“What a fool I am!” Mallett said to himself. “Why don’t I practise what I preach? Here I am, theorizing without the facts, when a simple examination of the office typewriters will give me all I want—that is, if the girl who took the letter down has any memory.”

He deliberately relaxed, and let his thoughts wander. Links, he reflected vaguely, missing links—the case was full of them. And he was going to see Fanshawe tomorrow. And the only link between Fanshawe and James was—Harper of all people! Fanshawe had been a friend of Harper’s father, and Harper had found James his house—it seemed remote enough in all conscience! The personalities in the drama began to flit through his tiring brain like colours in a kaleidoscope. The speed of the car, from being a stimulant, became a narcotic. He dozed. Presently he found himself speaking to Harper who vainly tried to tie a bow, and explained that if he didn’t get it straight he would be murdered, while Lord Bernard shouted in his ear: “You mustn’t be over-dressed! It’s a crime to be over-dressed!”

He jerked himself awake. Lord Bernard was still speaking, but what he said was: “We’re just coming into London. Where can I drop you?”

15
MR. COLIN JAMES

Friday, November 20th

“Are you sure there were no other machines in the office?” Mallett asked Frant.

It was Friday morning, and they sat together in the inspector’s room at Scotland Yard, at a table littered with little typewritten slips.

“Absolutely,” was the reply. “They were all of the same make—big office typewriters, except for a small portable in Du Pine’s room. That was a ‘Diadem’.”

“And quite obviously this wasn’t,” rejoined Mallett, tapping the letter with a broad forefinger. “I don’t pretend to be an expert in these matters, but at a guess I should say it was a light Hornington.”

He crumpled up the slips into a ball and threw them into the waste-paper basket with a shrug of disgust.

“And that’s that!” he observed. “Now where do we stand? Here we have a letter written on office-paper but not in the office—brought in from outside so that poor dear Gaveston could sign it. Who could get at the paper? Obviously, anyone employed in the office who cared to sneak a bit and take it home with him. Who owned a typewriter? Nowadays nearly everybody does. By the way, I wonder if Du Pine has one at his private house?”

“He certainly has,” said Frant, with an air of triumph. “Here’s a specimen of its work.”

He laid a sheet of notepaper before the inspector, adding: “It was addressed to the Chief Commissioner personally. It has just been sent down for us to deal with.”

My Lord,