to believe at first, but
everything seems so certain."

"I am not at all convinced," was the stern reply. "On the contrary, I
feel sure that some terrible mistake has been made. I would stake my
life on the innocence of Hazel Rath. How can you, who have known her so
long, believe she would do a deed like this? The detective who has just
left us is obviously a fool, and I am not satisfied that all the facts
about Violet's death have been brought to light. I am going to London at
once to bring another detective to inquire into the case. You know more
about these things than me, Musard--can you tell me of a good man?"

"If you are determined to bring in another detective, you cannot do
better than get Colwyn," replied Musard.

"Colwyn--the famous private detective? He is the very man I should like.
Where is he to be found?"

"He has rooms somewhere near Ludgate Circus. I will write down the
address. I think he will come, if he is not otherwise engaged."

"Why should he refuse?" demanded Phil haughtily. "I will pay him well."

"It is not a question of money with a man like Colwyn, and I advise you
not to use that tone with him if you want his help."

"Very well," said Phil, pocketing the address Musard had written down.
"I will catch the 6.30 evening train up. Aunt, you might tell them to
give me something to eat in the small breakfast-room. I do not want to
be bothered getting dinner in town."

"Phil, dear, you mustn't dream of going to London in your present state
of health," expostulated Miss Heredith tearfully. "Why not leave it
until you are stronger? Vincent, try and persuade him not to go."

"Phil is the best judge of his own actions in a matter like this,"
replied Musard gravely.

"At least let Vincent go with you, Phil," urged his aunt.

"I want nobody to accompany me," replied Phil, speaking in a tone he had
never used to his aunt before. "I will go and get ready. Tell Linton to
have the small car ready to drive me to the station."

CHAPTER XV

Colwyn had rooms in the upper part of a block of buildings on Ludgate
Hill, looking down on the Circus, above the rookery of passages which
burrow tortuously under the railway arches to Water Lane, Printing House
Square, and Blackfriars. It was a strange locality to live in, but it
suited Colwyn. It was in the thick of things. From his windows, high up
above the roar of the traffic, he could watch the ceaseless flow of life
eastward and westward all d