hernalia in a woman's
handbag.

He lifted it to his nose and sniffed it.

"That is it," he said.

"What?" asked Mr. Farrington, suspiciously.

"The scent I detected in your hall," replied T. B. "A peculiar scent, is
it not?" He raised the bottle to his nose again. "Not your ward's by any
chance?"

Farrington shook his head vigorously.

"Doris has never been in this area in her life," he said; "besides, she
dislikes perfumes."

T. B. slipped the bottle in his pocket.

Further examination discovered no further clue as to the third person,
and T. B. followed his host back to the study.

"What do you make of it?" asked Mr. Farrington.

T. B. did not answer immediately. He walked to the window and looked
out. The little crowd which had been attracted by the shots and arrival
of the police ambulance had melted away. The mist which had threatened
all the evening had rolled into the square and the street lamps showed
yellow through the dingy haze.

"I think," he said, "that I have at last got on the track of Montague
Fallock."

Mr. Farrington looked at him with open mouth.

"You don't mean that?" he asked incredulously.

T. B. inclined his head.

"The open door below--the visitor?" jerked the stout man, "you don't
think Montague Fallock was in the house to-night?"

T. B. nodded again, and there was a moment's silence.

"He has been blackmailing me," said Mr. Farrington, thoughtfully, "but I
don't think----"

The detective turned up his coat collar preparatory to leaving.

"I have a rather unpleasant job," he said. "I shall have to search
those unfortunate men."

Mr. Farrington shivered. "Beastly," he said, huskily.

T. B. glanced round the beautiful apartment with its silver fittings,
its soft lights and costly panellings. A rich, warm fire burnt in an
oxidized steel grate. The floor was a patchwork of Persian rugs, and a
few pictures which adorned the walls must have been worth a fortune.

On the desk there was a big photograph in a plain silver frame--the
photograph of a handsome woman in the prime of life.

"Pardon me," said T. B., and crossed to the picture, "this is----"

"Lady Constance Dex," said the other, shortly--"a great friend of mine
and my ward's."

"Is she in town?"

Mr. Farrington shook his head.

"She is at Great Bradley," he said; "her brother is the rector there."

"Great Bradley?"

T. B.'s frown showed an effort to recollect something.

"Isn't that the locality which