nough; some one called up
the rank where he chanced to be standing that evening, instructing him
to call for Sir Marcus at the stage-door of the New Avenue Theater and
to drive him to--"

He paused:

"Yes?"

"To the Red House!"

"At last we have it!" I cried excitedly.

"There is no doubt of it," answered Gatton; "the cabman drove him
there, and it was certainly at the Red House that he met his death.
Indeed the cabby appears to be the last witness who spoke to the
murdered man. He inquired his way to the Red House from a chance
pedestrian, a tramp, whom he met at the corner of College Road. He has
even described this person to us, but I don't think his evidence of
sufficient importance to justify our searching for him. On reaching
the Red House the cabman and his fare found it to be vacant. Sir
Marcus, however, who had a very brusk manner with his inferiors,
having paid the cabman, curtly dismissed him, and the man, who admits
having bargained for a double fare for the journey, because it was
such an out-of-the-way spot, drove away vaguely curious, but not so
curious as another might have been, since London cabmen are used to
strange jobs."

"We are getting near the heart of the mystery."

"H'm," said Gatton, "I'm not so sure. The deeper we go the darker it
gets. A man has been scouring the neighborhood all day in quest of the
carter who delivered the crate to the docks, but so far without
results. I consider it a very important point that we should learn not
only how and when the crate was collected, but when and by whom it was
delivered at the garage."

"Another question," I said: "although I believe I know the answer. Was
it a man or a woman who ordered the cab?"

"Both in the case of Marie and in the case of the cab-rank," replied
Gatton, "it was a woman's voice that spoke."

"Thank God, one doubt is resolved!" I said. "It cannot possibly have
been Isobel in either of these cases!"

"Right!" agreed Gatton, promptly. "I am as glad as you are. There is
clearly a second woman in the case; yet I can't bring myself to
believe that this elaborate scheme was the work of a woman."

"Not of a _jealous_ woman?" I suggested.

"Not of any woman," he replied. "Besides--who put the body into the
crate? What kind of a woman would it be who could do a deed like
that?"

"In other words," said I, "you are still without a ghost of a clew to
the identity of the person who committed the murder, and to the means
emp