Number Seventeen | Page 6

side: "Dad, aren't you coming
home with me?"
His blurred senses were conscious of the strange medley produced by
the familiar noises of a railway station blending with the quietly
authoritative voice of the chief inspector.
"Mr. Furneaux and I have the inquiry in hand, Mr. Theydon," the
detective was saying. "We called at your flat, and Bates told us of the
sounds you both heard about 11:30 last night. I'm afraid we have rather
upset you by coming here, but Bates was unable to say what time you
would return home, so I thought you would not mind if we
accompanied him in order to find out the hour at which it would be
convenient for you to meet us at your flat-- this evening, of course."
"You have certainly given me the shock of my life," Theydon gasped.
"That poor woman dead, murdered! It's too awful! How was she
killed?"
"She was strangled."
"O, this is dreadful! Shall I wire an apology to the man I'm dining
with?"
"No need for that, Mr. Theydon," said Winter, sympathetically. "I'm
sorry now we blurted out our unpleasant news. But you had to be told,
and it was essential that we should get your story some time tonight.
Can you be home by eleven?"
"Yes, yes. I'll be there without fail."

"Thank you. We have a good many inquiries to make in the meantime.
Goodby, for the present."
The two made off. Winter had done all the talking, but Theydon was far
too disturbed to pay heed to the trivial fact that Furneaux, after one
swift glance, seemed to regard him as a negligible quantity. It was
borne in on him that the detective evidently believed he had something
of importance to say, and meant to render it almost impossible that he
should escape questioning while his memory was still active with
reference to events of the previous night.
And he had so little, yet so much, to tell. On his testimony alone it
would be a comparatively easy matter to establish beyond doubt the
identity of Mrs. Lester's last known visitor. And what would be the
outcome? He dared hardly trust his own too lively imagination.
Whether or not his testimony gave a clew to the police, the one
irrevocable issue was that somewhere in London there was a girl named
Evelyn who would regard a certain young man, Francis Berrold
Theydon to wit, as a loathsome and despicable Paul Pry.
Bates, somewhat relieved by the departure of the emissaries of Scotland
Yard, recalled his master's scattered wits to the affairs of the moment.
"It's getting on for seven, sir," he said. "I've engaged a dressing room."
"Tell you what, Bates," said Theydon abstractedly, "it is my fixed
belief that you and I could do with a brandy and soda apiece."
"That would be a good idea, sir."
The good idea was duly acted on. While Theydon was dressing Bates
told him what little he knew of the tragedy, which was discovered by
Mrs. Lester's maid when she brought a cup of tea to her mistress'
bedroom at ten o'clock that morning.
Bates himself was the first person appealed to by the distracted woman,
and he had the good sense to leave the body and its surroundings
untouched until a doctor and the police had been summoned by

telephone. Thenceforth the day had passed in a whirl of excitement,
active in respect to police inquiries and passive in its resistance to
newspaper interviewers. He saw no valid reason why his employer's
plans should be disturbed, so made no effort to communicate with him
at Brooklands.
"Them 'tecs were very pressin', sir," said Bates, rather indignantly,
"very pressin', especially the little one. He almost wanted to know what
we had for breakfast."
At that Theydon laughed dolefully, and, as it happened, Bates's grim
humor prevented him from ascertaining the exact nature of Furneaux's
pertinacity. Moreover, the time was passing. At 7:15 Theydon called a
taxi and was carried swiftly to Mr. Forbes's house in Belgravia, while
Bates disposed himself and the dressing case on top of a northbound
omnibus.
The mere change of clothing, aided by the stimulant, had cleared
Theydon's faculties. Though he would gladly have foregone the dinner,
he realized that it was not a bad thing that he should be forced, as it
were, to wrench his thoughts from the nightmare of a crime with which
such a man as "Evelyn's" father might be associated, even innocently.
At any rate, he was given some hours to marshal his forces for the
discussion with the representatives of Scotland Yard. He knew well
that he must then face the dilemma boldly. Two courses were open. He
could either share Bates's scanty knowledge, no more and no less, or
avow his ampler observations.