duty at the end of Leinster Avenue that night saw a man loitering about for some time outside the Abbey Court flats—a man who was apparently waiting and watching for some one. Finally, he went inside and stayed some little time, then he came back again, and stood about a while. Of course, on the face of it, there is nothing to connect him with the murder in that. But, wait a minute, sir," as Stephen uttered a quick exclamation of surprise. "The pistol that was found in the room. You saw it, no doubt."
"Of course I did. The doctor's evidence proved that Warden was shot with it."
"Exactly," the inspector drew in his lips. "Well, the finding of the owner of that pistol has been no end of bother. In fact, I don't mind telling you, sir, that I look upon its accomplishment as a pretty considerable feather in my cap."
"You have discovered that?" Stephen exclaimed quickly. "Why then—"
The inspector looked at him. "You heard my summons on the telephone just now? Well, that was to tell me that the affair was finished. We have had some trouble first of all in finding the maker, secondly in tracing the shop at which it was bought, and lastly in identifying the purchaser, but to-day all three have been successfully accomplished. The revolver was one of a pair in a case which was supplied to Sir Anthony Carew in June of last year."
"To Sir Anthony Carew." Stephen's right hand clenched itself.
"To Sir Anthony Carew," the inspector repeated. "It was what I expected to hear, sir. I had the constable I was telling you of down here last week, and he identified Sir Anthony Carew as the man who stood about in the Leinster Avenue for so long, and, as I said before, entered the Abbey Court flats and stayed some little time."
If Crasster's face had been pale before it was absolutely ghastly now. Judith Carew had been up to Warden's room, Anthony had been loitering about outside, the dead man had been shot with Anthony's pistol. What did it mean? What could it mean, he asked himself? Not yet could he grasp the full significance of those damning facts.
"What are you going to do?" he asked with stiffening lips.
The inspector drew in his lips and, taking off his pince-nez, apparently studied it carefully for a minute.
"That is where I want your help, sir."
A hoarse sound broke from Stephen. "Man alive! How can I help you? Haven't I just told you that the Carews are my dearest friends?"
"That is why I asked you to help me," the inspector repeated. "Don't you see, sir, if it were merely a question of arresting Sir Anthony and Lady Carew, I should do that on my own responsibility? When I ask you to help me—"
Crasster lifted his head, a gleam of hope dawning in his eyes.
"You mean—"
The inspector scratched his head. "I don't exactly know what I do mean, sir, and that is the plain truth of it. I never believed in instinct before, and the facts seem plain enough on the face of them, but I can't bring myself to believe that either Sir Anthony or Lady Carew is guilty of the Abbey Court murder. I may tell you that those in authority above me don't share this view, and any day may bring orders for the arrest of one or both. I am holding back as long as I can, however, for I have the strongest feeling that some even darker mystery is behind the flat tragedy. Now, it came to me yesterday that I would ask your advice. You have helped me to solve many a knotty problem in the past; it seemed to me now that, if you were fighting to save your friends, you would be doubly keen."
Stephen's head dropped again on his hands. Despite his lifelong friendship for Sir Anthony Carew, his thought now would fly to Peggy, with her innocent pride in her engagement, in her handsome lover.
"If I could see a loophole," he groaned.
The detective stepped back, drew up a chair so closely that it touched the arm of Crasster's, and sat down.
"Suppose I tell you a suspicion—not that—a vague thought that I have had sometimes, I wonder whether you will think me mad, sir?" He bent his head down to Crasster's and murmured a few words in his ear.
Their effect upon Stephen was magical. He sprang backwards and looked at the inspector.
"Impossible! How could there be any connexion between the two?"
The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "I don't pretend to explain it, sir, yet. But that is the direction my suspicion takes."
"But it is madness—absolute madness!" Stephen reiterated, his face still oddly white.
The inspector spread out his hands. "Then, Sir Anthony Carew—"
Stephen dropped back in his chair. "Heaven help me, inspector, I don't know what to think."
Chapter XXI
"It is no use, I shall go up to town and have it out!" Lady Carew was standing in her dressing-room, her dark brows drawn together in an expression of pain, her handkerchief held to her face.
"O—h! But that would be a pity, when Miladi has such beautiful regular teeth." Célestine held up her hands. "If miladi would try a little more of the mixture perhaps it would relieve her now."
But Lady Carew shook her head. "I am tired of all those messes, Célestine; I can't stand any more of them. Look me out a train. I shall get up and see a dentist. You will find a Bradshaw in the library."
"But Miladi has courage," Célestine remarked as she left the room. "I would rather apply remedies all the day than go to see the dentist—me. He give you too much pain."
Left alone, Judith dropped the handkerchief from her face and began to walk restlessly up and down the room. "What else can I do?" she breathed. "And yet—and yet, if she should guess."
As if taking a sudden resolution, she went out of the room and up the stairs to the nursery. Paul was just awake; he stretched out his arms to his mother, and as Judith took him, and he nestled his fair head down into the hollow of her neck, for a moment the pain at her heart was lulled.
"It is for your sake, my little boy," she whispered, as she pressed her lips to the soft gold down on the top of his head. "For your sake, and your father's. For myself, what would it matter?"
"Ah, miladi, is it that the pain is better?" Célestine stood in the doorway, her sharp black eyes regarding Lady Carew curiously. "There's a train up to town from Carew village at 11.30, miladi."
"Eleven-thirty!" Judith repeated. "That will do very well. Tell them to bring the pony carriage round, Célestine. I will drive down."
"Yes, miladi." Célestine waited while Judith went to the inner nursery and gave Paul back to his nurse. "Shall we be coming home to-night, miladi, or do we spend the night in town?"
"Oh, I shall come back to-night," Judith said quickly. "But I shall not take you, Célestine. I shall have a taxi straight from the station to the dentist's and manage quite well alone."
At the station, as Lady Carew got out of the carriage, a man on a bicycle came swiftly up and dismounted at the steps. When she took her ticket to London, he was just behind her. When Judith got out at St. Pancras the same man was close behind her again and
