e
found the ornate pair of pillars spanned by the painted legend,
"Primrose Meadows," and drove through them into what soon became a
rutted lane. Almost a quarter of a mile from the entrance he found the
isolated house, unmistakable because of the line-up of private cars
parked before the short stretch of paved sidewalk, and the added
presence of police cars and motorcycles.

Dundee turned his own car into the driveway leading from the street
along the right side of the house toward the two-car garage in the rear.
Ahead of his roadster were two other cars, and a glance toward the open
garage showed that a Ford coupe was housed there.

As he was descending Captain Strawn's voice hailed him from an open
window of the room nearest the garage.

"Hello, Bonnie! Been expecting you.... Damnedest business you ever
saw.... There's a door from this room onto the porch. Hop up and come on
in."

Dundee obeyed. Driving in he had noted that a wide porch, upheld by
round white pillars, stretched across the front of the gabled brick
house and extended halfway along its right side, past a room which was
obviously a solarium, with its continuous windows, gay awnings,
and--visible through the glittering panes--orange-and-black wicker
furniture.

It was easy to swing himself up to the floor of the porch. Strawn flung
open the door which led into the back room, remarking with a grin:

"Don't be afraid I'm gumming up any fingerprints. Carraway has already
been over the room.... The Selim woman's bedroom," he explained. "The
room she was killed in."

"You _have_ been on the job," Dundee complimented his former chief.

"Sure!" Strawn acknowledged proudly. "Can't be too quick on our stumps
when it's one of these 'high sassiety' murders. Dr. Price will be here
any minute now, and my men have been all over the premises, basement to
attic. Of course it was an outside job--plain as the nose on your
face--and we haven't found a trace of the murderer."

Although Mrs. Selim had taken the house furnished, it was obvious that
this big bedroom of hers was not exactly as the Crain family had left
it. A little too pretty, a little too aggressively feminine, with its
chaise longue heaped with silk and lace pillows, its superfluity of big
and little lamps, its bed draped with golden-yellow taffeta, its
dressing table--

But he could not let critical eyes linger on the triple-mirrored vanity
dresser. For on the bench before it sat a tiny figure,