much to go on there," said Stafford disconsolately; "the
chloroform may have been sold years ago. Any chemist would have supplied
the cotton-wool, and as for the glove"--he picked it up and looked at it
carefully, then he carried it to the light.

Old as it was, it was of good shape and quality, and when new had
probably been supplied to order by a first-class glove-maker.

"There's nothing here," said Stafford again, and threw the glove back on
the table.

A policeman came into the room and saluted.

"I've cycled over from the Yard, sir. We have had a message asking you
to go at once to Sir Stanley Belcom's private house."

"How did Sir Stanley know about this affair?" asked Stafford listlessly.

"He telephoned through, sir, about five o'clock this morning. He often
makes an early inquiry."

Stafford looked round. There was nothing more that he could do. He
passed down the stairs into the street and jumped on to the motor-cycle
which had brought him to the scene.

Sir Stanley Belcom lived in Cavendish Place, and Stafford had been a
frequent visitor to the house. Sir Stanley was a childless widower, who
was wont to complain that he kept up his huge establishment in order to
justify the employment of his huge staff of servants. Stafford suspected
him of being something of a sybarite. His dinners were famous, his
cellar was one of the best in London and because of his acquaintances
and friendships in the artistic sets, he was something of a dabbler in
the arts he patronised.

The door was opened and an uncomfortable-looking butler was waiting on
the step to receive Stafford.

"You'll find Sir Stanley in the library, sir," he said.

Despite his sorrow, Stafford could not help smiling at this attempt on
the part of an English servant to offer the conventional greeting in
spite of the hour.

"I'm afraid we've got you up early, Perkins," he said.

"Not at all, sir."

The man's stout face creased in a smile.

"Sir Stanley's a rare gentleman for getting up in the middle of the
night and ordering a meal."

Stafford found his grey-haired chief, arrayed in a flowered silk
dressing-gown, balancing bread on an electric toaster.

"Bad news, eh, Stafford?" he said. "Sit down and have some coffee. The
girl is gone?"

Stafford nodded.

"And our unfortunate detective-constable, who was sent to watch, is
half-way to the mortuary, I presume?"

"Not so bad as that, sir," said Stafford, "but he's got a pretty bad