Daylesford Court Mansions have little in common with the “luxury flats” of modern London. They boast neither lifts nor uniformed porters, and there were no curious eyes to watch the detectives as they entered. Mallett clattered up the stone stairs at their head. The inhospitable entrance, the hygienically glazed walls put him in mind of a prison. Did Fanshawe, he wondered as he went, ever note the resemblance? Prison! Well, he would resume his acquaintance with that before long—for a little time, and then—he felt a little nauseated. Not for the first time, on such an occasion, he was conscious of a sense of disgust with himself for the duty he was about to perform. To deliver a man over to the hangman in order to expiate a wholly worthless life—it seemed an ignoble task, when all was said. In a perfectly organized community, a man like Ballantine would have been removed long ago, while Fanshawe——

His fingers closed over the door-knocker of Miss Fanshawe’s flat. The touch of the cold metal served to dispel at once all introspection. While there was something to be done, he could leave it to others to decide the purpose or utility of the deed. “Now for it,” he said to himself, and knocked long and loud.

The summons was answered after a short delay by a tall, grim, middle-aged woman, pale of countenance, her lips set in a firm line. She wore an apron which seemed incongruous alike to her well-made dress and her authoritative manner.

She greeted the detectives with raised eyebrows and a slightly contemptuous “Yes?”

“I am a police officer——” Mallett began.

“Very well. You wish to see my brother, I suppose.”

“Is he here?”

“Certainly.” Her lip curled as though at the suggestion that he should have run away. “He has been in his room for the last hour. I will show you the way. The maid is out at the present,” she added. The last piece of information was evidently intended to explain why she should be doing them this service in person.

The three men entered the flat and Miss Fanshawe strode stiffly in front of them down the narrow passage. Presently she stopped at a door, knocked smartly at it, opened it wide, called out: “Some policemen to see you, John!” and walked on without herself crossing the threshold.

Mallett was the first to enter the room, with Frant close at his heels. It was a plainly furnished bedroom, with an open desk in one corner. On the desk lay a large white envelope. On the bed lay John Fanshawe. An empty glass was beside him. He was fully dressed, except for his shoes, which he had considerately taken off and left on the floor. He had died painlessly, and if his unfurrowed brow was any guide, with an easy conscience.