may as well speak in the past, Torry; the man is dead."
"Dead! Murdered!" said the detective, thoughtfully. "A sad ending for a virtuous man. Tell me all that you learnt from Harcot."
"I have told you all," replied Darrel. "The shirt was made for Jesse Grent, of Waybridge, and of Grent and Leighbourne, Bankers, Fleet-street."
"Quite so," said Torry, getting on his feet. "Well, where Harcot's information ends Mr. Leighbourne's may begin. Come along, Mr. Darrel, let us pay a visit to Fleet-street."
"Very good. Wait till I put on my coat."
While Frank was getting ready for the visit Torry employed his time in making notes in his secretive little book. Incidentally he inquired about the Blue Mummy, and on receiving an explanation about the ancient Peruvians and their customs, evinced some disgust at the unsatisfactory result of Darrel's visit to the archæologist. Still, he thought the information worth noting.
"Doesn't seem to bear much on the case," he said philosophically. "Still, there is no knowing how important it may be."
"I agree with you there," said Frank taking up hat and gloves. "That Blue Mummy, to my mind, symbolises something which may elucidate the whole mystery."
"It sounds too romantic to have any practical value," grumbled Torry, as they went out. "It is a far cry from London to Peru."
Notwithstanding the diversion of opinion, the subject seemed to be of so little importance that both novelist and detective dropped the discussion. In a few moments they found themselves in a hansom, and rattled quickly eastward until they descended before the unpretentious building, which was one of the most famous private banks in the City of London. The firm of Grent and Leighbourne was nearly one hundred years old, having been established shortly after the French Revolution and was much patronised by county families. It had been founded by Mr. Ebenezer Grent, who had afterwards taken his chief clerk, Leighbourne, into partnership. It was the grandsons of this pair who were now the representatives of the bank, and one of these, Jesse Grent, had been barbarously assassinated in Mortality-lane. As yet, to all appearances, the catastrophe of his death was unknown.
"They would have the shutters up else," said Torry who had commented on this fact to his companion. "Depend upon it, Mr. Darrel, you and I are about to startle the firm of Grent and Leighbourne."
In answer to the detective's inquiries the visitors were requested to give their cards, which were taken into Mr. Leighbourne. In a few minutes his bell rang and they were shown into a soberly-furnished room, which was occupied by a handsome young man. He was about thirty years of age with curly black hair and a small black moustache smartly pointed so as to give him quite a jaunty air. Elegantly dressed he seemed rather like a West End dandy than a sedate, methodical banker. With all the composure of a man of the world he received his visitors, but there was an uneasy look about him which did not escape the vigilant eyes of Torry.
"Be seated, gentlemen," said he, waving his hand towards two chairs. "I understand you wish to see me?"
"Are you Mr. Leighbourne?" asked Darrel, who could not conceal his astonishment at the age and appearance of the banker.
"I am Mr. Frederick Leighbourne, sir. Perhaps it is my father you wish to see. In that case I must inform you that he is now in Paris, where he has been for some weeks. In his absence, and in the absence of our other partner, Mr. Grent, I act as the representative of the firm."
"Mr. Grent!" repeated Torry slowly. "He is absent also, then?"
"Yes. He left for Italy last Saturday."
"Are you sure?" asked the detective, meaningly.
"Certainly. Mr. Grent told me he was going. No doubt he is in Milan by this time."
"I am afraid he is not, Mr. Leighbourne."
The young man turned pale and looked from one to the other of his visitors. "What do you mean?" he asked anxiously.
"I mean," said Torry, "that Mr. Grent has taken a longer journey than you are aware of."
"A longer journey? How do you know?"
"Because I am a detective."
Leighbourne became even paler than before, and pushed back his chair with a quick, nervous movement. "A detective!" he muttered faintly. "Why--why does a detective call on me?"
"To inform you of Mr. Grent's death," interposed Darrel, astonished at this unnecessary display of emotion.
"Dead! Mr. Grent dead!" Frederick Leighbourne rose in an indescribable state of emotion. "Why, on Friday last, when he said good-bye to me, he was in excellent health."
"Health has nothing to do with the death," said Torry drily. "Have you heard of this Mortality-lane murder?"
"Yes, yes; that is, I saw--I saw something about it in the evening papers," stammered the banker hurriedly; "but it has nothing--nothing----"
"It has everything to do with Mr. Grent, if that is what you mean," said Darrel. "On Sunday morning last, shortly before one o'clock, your partner was murdered!"
"Murdered!" Leighbourne's voice leaped an octave. "Oh my God!"
"Stabbed to the heart!"
"But by whom--by whom?"
"By an unknown woman."
Leighbourne's face, which had changed from white to red, and then back again, assumed an expression of profound astonishment. "A woman!" he repeated. "Murdered by a woman! Impossible! I thought----" Here he checked himself on observing the attentive attitude of his auditors. "Is the woman in custody," he asked calmly.
"No," replied Torry, who had noted the hesitation of the young man. "She is dead also."
"Dead also," repeated Leighbourne--"but not murdered?"
"Yes; she was stabbed to the heart by some unknown man."
"Has he been arrested?"
Darrel could not forbear a dry laugh. "If he had been arrested, Mr. Leighbourne, he would not be unknown. No; the murderer escaped, and we have come to ask you to assist us to find him."
Leighbourne resumed his seat with what appeared to be an air of relief. "I!" he murmured. "Good Heavens, gentlemen, how can I possibly assist you?"
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