he repeated. T. B. stepped out into the well of the tiny courtyard. It was approached from the street by a flight of stone stairs.
T. B. threw the circle of his lamp over the flagged yard. He saw something glittering and stooped to pick it up. The object was a tiny gold-capped bottle such as forms part of the paraphernalia in a woman's handbag.
He lifted it to his nose and sniffed it.
"That is it," he said.
"What?" asked Mr. Farrington, suspiciously.
"The scent I detected in your hall," replied T. B. "A peculiar scent, is it not?" He raised the bottle to his nose again. "Not your ward's by any chance?"
Farrington shook his head vigorously.
"Doris has never been in this area in her life," he said; "besides, she dislikes perfumes."
T. B. slipped the bottle in his pocket.
Further examination discovered no further clue as to the third person, and T. B. followed his host back to the study.
"What do you make of it?" asked Mr. Farrington.
T. B. did not answer immediately. He walked to the window and looked out. The little crowd which had been attracted by the shots and arrival of the police ambulance had melted away. The mist which had threatened all the evening had rolled into the square and the street lamps showed yellow through the dingy haze.
"I think," he said, "that I have at last got on the track of Montague Fallock."
Mr. Farrington looked at him with open mouth.
"You don't mean that?" he asked incredulously.
T. B. inclined his head.
"The open door below—the visitor?" jerked the stout man, "you don't think Montague Fallock was in the house to-night?"
T. B. nodded again, and there was a moment's silence.
"He has been blackmailing me," said Mr. Farrington, thoughtfully, "but I don't think——"
The detective turned up his coat collar preparatory to leaving.
"I have a rather unpleasant job," he said. "I shall have to search those unfortunate men."
Mr. Farrington shivered. "Beastly," he said, huskily.
T. B. glanced round the beautiful apartment with its silver fittings, its soft lights and costly panellings. A rich, warm fire burnt in an oxidized steel grate. The floor was a patchwork of Persian rugs, and a few pictures which adorned the walls must have been worth a fortune.
On the desk there was a big photograph in a plain silver frame—the photograph of a handsome woman in the prime of life.
"Pardon me," said T. B., and crossed to the picture, "this is——"
"Lady Constance Dex," said the other, shortly—"a great friend of mine and my ward's."
"Is she in town?"
Mr. Farrington shook his head.
"She is at Great Bradley," he said; "her brother is the rector there."
"Great Bradley?"
T. B.'s frown showed an effort to recollect something.
"Isn't that the locality which contains the Secret House?"
"I've heard something about the place," said Mr. Farrington with a little smile.
"C. D.," said the detective, making for the door.
"What?"
"Lady Constance Dex's initials, I mean," said T. B.
"Yes—why?"
"Those are the initials on the gold scent bottle, that is all," said the detective. "Good night."
He left Mr. Farrington biting his finger nails—a habit he fell into when he was seriously perturbed.
CHAPTER III
T. B. Smith sat alone in his office in Scotland Yard. Outside, the Embankment, the river, even the bulk of the Houses of Parliament were blotted out by the dense fog. For two days London had lain under the pall, and if the weather experts might be relied upon, yet another two days of fog was to be expected.
The cheery room, with its polished oak panelling and the chaste elegance of its electroliers, offered every inducement to a lover of comfort to linger. The fire glowed bright and red in the tiled fireplace, a silver clock on the mantelpiece ticked musically, and at his hand was a white-covered tray with a tiny silver teapot, and the paraphernalia necessary for preparing his meal—that strange tea-supper which was one of T. B. Smith's eccentricities.
He glanced at the clock; the hands pointed to twenty-five minutes past one.
He pressed a little button let into the side of the desk, and a few seconds later there was a gentle tap at the door, and a helmetless constable appeared.
"Go to the record room and get me"—he consulted a slip of paper on the desk—"Number G 7941."
The man withdrew noiselessly, and T. B. Smith poured out a cup of tea for himself.
There was a thoughtful line on his broad forehead, a look of unaccustomed worry on the handsome face, tanned with the suns of Southern France. He had come back from his holiday to a task which required the genius of a superman. He had to establish the identity of the greatest swindler of modern times, Montague Fallock. And now another reason existed for his search. To Montague Fallock, or his agent, must be ascribed the death of two men found in Brakely Square the night before.
No man had seen Montague; there was no photograph to assist the army of detectives who were seeking him. His agents had been arrested and interrogated, but they were but the agents of agents. The man himself was invisible. He stood behind a steel network of banks and lawyers and anonymities, unreachable.
The constable returned, bearing under his arm a little black leather envelope, and, depositing it on the desk of the Assistant Commissioner, withdrew.
T. B. opened the envelope and removed three neat packages tied with red tape. He unfastened one of these and laid three cards before him. They were three photographic enlargements of a finger print. It did not need the eye of an expert to see they were of the same finger, though it was obvious that they had been made under different circumstances.
T. B. compared them with a smaller photograph he had taken from his pocket. Yes, there was no doubt about it. The four pictures, secured by a delicate process from the almost invisible print on the latest letter of the blackmailer, proved beyond any doubt the identity of Lady Dex's correspondent.
He
