at remarkable composition;
mentally she was surveying Olaf van Noord's model, also. Into the scheme
slowly forming in her brain, the yellow-wrapped cigarette containing
"a small percentage of opium" fitted likewise. Finally, but not last in
importance, the Greek gentleman, Mr. Gianapolis, formed a unit of the
whole.

Denise Ryland had always despised those detective creations which
abound in French literature; perceiving in their marvelous deductions a
tortured logic incompatible with the classic models. She prided herself
upon her logic, possibly because it was a quality which she lacked, and
probably because she confused it with intuition, of which, to do her
justice, she possessed an unusual share. Now, this intuition was
at work, at work well and truly; and the result which this mental
contortionist ascribed to pure reason was nearer to the truth than a
real logician could well have hoped to attain by confining himself to
legitimate data. In short, she had determined to her own satisfaction
that Mr. Gianapolis was the clue to the mystery; that Mr. Gianapolis was
not (as she had once supposed) enacting the part of an amiable liar
when he declared that there were, in London, such apartments as that
represented by Olaf van Noord; that Mr. Gianapolis was acquainted with
the present whereabouts of Mrs. Leroux; that Mr. Gianapolis knew
who murdered Iris Vernon; and that Scotland Yard was a benevolent
institution for the support of those of enfeebled intellect.

These results achieved, she broke her long silence at the moment that
the car was turning into Richmond High Street.

"My dear!" she exclaimed, clutching Helen's arm, "I see it all!"

"Oh!" cried the girl, "how you startled me! I thought you were ill or
that you had seen something frightful."...

"I HAVE... seen something... frightful," declared Denise Ryland. She
glared across at the haggard Leroux. "Harry... Leroux," she continued,
"it is very fortunate... that I came to London... very fortunate."

"I am sincerely glad that you did," answered the novelist, with one of
his kindly, weary smiles.

"My dear," said Denise Ryland, turning again to Helen Cumberly, "you say
you met that... cross-eyed... being... Gianapolis, again?"

"Good Heavens!" cried Helen; "I thought I should never get rid of him; a
most loathsome man!"

"My dear... child"--Denise squeezed her tightly by the arm, and peered
into her face, intently--"cul-tivate... DELIBERATELY cul-tivate th