"But how----"

"His car was discovered a hundred yards from the place," Tarling
continued, "and it was clear that he had been murdered elsewhere, brought
to the Park in his car, and left on the sidewalk. At the time he was
discovered he had on neither coat nor vest, and on his feet were a pair
of list slippers."

"But I don't understand," said the bewildered girl. "What does it mean?
Who had----" She stopped suddenly, and the detective saw her lips tighten
together, as though to restrain her speech. Then suddenly she covered her
face with her hands.

"Oh, it's terrible, terrible!" she whispered. "I never thought, I never
dreamed--oh, it is terrible!"

Tarling laid his hand gently on her shoulder.

"Miss Rider," he said, "you suspect somebody of this crime. Won't you
tell me?"

She shook her head without looking up.

"I can say nothing," she said.

"But don't you see that suspicion will attach to you?" urged Tarling.
"A telegram was discovered amongst his belongings, asking him to call
at your flat that evening."

She looked up quickly.

"A telegram from me?" she said. "I sent no telegram."

"Thank God for that!" cried Tarling fervently. "Thank God for that!"

"But I don't understand, Mr. Tarling. A telegram was sent to Mr. Lyne
asking him to come to my flat? Did he go to my flat?"

Tarling nodded.

"I have reason to believe he did," he said gravely. "The murder was
committed in your flat."

"My God!" she whispered. "You don't mean that! Oh, no, no, it is
impossible!"

Briefly he recited all his discoveries. He knew that he was acting in a
manner which, from the point of view of police ethics, was wholly wrong
and disloyal. He was placing her in possession of all the clues and
giving her an opportunity to meet and refute the evidence which had been
collected against her. He told her of the bloodstains on the floor, and
described the night-dress which had been found around Thornton Lyne's
body.

"That was my night-dress," she said simply and without hesitation. "Go
on, please, Mr. Tarling."

He told her of the bloody thumb-prints upon the door of the bureau.

"On your bed," he went on, "I found your dressing-case, half-packed."

She swayed forward, and threw out her hands, groping blindly.

"Oh, how wicked, how wicked!" she wailed "He did it, he did it!"

"Who?" demanded Tarling.

He took the girl by the shoulder and shook her.

"Who was the man? You must tell me. Your own life depends upon