dead man's sons, a
Mr. Robert Fenley, who bolted back to London on a motor cycle as soon
as I threatened to question him.

"Robert Fenley is twenty-four, fresh-complexioned, clean-shaven, about
five feet nine inches in height, stoutish, and of sporty appearance.
He had his hair cut yesterday or the day before. His hands and feet
are rather small. He talks aggressively, and looks what he is, a
pampered youth, very much spoiled by his parents. His clothes--all
that I have seen--are a motorist's overalls. If the Brondesbury man
reports here during my absence act as you think fit. I want Robert
Fenley located, followed, and watched unobtrusively, especially in
such matters as the houses he visits and the people he meets. If you
need help get it."

"Till what time, sir?" was the laconic question.

"That depends. Try and 'phone me here about five o'clock. But if you
are otherwise engaged let the telephone go. Should Fenley seem to
leave London by the Edgware Road, which leads to Roxton, have him
checked on the way. Here is the number of his cycle," and Winter
jotted a memorandum on the back of an envelope.

"What about Mr. Furneaux if I am called out almost immediately?"

"Give the message to Johnston."

Then Winter hurried away, and, repressing the inclination to hail a
taxi, walked up Whitehall and crossed Trafalgar Square _en route_ to
the Shaftesbury Avenue address supplied by the Assistant Commissioner.

He found a sharp-featured youth in charge of the telephone, which was
lodged in an estate agent's office. The boy grinned when the
Superintendent explained his errand.

"Excuse _me_," he said, with the pert assurance of the born Cockney,
"but we aren't allowed to give information about customers."

"You've broken your rules already, young man," said Winter. "You
answered a similar inquiry made by Scotland Yard some hours since."

"Oh, was _that_ it? Gerrard rang me up, and I thought there was
something funny going on. Are you from Scotland Yard, sir?"

Winter proffered a card, and the boy's eyes opened wide.

"Crikey!" he said. "I've read about you, sir. Well, I've been doing a
bit of detective work of my own. At lunch time I strolled past the set
of flats where I thought the lady lived, and had the luck to see her
getting out of a cab at the door. I followed her upstairs, pretending
I had business somewhere, and saw her go into No. Eleven. Her name is
Miss Eileen Garth--at least, that's the name opposite