ror that drove
these men to their burrows. But Hilda was not a murderer; she was not
dogged by remorse, despair, or the myrmidons of the law; it was murder
she was avoiding, not the punishment of murder. That made, of course, an
obvious difference. "Irrevocably far from London," she said. Wales is
a suburb. I gave up the idea that it was likely to prove her place of
refuge from the two men she was bent on escaping. Hong-Kong, after all,
seemed more probable than Llanberis.

That first failure gave me a clue, however, as to the best way of
applying Hilda's own methods. "What would such a person do under the
circumstances?" that was her way of putting the question. Clearly, then,
I must first decide what WERE the circumstances. Was Sebastian speaking
the truth? Was Hilda Wade, or was she not, the daughter of the supposed
murderer, Dr. Yorke-Bannerman?

I looked up as much of the case as I could, in unobtrusive ways, among
the old law-reports, and found that the barrister who had had charge of
the defence was my father's old friend, Mr. Horace Mayfield, a man of
elegant tastes, and the means to gratify them.

I went to call on him on Sunday evening at his artistically luxurious
house in Onslow Gardens. A sedate footman answered the bell.
Fortunately, Mr. Mayfield was at home, and, what is rarer, disengaged.
You do not always find a successful Q.C. at his ease among his books,
beneath the electric light, ready to give up a vacant hour to friendly
colloquy.

"Remember Yorke-Bannerman's case?" he said, a huge smile breaking slowly
like a wave over his genial fat face--Horace Mayfield resembles a great
good-humoured toad, with bland manners and a capacious double chin--"I
should just say I DID! Bless my soul--why, yes," he beamed, "I was
Yorke-Bannerman's counsel. Excellent fellow, Yorke-Bannerman--most
unfortunate end, though--precious clever chap, too! Had an astounding
memory. Recollected every symptom of every patient he ever attended. And
SUCH an eye! Diagnosis? It was clairvoyance! A gift--no less. Knew what
was the matter with you the moment he looked at you."

That sounded like Hilda. The same surprising power of recalling facts;
the same keen faculty for interpreting character or the signs of
feeling. "He poisoned somebody, I believe," I murmured, casually. "An
uncle of his, or something."

Mayfield's great squat face wrinkled; the double chin, folding down on
the neck, became more ostentatiously double than ev