“But since Mr. Ballantine’s death, he has been living in this flat, has he not?”

“Oh, yes,” answered Mrs. Eales brightly. “But of course that’s different, isn’t it?”

Mallett expressed no opinion. Mrs. Eales’ ideas of propriety were altogether beyond him, and he was thankful that an investigation into them was not within his province. Instead, he rose and said: “Will you show me the study, please?”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing much to see here,” said Mrs. Eales. “Pompey never kept any private papers here. He used to bring back papers and things from the office to work on them, but he always took them away next morning.”

They were standing in the study, a small, sparsely furnished room, which was in marked contrast to the one they had just quitted. An open desk was innocent of papers, except for a few clean sheets of writing-paper. Some of these, the inspector noticed, bore the address of the flat, others the headings of the various companies with which Ballantine had been associated.

“Of course, I never knew what work he did,” Mrs. Eales went on. “He kept everything in a big attaché case, and that was always locked.”

Mallett forbore to ask how she came to know this. Evidently Ballantine had taken no chances with the lady of his choice.

“I see there is a typewriter over there,” he remarked. “Did Mr. Ballantine use that?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Eales, too?”

“Sometimes.”

“May I use it now?” He eyed her narrowly as he spoke.

“Yes, of course,” she replied, obviously surprised at his request.

Mallett took a sheet of the notepaper which bore the name of the London and Imperial Estates Company, and painfully, for he was no expert at the craft, hammered out from memory a replica of the letter which had sent him on his journey to Brighton.

“Thank you,” he said when he had done. “I have only a few more questions to ask you. When did you last see Mr. Ballantine?”

“A few days before—before he was found.”

“Can’t you be more definite? What day of the week was it, do you remember?”

“A Tuesday or Wednesday. I think—Wednesday, I’m almost sure.”

“We know that he was alive on the Thursday and Friday of that week. You didn’t see him on either of those days?”

“No—I had seen very little of him all that month.”

“Or hear from him?”

“No.”

“Thank you. Now would you mind telling me, please, what Mr. Du Pine was doing here this morning?”

“Mr. Du Pine?”

“That was what I said.”

“I—I really don’t know.” Her voice faltered. “He came to see my husband. They went away together.”

“I know that,” said Mallett sternly. “But that isn’t an answer to my question. What were they doing together?”