is possession a consignment of such things, of
great value, and we believe that he was murdered for them--that's why,"
replied Allerdyke. "He had them when he left Christiania--he had them
when he entered the Hull hotel--"

Fullaway, who had been listening intently, leant forward with a shake
of his head.

"Stop at that, Allerdyke," he said. "We don't know, now, that he did have
them when he entered the hotel at Hull! He mayn't have had. Miss
Lennard--we'll drop the professional name and turn to the real one," he
said, with a bow to the prima donna--"Miss Lennard here thinks she had
her jewels in her little box when she entered the Hull hotel, and also
when she came to this hotel, here in Edinburgh, but--"

"Do you mean to say that I hadn't?" she exclaimed. "Do you mean--"

"I mean," replied Fullaway, "that, knowing what I now know, I believe
that both you and the dead man, James Allerdyke, were robbed on the
_Perisco_. And I want to ask you a question at once. Where is your maid!"

Celia Lennard dropped her knife and fork and sat back, suddenly
turning pale.

"My maid!" she said faintly. "Good heavens! you don't think--oh, you
aren't suggesting that she's the thief? Because--oh, this is dreadful!
You see--I never thought of it before--when she and I arrived at Hull
that night she was met by a man who described himself as her brother. He
was in a great state of agitation--he said he'd rushed up to Hull to meet
her, to beg her to go straight with him to their mother, who was dying in
London. Of course, I let her go at once--they drove straight from the
riverside at Hull to the station to catch the train. What else could I
do? I never suspected anything. Oh!"

Fullaway leaned across the table and filled his hostess's glass.

"Now," he said, motioning her to drink, "you know your maid's name and
address, don't you? Let me have them at once, and within a couple of
hours we'll know if the story about the dying mother was true."

CHAPTER X

THE SECOND MURDER

It had been very evident to Allerdyke that ever since Fullaway had
mentioned the matter of the missing maid, Celia Lennard had become a
victim to doubt, suspicion, and uncertainty. Her colour came and went;
her eyes began to show signs of tears; her voice shook. And now, at the
American's direct question, she wrung her hands with an almost
despairing gesture.

"But I can't!" she exclaimed. "I don't know her address--how should I?
It's somewhere in