"Felix," she said, "I had to see you. You must help me. If they ask you about—"

"Do you remember Nigel Bathgate?" said Gardener.

She saw Nigel then, and couldn't speak. He walked past her and downstairs without uttering another word.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Surbonadier's Flat

BIG BEN struck twelve noon as Nigel made his way back to Scotland Yard. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn was engaged, but Nigel was invited to take a seat in the passage outside his room. Presently the door opened and a roaring noise informed him of the presence of Mr. Jacob Saint.

"That's all I know. You can ferret round till you're blue in the face, but you won't find anything else. I'm a plain man, inspector—"

"Oh, I don't think so at all, Mr. Saint," Alleyn said politely.

"And your comedy stuff makes me tired. It's a suicide case. When's the inquest?"

"To-morrow at eleven."

Mr. Saint uttered a rumbling sound and walked out into the passage. He stared at Nigel, failed to recognise him, and made off in the direction of the stairs.

"Hullo, Bathgate," said Alleyn from the doorway. "Come in."

Nigel, by dint of terrific self-suppression, managed to report Wakeford with a certain air of nonchalance. Alleyn listened attentively.

"Wakeford's theory is possible," he said. "Surbonadier was a peculiar individual. He may have written the article, fathered it on to Wakeford, and hugged himself with the thought that he was dealing a sly blow at Uncle Jacob. We know he tried to blackmail him a week or so ago. It's not as inconsistent as it seems."

"Saint himself swore he didn't do it—at the time of the trial, I mean."

"Of course he did. If his nephew had proved to be the author, he would have seemed a better authority than a reporter eager for sensational copy. No—in a way it's a reasonable theory."

"You sound doubtful."

"I am."

"So's Gardener. He doesn't think Surbonadier did it."

"What? You've seen him?"

"Yes. He's got the wind up now and thinks you're going to pull him in."

"He doesn't think Surbonadier wrote the article?"

"He said so, quite honestly, though I'm sure he understood how the theory would point to Saint rather than to himself. All the same, I got the feeling he really believed there might be something in it."

"Tell me exactly what was said."

Nigel repeated, as closely as he could, his conversation with Gardener. Rather reluctantly he described Miss Vaughan's appearance and her unfinished sentence.

"What was she going to warn him about?" he wondered.

"Can't you guess?" Alleyn asked.

"No, I can not."

"Think. Think. Think."

"Oh, shut up," said Nigel crossly. "You talk like a Thorndyke."

"Why not? I wish I could sleuth like one. I'll have to have a stab at it, too. Dig up some old dirt at Cambridge."

"Do you think there's anything in the suicide theory?"