "He hasn't. He left me everything. I've got about three hundred a year—rather more. But that's no reason why I should sit down, and do nothing, is it?"
 
"Good!" said Hetherwick. "But—if that sealed packet could be found? What was worth a hundred thousand to him, would be worth a hundred thousand to his sole legatee. Worth finding!"
 
"I wonder if anything will be found?" she answered. "The whole thing's a mystery that I'm not even on the edge of solving."
 
"Time!" said Hetherwick. "And—patience."
 
He went away presently, and strolled round to Brick Court, where Kenthwaite had his chambers.
 
"Doing anything?" he asked, as he walked in.
 
"Nothing," replied Kenthwaite. "Go ahead!"
 
Hetherwick sat down, and lighted his pipe.
 
"You know Sellithwaite, don't you?" he asked when he had got his tobacco well going. "Your town, eh?"
 
"Born and bred there, and engaged to a girl there," replied Kenthwaite. "Ought to! What about Sellithwaite?"
 
"Were you there ten years ago?" demanded Hetherwick.
 
"Ten years ago? No—except in the holidays. I was at school ten years ago. Why?"
 
"Do you remember any police case at Sellithwaite about that time in which a very handsome woman was concerned—probably as defendant?"
 
"No! But I was more interested in cricket than in crime, in those days. Are you thinking about the woman Hannaford spoke of in the train to the chap they can't come across?"
 
"I am! Seems to me there's more in that than the police think."
 
"Shouldn't wonder. Let's see: Hannaford spoke of that woman as—what?"
 
"Said she'd been through his hands, ten years ago."
 
"Well, that's easy! If she was through Hannaford's hands, as Superintendent of Police, ten years ago, that would be at Sellithwaite. And there'll be records, particulars, and so on at Sellithwaite."
 
Hetherwick nodded, and smoked in silence for awhile.
 
"Think I shall go down there," he said at last.
 
Kenthwaite stared, wonderingly.
 
"Keen as all that!" he exclaimed.
 
"Queer business!" said Hetherwick. "Like to solve it."
 
"Oh, well, it's only a four hours' run from King's Cross," observed Kenthwaite. "Interesting town, too. Old as the hills and modern as they make 'em. Excellent hotel—'White Bear.' And I'll tell you what, my future's brother is a solicitor there—Michael Hollis. I'll give you a letter of introduction to him, and he'll show you round and give you any help you need."
 
"Good man!" said Hetherwick. "Write it!"
 
Kenthwaite sat down and wrote, and handed over the result.
 
"What do you want to find out, exactly?" he asked, as Hetherwick thanked him, and rose to go.
 
"All about the woman, and why Hannaford cut her picture out of the paper," answered Hetherwick. "Well—see you when I get back."
 
He went off to his own chambers, packed a bag, and drove to King's Cross to catch the early afternoon train for the North. At half-past seven that evening he found himself in Sellithwaite, a grey, smoke-laden town set in the midst of bleak and rugged hills, where the folk—if the railway officials were anything to go by—spoke a dialect which, to Hetherwick's southern ears, sounded like some barbaric language. But the "White Bear," in which he was presently installed, yielded all the comforts and luxuries of a first-class hotel: the dining-room, into which Hetherwick turned as soon as he had booked his room, seemed to be thronged by a thoroughly cosmopolitan crowd of men; he heard most of the principal European languages being spoken—later, he found that his fellow-guests were principally Continental business men, buyers, intent on replenishing exhausted stocks from the great warehouses and manufactories of Sellithwaite. All this was interesting, nor was he destined to spend the remainder of his evening in contemplating it from a solitary corner, for he had scarcely eaten his dinner when a hall-porter came to tell him that Mr. Hollis was asking for Mr. Hetherwick.
 
Hetherwick hastened into the lounge, and found a keen-faced, friendly-eyed man of forty or thereabouts stretching out a hand to him.
 
"Kenthwaite wired me this afternoon that you were coming down, and asked me to look you up here," he said. "I'd have asked you to dine with me, but I've been kept at my office until just now, and again, I live a good many miles out of town. But to-morrow night——"
 
"You're awfully good," replied Hetherwick. "I'd no idea that Kenthwaite was wiring. He gave me a letter of introduction to you, but I suppose he thought I wanted to lose no time. And I don't, and I dare say you can tell me something about the object of my visit—let's find a corner and smoke."
 
