amateur, so to speak. There was no
novelty for her in handing kids cups of tea. I daresay she had helped
her landlady often enough at that--there's quite a bushel of brats below
stairs. It's almost as bad as at friend Crowl's. Jessie was a real
brick. But perhaps Tom didn't know her value. Perhaps he didn't like
Constant to call on her, and it led to a quarrel. Anyhow, she's
disappeared, like the snowfall on the river. There's not a trace. The
landlady, who was such a friend of hers that Jessie used to make up her
stuff into dresses for nothing, tells me that she's dreadfully annoyed
at not having been left the slightest clue to her late tenant's
whereabouts."

"You have been making inquiries on your own account apparently."

"Only of the landlady. Jessie never even gave her the week's notice, but
paid her in lieu of it, and left immediately. The landlady told me I
could have knocked her down with a feather. Unfortunately, I wasn't
there to do it, for I should certainly have knocked her down for not
keeping her eyes open better. She says if she had only had the least
suspicion beforehand that the minx (she dared to call Jessie a minx) was
going, she'd have known where, or her name would have been somebody
else's. And yet she admits that Jessie was looking ill and worried.
Stupid old hag!"

"A woman of character," murmured the detective.

"Didn't I tell you so?" cried Denzil eagerly. "Another girl would have
let out that she was going. But, no! not a word. She plumped down the
money and walked out. The landlady ran upstairs. None of Jessie's things
were there. She must have quietly sold them off, or transferred them to
the new place. I never in my life met a girl who so thoroughly knew her
own mind or had a mind so worth knowing. She always reminded me of the
Maid of Saragossa."

"Indeed! And when did she leave?"

"On the 19th of November."

"Mortlake of course knows where she is?"

"I can't say. Last time I was at the house to inquire--it was at the end
of November--he hadn't been seen there for six weeks. He wrote to her,
of course, sometimes--the landlady knew his writing."

Wimp looked Denzil straight in the eyes, and said, "You mean, of course,
to accuse Mortlake of the murder of Mr. Constant?"

"N-n-no, not at all," stammered Denzil, "only you know what Mr. Grodman
wrote to the 'Pell Mell.' The more we know about Mr. Constant's life the
more we shall know about the manner of his death. I thought my
inf