sports stockings and stout brogues.
"Will you come in?" she asked formally, after the major had explained Foam's standing.
As he looked round him, Foam noticed that the room was smaller than Madame Goya's and bore signs of being a living-place. It had evidently been converted into a flatlet by the expedient of chopping off a strip at one end, for part of it was concealed by a cream-painted wooden partition.
There was the same standardized suite and buff Axminster carpet as in Goya's apartment, with the addition of a cheap wardrobe and an oak bureau. The central table was piled with books and papers, besides a portable typewriter and two framed photographs. One was a cabinet portrait of a clergyman--the other a hockey team of schoolgirls, wearing tunics and long black stockings.
The faces were too small for recognition at that distance, but Foam was certain that Miss Power was among the players--probably as captain. Miss Power apologized for the disorder.
"Rather a mess--but I'm studying at high pressure for an advanced exam. I've been working here all day. I've already told Major Pomeroy that I've seen no strange girl. No one, in fact."
"Did you hear her voice?" asked Foam.
"No."
"Are these walls thick?"
Miss Power glanced interrogatively at the major, who answered the question.
"As a matter of fact, the dividing wall between No. 16 and No. 17 is merely lath and plaster. The original wall was removed during the conversion. I had to take in some of Madame Goya's apartment to make the flatlet."
"Rather a risk of disturbance in the case of a noisy tenant," commented Foam.
"I hear nothing of the next-door tenant," remarked Miss Power coldly.
Foam realized that it was characteristic of her type to profess ignorance of her neighbour's name, although she must see it daily on Goya's door. He also concluded that the glove maker's mysterious occupation was discreet, for Miss Power would not hesitate to lodge complaints.
"Does the second door lead to your bedroom?" he asked, glancing at the partition.
"No," replied Miss Power, "I sleep here on the divan. Kitchen, bath and the rest are down that end. Slum conditions--but one has to pay for an address...You can look inside."
Foam inspected the premises alone, for the major took the opportunity to go outside. There was the anticipated clutter of cramped domestic fixtures, but no sign of an extra exit. Unless, however, the builder revealed a secret egress from No. 16, the adjoining flatlets were free from suspicion.
"Thank you," he said. "I hope I shall not have to disturb your work again. If you should learn of anything unusual about this building or the tenants, will you let me hear. This is my number."
Her swift glance at the photograph of the hockey team made him aware of his blunder. He had outraged her code of playing the game. Ignoring his card, she opened the door.
"I'm too busy working to notice anyone or anything," she told him coldly.
It was a relief to return to the landing and into a friendlier atmosphere. His heart felt absurdly light when Viola limped to meet him, as though she, too, recognized a bond between them. She might have been the playmate of his childhood inviting him to play, when she whispered to him from a corner of her mouth:
"The major's in the hall, giving the builder the lowdown...Isn't this a thrill? Aren't you loving it?"
"I should," replied Foam. "I'm getting paid for it."
"Oh, of course. I forgot you're a cop. You look just a nice boy, with no brains and rather tough...Well, from the criminal angle, how does Power strike you? She reminds me of an underdeveloped 'still.' Too true to type...do you suspect her--or anyone?"
With a rare wish to humour her, he compromised. "I'll tell you someone whom I trust. It's Higgins."
"Who's 'Higgins'?" asked Viola.
"The hall porter, of course."
Viola began to laugh heartlessly. "You poor sap, don't you know the first rule is never tell your real name to a policeman? The porter is 'Pearce.' He double-crossed you all right."
And then--swiftly and sweetly--just as his childish playmate used to relent after she made fun of him--Viola changed her mood.
"You win," she said. "Pearce really is honest. He's hopeless at telephone lies. The time I've wasted, trying to corrupt him...Not dishonest lies. Just professional swank. You've got to swank in the profession...look, here's the builder."
She stopped talking to gaze with frank interest at the builder. He was a burly Esau, with shaggy hair and bushy eyebrows. His face was hollowed by elongated pits--the graves of original dimples--and his brown eyes were a challenge to humbug. He gave an impression of bluff honesty, plus intelligence, but minus any scruples with regard to personal feelings.
Foam liked him on sight, from his bowler hat to his square-toed boots. He commended him, too, for the brisk manner with which he came to the point.
CHAPTER FOUR--GIFT FROM CINDERELLA
Having made his protest, the builder was now officially on the job. Calling his men from the hall, he clumped into No. 16 and gave a quick look around it.
"Everyone outside, please," he ordered. As the only inmate of the room, Madame Goya recognized the personal note. She surged forward, her fat arms outstretched like the wings of a guardian angel, resisting pollution of her premises.
"Pardon," she contradicted, "I shall stay. This is my flat. I am within my legal rights to see what goes on here."
The builder, who was married, knew when he was outclassed he turned instinctively to the major for protection.
"Can we run out the furniture, chief?" he asked.
"Afraid not," replied the major nonchalantly. "It would block the landing."
"All right, you're the boss. But I warn you we'll waste time shifting all this junk about...Madame, I am sure you would prefer to remove your valuables yourself?"
The workmen exchanged grins when Goya, with slow and measured movements, cleared from the book shelves a collection of odd china, dead flowers, cigarettes, packs of cards, cosmetics, a crystal, cactus plants and a tea outfit, besides a few novels which bore the labels of a twopenny lending library. She piled them up dangerously on the chairs and also upon the marble mantelpiece which had been retained when the grate was modernized.
"Now then, get a move on," ordered the builder impatiently. "Start and shift the glass."
Following his instructions, the men unscrewed the long mirror and propped it against an armchair. Its removal revealed no outline of a concealed door through which Evelyn Cross might have been whisked. There was nothing more incriminating than long drooping moustaches of cobwebs on the wall. The cupboard wardrobe was next wrenched from its position--not without damage to the panelling. Then