Installed in an alcove in the big smoking-room, Hollis read Kenthwaite's letter.
 
"What is it you're after?" he asked. "Kenthwaite mentions that my knowledge of Sellithwaite is deeper than his own—naturally, it is, as I'm several years older."
 
"Well," responded Hetherwick. "It's this, briefly. You're aware, of course, of what befell your late Police-Superintendent in London—his sudden death?"
 
"Oh, yes—read all the newspapers, anyway," assented Hollis. "You're the man who was present in the train on the Underground, aren't you?"
 
"I am. And that's one reason why I'm keen on solving the mystery. There's no doubt whatever that Hannaford was poisoned—that it's a case of deliberate murder. Now, there's a feature of the case to which the police don't seem to attach any importance. I do attach great importance to it. It's the matter of the woman to whom Hannaford referred when he was talking—in my presence—to the man who so mysteriously disappeared. Hannaford spoke of that woman as having been through his hands ten years ago. That would be some experience he had here, in this town. Now then, do you know anything about it? Does it arouse any recollection?"
 
Hollis, who was smoking a cigar, thoughtfully tapped its long ash against the edge of his coffee-cup. Suddenly his eyes brightened.
 
"That's probably the Whittingham case," he said. "It was about ten years ago."
 
"And what was the Whittingham case?" asked Hetherwick. "Case of a woman?"
 
"Of a woman—evidently an adventuress—who came to Sellithwaite about ten years ago, and stayed here some little time, in this very hotel," replied Hollis. "Oddly enough, I never saw her! But she was heard of enough—eventually. She came here, to the 'White Bear,' alone, with plenty of luggage and evident funds. I understand she was a very handsome woman, twenty-eight or thirty years of age, and she was taken for somebody of consequence. I rather think she described herself as the Honourable Mrs. Whittingham. She paid her bills here with unfailing punctuality every Saturday morning. She spent a good deal of money amongst the leading tradesmen in the town, and always paid cash. In short, she established her credit very successfully. And with nobody more so than the principal jeweller here—Malladale. She bought a lot of jewellery from Malladale—but in his case, she always paid by cheque. And in the end it was through a deal with Malladale that she got into trouble."
 
"And into Hannaford's hands!" suggested Hetherwick.
 
"Into Hannaford's hands, certainly," assented Hollis. "It was this way. She had, as I said just now, made a lot of purchases from Malladale, who, I may tell you, has a first-class trade amongst our rich commercial magnates in this neighbourhood. Her transactions with him, however, were never, at first, in amounts exceeding a hundred or two. But they went through all right. She used to pay him by cheque drawn on a Manchester bank—Manchester, you know, is only thirty-five miles away. As her first cheques were always met, Malladale never bothered about making any inquiry about her financial stability; like everybody else he was very much impressed by her. Well, in the end, she'd a big deal with Malladale, Malladale had a very fine diamond necklace in stock. He and she used to discuss her acquisition of it: according to his story they had a fine old battle as to terms. Eventually, they struck a bargain—he let her have it for three thousand nine hundred pounds. She gave him a cheque for that amount there and then, and he let her carry off the necklace."
 
"Oh!" exclaimed Hetherwick.
 
"Just so!" agreed Hollis. "But—he did. However, for some reason or other, Malladale had that cheque specially cleared. She handed it to him on a Monday afternoon; first thing on Wednesday morning Malladale found that it had been returned with the ominous reference to drawer inscribed on its surface! Naturally, he hurried round to the 'White Bear.' But the Honourable Mrs. Whittingham had disappeared. She had paid up her account, taken her belongings, and left the hotel, and the town, late on the Monday evening, and all that could be discovered at the station was that she had travelled by the last train to Leeds, where, of course, there are several big main lines to all parts of England. And she had left no address: she had, indeed, told the people here that she should be back before long, and that if any letters came they were to keep them until her return. So then Malladale went to the police, and Hannaford got busy."
 
"I gather that he traced her?" suggested Hetherwick.
 
Hollis laughed sardonically.
 
"Hannaford traced her—and he got her," he answered. "But he might well use the expression that you mentioned just now. She was indeed through his hands—just as a particularly slippery eel might have been—she got clear away from him."