afraid of losin' it. Of course, she took it on Tuesday mornin', and after goin' from one fit of hysterics into another she gev it to us again."

Theydon's face was eloquent of the serious view of this avowal.

"Did you tell the police?" he said.

"No, sir. My missus an' me clean forgot all about it."

"So, while Mrs. Lester was being killed, the key of her flat was actually in your possession?"

"I suppose it might be put that way, sir."

By this time Theydon was becoming exasperated at the veritable conspiracy which fate had engineered for the express purpose, apparently, of entangling him in an abominable crime.

"Why on earth didn't you mention such an important fact to the detectives?" he almost shouted, "Don't you see they are bound to think--"

"O, a plague on the detectives and on what they think!" broke in Forbes imperiously. "It doesn't matter a straw what they think, and very little what they do. This affair goes a long way beyond the four-mile radius, Theydon. The vital point is that your man has the key. Where is it? Let us go in there at once!"

"You offered me some advice, Mr. Forbes," said Theydon firmly. "Let me now return it in kind. If you wish to examine Mrs. Lester's flat why not seek the permission of Scotland Yard?"

"My good fellow, I have spent a valuable hour this morning in persuading the Home Secretary that the less Scotland Yard interferes in my behalf the more effectually shall I be protected. I don't want any detective within a mile of my house or office. But, as I have told you already, explanations must wait--You, Bates, look a man who can hold his tongue.

Do so, and with Mr. Theydon's permission I'll make it worth your while when this storm has blown over--Now, give me that key."

Theydon was silenced, if not convinced. He realized, of course, that he must make a full confession to the Criminal Investigation Department before the sun went down, but argued that he might as well see the present adventure through.

Soon he and Forbes were standing at the door of No. 17. Forbes curbed his impatience sufficiently to permit of any one who happened to be in the interior answering the summons of the electric bell. Of course, no one came. The police had no reason to remain in charge of the place, and Ann Rogers would have become a raving lunatic if left alone there for one half-hour.

The aromatic odor of the burnt joss stick still clung to the suite of apartments, and Forbes noticed it at once.

"Where was the body found?" he asked.

Theydon led the way to the bedroom. He related Winter's theory of the crime, and pointed out its seeming aimlessness. So far as the police could ascertain from the half-crazy servant, none of Mrs. Lester's jewels was missing. Even her gold purse, containing a fair sum of money, was found on the dressing-table.

He did not know that the detectives had taken away a few scraps of torn paper thrown carelessly into the grate and had carefully gathered up a tiny snake-like curl of white ash from the tiled hearth, which, on analysis, would probably prove to be the remains of the joss stick.

Forbes gazed at the impression on the side of the bed as though the body of the woman whom he had last seen in full possession of her grace and beauty were still lying there. The vision seemed to affect him profoundly. He did not speak for fully a minute, and, when speech came, his voice was low and strained.

"Tell me everything you know," he said. "The Scotland Yard men took an unusual step in admitting you to their conclave. They must have had some motive. Tell me what they said, their very words, if you can recall them."

Theydon was uncomfortably aware of a strange compulsion to obey. His commonplace, everyday senses cried out in revolt, and warned him that he was tampering dangerously with matters which should be left to the cold scrutiny of the law, but some subconscious instinct overpowered these prudent monitors, and he gave an almost exact account of his talk with Winter and Furneaux.

Then followed questions, eager, searching, almost uncanny in their prescience.

"The little one--who strikes me as having more brains than I credit the ordinary London policeman with--spoke of the evil deities of China. How did such an extraordinary topic crop up?"

"In connection with the joss stick."

"Yes, yes. But I don't see the inference."

"Mr. Winter alluded to the habit some ladies have of burning such incense in their houses, whereupon Furneaux remarked that the Chinese use them to propitiate harmful spirits."

"Was that all?"

Theydon felt insensibly that his companion was hinting at something more definite, but he was bound in honor to respect the confidence reposed in him.

"I don't quite understand," he temporized.

"Was nothing said as to the finding of some object, such as a small article obviously Chinese in origin, which might turn an inquirer's thought into that channel?"

"The conversation I am relating took place the moment after we had entered the flat. We were standing in the hall. It was wholly the outcome of the strange smell which was immediately perceptible."

Forbes passed a hand over his eyes.

"I wonder," he breathed.

Then, turning quickly on Theydon, he repeats the question.

"Are you quite sure they did not mention the discovery in this room of any object which could be regarded, even remotely, as a sign or symbol left by the murderer to show that his crime was an act of vengeance, or retaliation?"

Theydon hesitated. Unquestionably he was in a position of no ordinary difficulty. But his doubts were solved by an interruption that brought his heart into his mouth, because a thin, high-pitched voice came through the half-open door:

"Are you thinking of a small ivory skull, Mr. Forbes?"

CHAPTER VII

WHEREIN MR. FORBES EXPLAINS HIMSELF

Even the boldest may flinch when confronted with that which is apparently a manifestation of the supernatural. Theydon and Forbes were standing in a chamber of death. To the best of their belief they were alone in an otherwise empty flat, and those ominous words coming from some one unknown and unseen blanched their faces with terror.

But Theydon was a healthy and athletic young Englishman, and Forbes was of the rare order which combines a frame of exceptional physique with a mind accustomed to think imperially; two such men might be trusted to display real grit if surrounded by a horde of veritable spooks.

The door was thrown wide as they turned at the sound of the words, and Theydon recognized in a strange little figure--wearing a blue serge suit, a straw hat and brown boots--Furneaux, the man whom he had looked on as somewhat of a crank and visionary during their talk of the previous night.

"You?" he gasped, and the note of recognition was sharpened by a sudden sense of dismay, almost of alarm, because of the overwhelming knowledge that now all his scheming had collapsed, while the representatives of Scotland Yard would regard him as nothing more than a poor sort of trickster.

But Forbes was not in the habit of yielding to any man, no matter what his status, or howsoever awe-inspiring might be the department of state which he represented.

"Who the devil are you, at any rate?" he cried angrily. "And what right have you to spy on gentlemen in this manner, listening to their conversation, and breaking in with a cheap stage effect obviously intended to startle?"

Furneaux remained motionless, his feet set well apart and his hands thrust into his trousers pockets. The trim, natty figure, the spruce and Summer-like attire, the small, wizened face with its cynically humorous and wide-awake aspect--above all, a certain jauntiness of air and cocksure expression--certainly did not suggest a comedian fresh from the boards.

"You tell," he said, nodding to Theydon.

"This is Mr. Furneaux of Scotland Yard," said the latter nervously. He imagined he could detect in Furneaux's glance a mixture of amusement and contempt, amusement at the notion that any amateur should harbor the belief that the two best men in the "Yard" could be egregiously hoodwinked, and contempt of one who so far forgot himself as even to dare attempt such a thing in relation to a police inquiry into a murder.

"I don't know, and care less, who Mr. Furneaux of Scotland Yard may be,"