very depressed man who interviewed an authority that
night and secured from him a search warrant.

Armed with this and accompanied by Whiteside he made his way to the flat
in Edgware Road, and, showing his authority, secured a pass-key from the
hall porter, who was also the caretaker of the building. Tarling
remembered the last time he had gone to the flat, and it was with a
feeling of intense pity for the girl that he turned the key in the lock
and stepped into the little hall, reaching out his hand and switching on
the light as he did so.

There was nothing in the hall to suggest anything unusual. There was just
that close and musty smell which is peculiar to all buildings which have
been shut up, even for a few days.

But there was something else.

Tarling sniffed and Whiteside sniffed. A dull, "burnt" smell, some
pungent, "scorched" odour, which he recognised as the stale stench of
exploded cordite. He went into the tiny dining-room; everything was neat,
nothing displaced.

"That's curious," said Whiteside, pointing to the sideboard, and Tarling
saw a deep glass vase half filled with daffodils. Two or three blossoms
had either fallen or had been pulled out, and were lying, shrivelled and
dead, on the polished surface of the sideboard.

"Humph!" said Tarling. "I don't like this very much."

He turned and walked back into the hall and opened another door, which
stood ajar. Again he turned on the light. He was in the girl's bedroom.
He stopped dead, and slowly examined the room. But for the disordered
appearance of the chest of drawers, there was nothing unusual in the
appearance of the room. At the open doors of the bureau a little heap of
female attire had been thrown pell-mell upon the floor. All these were
eloquent of hasty action. Still more was a small suit-case, half packed,
an the bed, also left in a great hurry.

Tarling stepped into the room, and if he had been half blind he could not
have missed the last and most damning evidence of all. The carpet was of
a biscuit colour and covered the room flush to the wainscot. Opposite the
fireplace was a big, dark red, irregular stain.

Tarling's face grew tense.

"This is where Lyne was shot," he said.

"And look there!" said Whiteside excitedly, pointing to the chest of
drawers.

Tarling stepped quickly across the room and pulled out a garment
which hung over the edge of the drawer. It was a night-dress--a silk
night-dress with two little sprays of for