crossed to the long mirror.
"Sure there is no door hidden behind this?" he asked as he tried to shake the frame.
"Look for yourself," invited the major. "The rawl-plugs are fixed as tight as a vice and there are no signs of tampering. You can take it from me that I've examined and tested every fixture personally."
"Not enough," declared Foam. "They must all come down."
He was surprised by the relief in Cross' eyes.
"I'll say this for you. Major," he said. "You know how to pick them. This young man seems to understand." Holding Foam's arm in a powerful clutch, as though to enforce his sympathy, he went on speaking. "You understand, don't you? I'm a stranger over here in a strange city and my daughter disappears in a strange house; not a friend near. No one I can trust or count on. It's like banging at a locked door. I can't get in."
"Everything is being done," said the major in a soothing voice, "I've rung up my builder and asked him to come over. He should be here soon."
"Soon?" repeated Cross with savage scorn. "Stop spoon-feeding me with dill water. While we're wasting time, what's happening to her? It's easy for you to be calm, but it's my girl that's gone. I'll break up the place if I have to do it myself."
As he spoke he gripped the mirror and tried to tear it from the wall.
In spite of his acquired crust and his ingrained suspicion of emotion, Foam felt a certain sympathy with his client. He had recently lost a favourite dog while he was exercising it in one of the parks. He soon regained it since his profession gave him a pull in dealing with dog thieves; but he still remembered the sharp thud of his heart when no cocker spaniel answered to his whistle and the horrible emptiness of the expanse of grass.
In order to give Cross time to recover, he turned to Major Pomeroy. "Who is this builder you've sent for?" he asked.
"He's the man who does all my conversion work," explained the major. "He's only in a small way of business, but he's honest and capable. His name's Morgan. To save time"--he stressed the words for Cross' benefit--"I told him to bring along a couple of men with picks, just in case it may be necessary."
"Good. I'll see if he's come."
Glad of an excuse to leave the torrid room, Foam went outside onto the landing and looked down into the hall. As he waited, he took note of his surroundings. The upper portion of the mansion had been redecorated recently, for the rough parchment-tinted paper was clean; but there were a number of scratches on the enamel paint of the staircase wall, evidently caused by the arrival and removal of furniture.
The damage seemed to point to the conclusion that, in spite of his system, the major's tenancies were short-lived. He was beginning to wonder the cause when the major gave him a practical proof of his consideration. He came out of No. 16 and stood beside Foam.
"It's fair to put you wise," he said in a rapid whisper. "I can't vouch for Cross. I know nothing about him. Better watch your interests and ask for a cheque in advance."
"Thanks. That's--"
Foam broke off as Cross appeared. Biting on a cigarette and blowing it up into continuous smoke he began to tramp the landing as though unable to keep still. As he passed No. 15, the door was opened and a dark girl, wearing slacks, limped outside.
With her arrival, a new element entered into Foam's life. He was one of those men who invest the past with glamour and whose boyhood was his happiest memory. Although he still lived in the same house--and liked it very much--it had shrunk and changed for the worse. The meals were not so good as they used to be. His parents had aged regrettably. The rest of the family had grown into uncongenial adults with families of their own. And the weather--which used to be perpetual summer--had gone to blazes.
Among the friends of his boyhood was the gardener who had borne a resemblance to the porter of Pomerania House; but his most treasured recollection was of a black-haired schoolgirl who had spent one holiday at the house next door. She was from the country and she introduced him to new adventures of her own invention.
He never forgot that enchanted summer or the girl who taught him to play. He never saw her again, but the instant he caught sight of the tenant of No. 15, he felt a rush of welcome as though he were recapturing the companion of his youth. Even while he knew that the lady in trousers must be Miss Green and "a little scamp," according to the major's description, he fell under the old spell.
She was certainly not shy, for she challenged attention by making an entrance as though she were on the stage. Her gaze flashed over the men like the sweep of a searchlight. Foam thought he had never seen so arresting a face as her eyes met his as though in unconscious greeting. Even when she spoke to Raphael Cross in a voice which was trained in elocution, he acquitted her of any charge of boldness. He felt instinctively that she was snatching a rare opportunity to test her personality and to hold the attention of an audience. "Have you found your daughter yet?" she asked.
Cross shook his head without speaking. As the girl looked compassionately at him, Foam felt absurdly jealous of the fine build and fair curly hair of his client.
"Of course not," the girl told him. "You've set about it entirely the wrong way. Why didn't you tell that young man"--her glance indicated Foam--"that you've lost an exclusive model gown? Leave out all mention of the girl who was wearing it. She'll only weaken the case...don't you realize that no one cares about the human element? All the laws are framed to protect property."
"Isn't that rather sweeping?" asked Major Pomeroy.
"I call it an understatement," declared the girl. "The law imprisons for theft but they only fine for cruelty. If I murdered you, the press would make me into a public heroine. I should be called a beautiful young brunette. But if I pinched a stamp off you, I should be put into quod and the papers would describe me as a young person. That's because stamps are property--and property is sacred."
"But why pick on me?" asked the major indulgently. "Oh, by the way, this is Mr. Foam. He will probably want to interview you about--"
He bit off the end of his sentence--in deference to Cross' feelings--and mentioned the girl's name.
"This is Miss Green, the tenant of No. 15."
"Viola Green," supplemented the girl. "I'm called 'Greeny' on the set. Nice cool little name, does it make you think of tender young lettuce?"
"No." said Foam. "Unripe apples."
He was determined not to be biased by Viola's attraction. In order to escape, he turned to the major with a suggestion: "While we are waiting for the builder, suppose I have a few words with Miss Power? Merely routine."
"You'll find her at home," said Viola, who seemed uncrushable. "Power's a lady. She peeks behind curtains while I run out into the street to see the accident. And she's incredibly rich. She has all the proper pots and pans. I know, for I borrow them."
When Miss Power opened the door of No. 17 in response to the major's ring, Foam summed her up in his first glance.
"Country rectory."
She was about twenty-seven--probably younger--with short blunt features and a set expression which suggested strength of character. She was not perceptibly powdered and used no lipstick. Her thick fair hair was brushed back and worn in a small knot at her neck. She wore a tailor-built suit of blue-and-green speckled tweed--the skirt of which was calf length and revealed
