not knock."

Naturally, this bold maneuver could not have succeeded had he a right
of entry. A woman's physical strength was unequal to the task of
disturbing his burly frame, and a foot thrust between door and jamb
would have done the rest. As matters stood, however, he was obliged to
abandon any present hope of an interview with the mysterious Miss
Eileen Garth.

He remained stock still for some seconds, listening to the retreating
footsteps of the strong-minded person who had beaten him. It was his
habit to visualize for future reference the features and demeanor of
people in whom he was interested, and of whom circumstances permitted
only the merest glimpse. This woman's face had revealed annoyance
rather than fear. "Scotland Yard" was not an ogre but a nuisance. She
held, or, at any rate, she had exercised, a definite power of
rejecting visitors whom she considered undesirable. Therefore, she was
a relative, probably Eileen Garth's mother or aunt.

Eileen Garth was "tall and slim," "good-looking, but rather snappy."
Well, twenty years ago, the description would have applied to the
woman he had just seen. Her voice, heard under admittedly adverse
conditions, was correct in accent and fairly cultured. Before the
world had hardened it its tones might have been soft and dulcet. But
above all, there was the presumable discovery that Eileen Garth was as
decidedly opposed as Robert Fenley to full and free discussion of that
morning's crime.

"Furneaux will jeer at me when he hears of this little episode,"
thought Winter, smiling as he turned to descend the stairs. Furneaux
did jeer, but it was at his colleague's phenomenal luck.

The door of No. Twelve, the only other flat on the same landing,
opened, and a man appeared. Recognition was prompt on Winter's side.

"Hello, Drake!" he said genially. "Are _you_ Signor Maselli? Well met,
anyhow! Can you give me a friendly word?"

The occupant of flat No. Twelve, an undersized, slightly built man of
middle age, seemed to have received the shock of his life. His
sallow-complexioned face assumed a greenish-yellow tint, and his
deep-set eyes glistened like those of a hunted animal.

"Friendly?" he contrived to gasp, giving a ghastly look over his
shoulder to ascertain whether any one in the interior of the flat had
heard that name "Drake."

"Yes. I mean it. Strictly on the q. t.," said Winter, sinking his
voice to a confidential pitch. Signor Giovanni Maselli, since that