shock, and I don't like the action of his heart. He can be removed quite safely. If you like I will telephone for an ambulance and take him to the hospital. Do you know anything about this affair, sergeant?"

"Very little as yet, sir," the man answered. "I want this gentleman's description of the person who showed him the pistol. The commissionaire saw him leave, I understand, and one of the waiters saw something in his hand. Was he a friend of yours, sir?"

"I only know his name," I answered. "He called himself Mr. Grooten, and I judged him to be a foreigner, though he spoke perfect English. He seemed to be about fifty years old, clean-shaven, and of under medium height."

"Too vague," the sergeant remarked. "Had he any peculiarity of feature or expression, anything which would help towards identification?"

"None that I can remember," I answered.

"How was he dressed?"

"Quietly. I could not remember anything that he wore."

"Did he give you any idea of his intention? Did he speak of Major Delahaye at all as though he knew him?"

I shook my head.

"We simply both remarked," I said slowly, "that this—young lady seemed to be very frightened of her companion, and I do not think that we formed a favourable impression of him. He gave me not the slightest intimation, however, of his intention to interfere."

"It could not have been an accident, I suppose?" Mr. Huber suggested.

"I might have thought so," I answered, "if he had not immediately left the place. He disappeared so quickly that I did not even see him go."

"You sat by accident at the same table?" the sergeant asked.

"No, we came together," I answered. "We met at Charing Cross, and he spoke to me. He knew my name, and reminded me that we had once met at the 'Vagabonds' Club.'"

"Did you remember him?"

"I cannot say that I did," I answered.

"And afterwards?"

"We talked together for some time, and when we left the station he asked me to lunch here."

"Did he arrive by train, or was he meeting anyone at Charing Cross?" the sergeant asked.

"Neither, so far as I could see," I answered. "He seemed to be simply loitering. I ought to tell you, though, that we saw Major Delahaye and this young lady arrive by the Continental train, and he seemed to be interested in them."

The sergeant turned to Isobel.

"Did you know him?" he asked.

"No," she answered. "I did not notice him at the station at all. I saw that he was sitting at the same table downstairs as this gentleman, but I am quite sure that I have never seen him before in my life."

The sergeant put away his pocket-book.

"I am very sorry to trouble you," he said, "but I think it would be better for you all to come to Bow Street and see the superintendent."

"I am quite willing to do so," I answered, "though I can tell him no more than I have told you."

The child moved suddenly towards me. Her thin, shabbily gloved fingers gripped my arm with almost painful force. Her eyes were full of passionate appeal.

"I may go with you," she murmured. "You will not leave me alone?"

"The young lady will be required also," the sergeant remarked.

"We will go together, of course," I said gently. "Come!"

CHAPTER V

We crossed the road from the police-station, and found ourselves in one of the narrow streets fringing Covent Garden. The air was fragrant here with the perfume of white and purple lilac, great baskets full of which were piled up in the gutter. The girl half closed her eyes.

"Delicious!" she murmured. "This reminds me of St. Argueil! You have flowers too, then, in London?"

I bought her a handful, which she sniffed and held to her face with delight.

"Ah!" she said a little sadly. "I had forgotten that there were any beautiful things left in the world. Thank you so much, Mr. Arnold."

"At your age," I said cheerfully, "you will soon find out that the world—even London—is a treasure-house of beautiful things."

She looked down the narrow, untidy street, strewn with the refuse from the market waggons and trucks which blocked the way, making all but pedestrian traffic an impossibility—at the piles of empty baskets in the gutter, and the slatternly crowd of loiterers. Then she looked up at me with a faint smile.

"London—is not all like this, then?" she remarked.

I shook my head.

"This is a back street, almost a slum," I said. "I daresay you have lived in the country always, and just at first it does not seem possible that there should be anything beautiful about a great city. When you get a little older I think that you will see things differently. The beauty of a great city thronged with men and women is a more subtle thing than the mere joy of meadows and hills and country lanes—but it exists all the same. And now," I continued, stopping short upon the pavement, "I must take you to your friends. Tell me where they live. You have the address, perhaps."

"What friends?" she asked me, with wide-open eyes.

"You told the superintendent of police that you had friends in London," I reminded her.

Then she smiled at me—a very dazzling smile, which showed all her white teeth, and which seemed somehow to become reflected in her dark blue eyes.

"But I meant you!" she exclaimed. "I thought that you knew that! There is no one else. You are my friend, I know very well, for you came and spoke kindly to me when I was terrified—terrified to death."

The shadow of gravity rested only for a moment upon her face. She laughed gaily at my consternation.

"Then where am I to take you?" I asked.

"Stupid," she murmured; "I am going with you, of course. Why—why—you don't mind, do you?" she asked, with a sudden catch in her throat.

I felt like a brute, and I hastened to make what amends I could. I smiled at her reassuringly.

"Mind! Of course I don't mind," I declared. "Only, you see, there are three of us—all men—and we live together. I was afraid——"

"I shall not mind that at all," she interrupted cheerfully. "If they are nice like you, I think that it will be delightful. There were only girls at the convent, you know, and the sisters, and a few masters who came to teach us things, but they were not allowed to speak to us except to give out the lessons, and they were very stupid. I do not think that I shall be any trouble to you at all. I will try not to be."

I looked at her—a little helplessly. After all, though she was tall for her years, she was only a child. Her dress was of an awkward length, her long straight fringe and plaited hair the coiffure of the schoolroom. The most surprising thing of all in connection with her was that she showed no signs of the tragedy which had so recently been played out around her. Her eyes had lost their nameless fear; there was even colour in her cheeks.

"Come along, then!" I said. "We will turn into the Strand and take a hansom."

She walked buoyantly along by my side, as tall within an inch or so as myself, and with a certain elegance in her gait a little hard to reconcile with her years. All the while she looked eagerly about her, her eyes shining with curiosity.

"We passed through Paris at night," she said, with a little reminiscent shudder, as though every thought connected with that journey were a torture, "and I have never really been in a great city before. I hope you meant what you said," she added, looking up at me with a quick smile, "and that there are parts of London more beautiful than this."

"Many," I assured her. "You shall see the parks. The rhododendrons will be out soon, and I think that you will find them beautiful, though, of course, the town can never be like the country. Here's a hansom with a good horse. Jump in!"

I think that our arrival at Number 4, Earl's Crescent, created quite as much sensation as I had anticipated. When I opened the door of the large,