No. Eleven in
the list in the hall."

"When you're a bit older you'll make a detective," said Winter.
"You've learned the first trick of the job, and that is to keep your
eyes open. Now, to encourage you, I'll tell you the second. Keep your
mouth shut. If this lady is Miss Garth she is not the person we want,
but it would annoy her if she heard the police were inquiring about
her; so here is half a crown for your trouble."

"Can I do anything else for you, sir?" came the eager demand.

"Nothing. I'm on the wrong scent, evidently, but you have saved me
from wasting time. This Miss Eileen Garth is English, of course?"

"Yes, sir; very good-looking, but rather snappy."

Winter sighed.

"That just shows how easy it is to blunder," he said. "I'm looking for
a Polish Jewess, whose chief feature is her nose, and who wears big
gold earrings."

"Oh, Miss Garth is quite different," said the disappointed youth.
"She's tall and slim--a regular dasher, big black hat, swell togs,
black and white, and smart boots with white spats. She wore pearls in
her ears, too, because I noticed 'em."

Winter sighed again.

"Another half day lost," he murmured, and went out.

Knowing well that the boy would note the direction he took, he turned
away from the block of flats and made for Soho, where he smoked a
thin, raffish Italian cigar with an Anarchist of his acquaintance who
kept a restaurant famous for its _risotto_. Then, by other streets, he
approached Gloucester Mansions, and soon was pressing the electric
bell of No. Eleven.

"Miss Garth in?" he said to an elderly, hatchet-faced woman who opened
the door.

"Why do you want Miss Garth?" was the non-committal reply, given in
the tone of one who meant the stranger to understand that he was not
addressing a servant.

"I shall explain my errand to the lady herself," said Winter civilly.
"Kindly tell her that Superintendent Winter, of the Criminal
Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, wishes to see her."

To him it was no new thing that his name and description should bring
dismay, even terror, to the cheeks of one to whom he made himself
known professionally, but unless he was addressing some desperate
criminal, he did not expect to be assaulted. For once, therefore, he
was thoroughly surprised when a bony hand shot out and pushed him
backward; the door was slammed in his face; the latch clicked, and he
was left staring at a small brass plate bearing the legend: "Ring. Do