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He led me to the library-door, knocked softly, opened it, and stood aside for me to enter.

Within stood his mistress, confronting another policeman!

Her hands rested on the back of a library-chair: and though she stood up bravely and held herself erect with her finger-tips pressed hard into the leather, I saw that she was swaying on the verge of hysterics, and I had the sense to speak sharply.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I demanded.

“This one–comes from Marlborough Street!” she gasped.

I stepped back to the door, opened it, and, as I expected, discovered Horrex listening.

“A bottle of champagne and a glass at once,” I commanded, and he sped. “And now, Miss Joy, if you please, the constable and I will do the talking. What’s your business?”

“Prisoner wants bail,” answered the policeman.

“Name?”

“George Anthony Richardson.”

“Yes, yes–but I mean the prisoner’s name.”

“That’s what I’m telling you. ‘George Anthony Richardson, four-nought-two, Cromwell Road’–that’s the name on the sheet, and I heard him give it myself.”

“And I thought, of course, it must be you,” put in Clara; “and I wondered what dreadful thing could have happened–until Horrex appeared and told me you were safe, and Herbert too–“

“I think,” said I, going to the door again and taking the tray from Horrex, “that you were not to talk. Drink this, please.”

She took the glass, but with a rebellious face. “Oh, if you take that tone with me–“

“I do. And now,” I turned to the constable, “what name did he give for his surety?”

“Herbert Jarmayne, same address.”

“Herbert Jarmayne?” I glanced at Clara, who nodded back, pausing as she lifted her glass! “Ah! yes–yes, of course. How much?”

“Two tenners.”

“Deep answering deep. Drunk and disorderly, I suppose?”

“Blind. He was breaking glasses at Toscano’s and swearing he was Sir Charles Wyndham in David Garrick: but he settled down quiet at the station, and when I left he was talking religious and saying he pitied nine-tenths of the world, for they were going to get it hot.”

“Trewlove!” I almost shouted, wheeling round upon Clara.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No, of course–you wouldn’t understand. But all the same it’s Trewlove,” I cried, radiant. “Eh?”–this to Horrex, mumbling in the doorway–“the cab outside? Step along, constable: I’ll follow in a moment–to identify your prisoner, not to bail him out.” Then as he touched his hat and marched out after Horrex, “By George, though! Trewlove!” I muttered, meeting Clara’s eye and laughing.

“So you’ve said,” she agreed doubtfully; “but it seems a funny sort of explanation.”

“It’s as simple as A B C,” I assured her. “The man at Marlborough Street is the man who let you this house.”

“I took it through an agent.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. Then the man at Marlborough Street is the man for whom the agent let the house.”

“Then you are not Mr. Richardson–not ‘George Anthony’–and you didn’t write Larks in Aspic?” said she, with a flattering shade of disappointment in her tone.

“Oh! yes, I did.”

“Then I don’t understand in the least–unless–unless–” She put out two deprecating hands. “You don’t mean to tell me that this is your house, and we’ve been living in it without your knowledge! Oh! why didn’t you tell me?”

“Come, I like that!” said I. “You’ll admit, on reflection, that you haven’t given me much time.”

But she stamped her foot. “I’ll go upstairs and pack at once,” she declared.

“That will hardly meet the case, I’m afraid. You forget that your brother is downstairs: and by his look, when I left him, he’ll take a deal of packing.”

“Herbert?” She put a hand to her brow. “I was forgetting. Then you are not Herbert’s friend after all?”

“I have made a beginning. But in fact, I made his acquaintance at Vine Street just now. Trewlove–that’s my scoundrel of a butler–has been making up to him under my name. They met at the house-agent’s, probably. The rogue models himself upon me: but when it comes to letting my house– By the way, have you paid him by cheque?”