aper. Even his Majesty's judges have written similar wills,
and blundered, with the result that a brother learned in the law has
had to decide what the testator really meant. He wondered whether or
not Mortimer Fenley had committed some technical error, such as the
common one of creating a trust without appointing trustees. That would
be seen in due course, when the will was probated.

At any rate, he grinned at his own expense.

"The only individual who has scored today," he said to himself, "is
John Christopher Drake, alias Giovanni Maselli. I must keep mum about
him. By gad, I believe I've compounded a felony!"

But because he had not scored inside Gloucester Mansions there was no
valid reason why he should not accomplish something in their immediate
neighborhood. For instance, who and what were the Garths, mother and
daughter? He looked in on a well-known dramatic agent, and raised the
point. Reference to a ledger showed that Eileen Garth, age eighteen,
tall, good-looking, no previous experience, had been a candidate for
musical comedy, London engagement alone accepted; the almost certain
sequel being that she had kept her name six months on the books
without an offer to secure her valuable services.

"I remember the girl well," said the agent. "She had the makings of a
coryphee, but lacked training. She could sing a little, so I advised
her to take dancing lessons. I believe she began them, with a teacher
I recommended, but I've seen nothing of her for a year or more."

"Again has Giovanni filled the bill," mused Winter as he made for his
office. "I wish now I had curbed my impulsiveness and kept away from
Gloucester Mansions--the second time, anyhow."

Though chastened in spirit, the fact that no news of any sort awaited
him at Scotland Yard, did not help to restore his customary poise.

"Dash it all!" he growled. "I'm losing grip. The next thing I'll hear
is that Sheldon is enjoying himself at Earl's Court and that Furneaux
has gone fishing."

Restless and ill at ease, he decided to ring up The Towers, Roxton. A
footman answered the telephone, and announced that Mr. Furneaux had
"just come in."

"Hello, Charles," said Winter, when a thin voice squeaked along the
line. "Any luck?"

"Superb!"

"Good! I've drawn blanks, regular round O's, except three probably
useless addresses."

"Addresses are never useless, friend. The mere knowing of a number in
a street picks out that street from all the other st