g to Celia, "that you had some very good testimonials with
this young woman? If so, and you've still got them, we might trace her in
that way."

"I had some, and I may have them still, but you saw just now what an
awful mess all my letters and papers are in," replied Celia, almost
tearfully. "I always do get things like that into hopeless confusion--I
never know what to destroy and what to keep, and they accumulate so. It
would take hours upon hours to look for those letters, and in the
meantime--"

"In the meantime," remarked Fullaway as he signalled to a taxi-cab,
"there's only one thing to be done. We must go to the police. Get in,
both of you, and let's make haste to New Scotland Yard."

Once more Allerdyke received an impression of the American's usefulness
and practical acquaintance with things. Fullaway seemed to know exactly
what to do, whom to approach, how to go about the business in hand;
within a few minutes all three were closeted with a high official of the
Criminal Investigation Department, a man who might have been a barrister,
a medical specialist, or a scientist of distinction, and who maintained
an unmoved countenance and a perfect silence while Fullaway unfolded the
story. He and Allerdyke had held a brief consultation as they drove from
Bloomsbury to Whitehall, and they had decided that as things had now
reached a critical stage it would be best to tell the authorities
everything. Therefore the American narrated the entire sequence of events
as they related not only to Mademoiselle de Longarde's loss but to the
death of James Allerdyke and the disappearance of the Nastirsevitch
valuables. And the official heard, and made mental notes, soaking
everything into some proper cell of his brain, and he said nothing until
Fullaway had come to an end, and at that end he turned to Celia Lennard.

"You can, of course, describe your maid?" he asked.

"Certainly!" answered Celia. "To every detail."

"Do so, if you please," continued the official, producing a pile of
papers from a drawer and turning them over until he came to one which he
drew from the rest.

"A Frenchwoman," said Celia. "Aged, I should say, about twenty-six. Tall.
Slender--but not thin. Of a very good figure. Black hair--a quantity of
it. Black eyes--very penetrating. Fresh colour. Not exactly pretty, but
attractive--in the real Parisian way--she is a Parisian. Dressed--when
she left me at Hull--in a black tailor-made coat and skirt, and