is so much you will want to know--"

"It can keep until tomorrow. I've enough work in this peep-show here to
have me busy all night. Come along. Lean on my arm."

Monte Irvin rose unsteadily. He knew that there was cardiac trouble
in his family, but he had never realized before the meaning of his
heritage. He felt physically ill.

"Inspector"--his voice was a mere whisper--"have you any theory to
explain--"

"Mrs. Irvin's disappearance? Don't worry, sir. Without exactly having a
theory I think I may say that in my opinion she will turn up presently."

"God bless you," murmured Irvin, as Kerry assisted him out on to the
landing.

Inspector Whiteleaf held back the sliding door, the mechanism of which
had been broken so that the door now automatically remained half closed.

"Funny, isn't it," said Gunn, as the two disappeared and Inspector
Whiteleaf re-entered, "that a man should be so upset about the
disappearance of a woman he was going to divorce?"

"Damn funny!" said Whiteleaf, whose temper was badly frayed by contact
with Kerry. "I should have a good laugh if I were you."

He crossed the room, going in to where the surgeon was examining the
victim of this mysterious crime. Gunn stared after him dismally.

"A person doesn't get much sympathy from the police, Brisley," he
declared. "That one's almost as bad as him," jerking his thumb in the
direction of the landing.

Brisley smiled in a somewhat sickly manner.

"Red Kerry is a holy terror," he agreed, sotto voce, glancing aside to
where Coombes was checking his notes. "Look out! Here he comes."

"Now," cried Kerry, swinging into the room, "what's the game? Plotting
to defeat the ends of justice?"

He stood with hands thrust in reefer pockets, feet wide apart, glancing
fiercely from Brisley to Gunn, and from Gunn back again to Brisley.
Neither of the representatives of Spinker's Agency ventured any remark,
and:

"How long have you been watching Mrs. Monte Irvin?" demanded Kerry.

"Nearly a fortnight," replied Brisley.

"Got your evidence in writing?"

"Yes."

"Up to tonight?"

"Yes."

"Dictate to Sergeant Coombes."

He turned on his heel and crossed to the divan upon which his oilskin
overall was lying. Rapidly he removed his reefer and his waistcoat,
folded them, and placed them neatly beside his overall. He retained his
bowler at its jaunty angle.

A cud of presumably flavorless chewing-gum he deposited in a brass bowl,
and from a little