long those winding paths," Tranter calculated, "I should say roughly
about a hundred and fifty yards."

"Did she start to walk to the house immediately you left her?"

"Yes. She started in that direction as I started in the other."

"Then," mused the inspector, "she must have met the criminal, whoever it
was, at the most within three minutes of leaving you?"

"Presumably she must," Tranter agreed.

"And was that," pursued the inspector, "about the spot where she might
have met the young man, Layton, who was, it appears, being chased out
towards the river by Mr. Bolsover?"

"It might be. But I do not know anything about the chase. If I had known
that Layton was in the garden, I should not have left her."

"Where did you find Mr. Copplestone?"

"On the lawns."

"How long after you parted from her?"

"Only a few minutes. Four or five."

"Was he alone?"

"Yes. He was looking for Miss Manderson himself. He went into the house
at once."

Silence followed while the inspector added to his notes.

"Mr. Tranter," he said quietly--and his eyes rested for a moment on the
cigarette on the table, "I have only one suggestion to make. You will
understand that it is only a suggestion, but I want to be perfectly
clear. Considering that this was the evening of Miss Manderson's
engagement to Mr. Copplestone, might she not have been expected to have
strolled away from the house, and to have spent that following
half-hour, with him rather than with you?"

Tranter hesitated.

"I suppose she might," he admitted.

The inspector was looking at him sharply.

"It is a small point," he said smoothly. "Perhaps you can clear it up."

There was another pause. Tranter was plainly embarrassed.

"Inspector," he said at last, "I must, of course, tell you
everything--but I should be obliged if for obvious reasons, you will
keep as much as possible to yourself."

"That, sir," returned the inspector firmly, "you must leave to my
discretion."

"I am content to do so," Tranter said. "The truth is--I had met Miss
Manderson before."

"Ah!" said the inspector softly.

"I knew her first nearly six years ago, in Chicago. Her real name was
not Christine Manderson."

The inspector's eyes began to brighten. He turned to a fresh page in his
note-book.

"She took that name, she told me to-night, when she went on the stage in
New York. She was really Thea Colville."

Inspector Fay started.

"Thea Colville? The Chicago adventuress?"