"I didn't come to bother you," Grant said. "I just happened to be round, and I thought you'd perhaps let me use your telephone to save me going to a post office."

"Oh, certainly," said Ratcliffe. "Carry on. I'll go."

"No, don't go," said Grant, "there'll be nothing private. I only want to know whether they want me."

But no one wanted him. The scent in South London was weak, but the hounds were persevering and busy. And he hung up with a relief which was rather surprising when one considered the eager frame of mind in which he had set out from the Yard. Now he did not want an arrest until he had time to think things over for a bit. The nightmare of a Scotland Yard officer's whole life is Wrongful Arrest. He turned to Ratcliffe, and allowed him to know that an arrest was imminent; they had located their man. Ratcliffe was complimentary, and in the middle of the compliments Grant said, "By the way, you didn't tell me that your wife had intended sailing for New York the night after the murder."

Ratcliffe's face, clear in the light of the window, was both blank and shocked. "I didn't know," he began, and then with a rush — "I didn't think it was of any importance or I should have told you. She was too much upset to go, and in any case there was the inquest. She has a sister in New York, and was going over for a month just. It didn't make any difference, did it? Not knowing, I mean? It had no bearing on the crime."

"Oh, no," Grant said. "I found it out quite accidentally. It is of no consequence. Is your wife better?

"Yes, I think so. She has not been at home since the inquest. She is at Eastbourne with the other sister the one you met, I think."

Still more puzzled, Grant made his way back to the Yard. He pressed the button on his desk and said to the man who answered it, "I want some one for special work. Is Simpson in?"

"Yes, sir."

"Send him in."

A fair and freckled man of medium height arrived; he had the pleased, alert air of a terrier who is waiting for some one to throw a stone. To him Grant said:

"At 54 Lemonora Road, Golder's Green, live a Mr. and Mrs. Ratcliffe. I want to know what terms they are on — with each other, I mean. Also anything else you can learn about the household. The gossipier the better. I know all about his business, so you needn't waste time on that. It's his home affairs that I want to know about. You can use any method you like as long as you keep within the law. Report to me tonight whether you have got anything or not. Is Mullins in the Yard just now?" Yes, Simpson had seen him as he came up. "Well, send him to me."

Mullins was not freckled, and he looked rather like a verger. "Good morning, sir," he said, and waited.

"Good morning, Mullins. From now until further notice you are a pedlar. You make an excellent Italian, but I think perhaps you had better be British. It is less conspicuous. I'll give you a chit to Clitheroe on Lowndes Street, and he will give you the kind of stock I want. Don't sell more than you can help. And I don't want you to come back here. Meet me in the alley by Clitheroe's in an hour from now. Can you manage it in an hour?"

"I think so, sir. Am I young or old?"

"It doesn't matter. Young to middle-aged. Grey-beards are too theatrical. Don't overdo anything. Respectable enough to travel on a bus if need be."

"Very good, sir," said Mullins, as though his instructions had been to post a letter.

When Grant stumbled across him in the alley in Lowndes Street an hour later, he said, "You're a wonder, Mullins — simply a wonder. I should never believe you had ever written a report in your life if I didn't know first hand." He looked appreciatively at the Pedlar before him. It was incredible that that slightly drooping figure was one of the most promising men at the Yard. It is very seldom that the C.I.D. resort to disguise, but when they do they do it well. Mullins had the supreme touch that faculty of looking as though he could not possibly be other than he was at the moment. His clothes, even, though obviously third hand, had not that uneasy fit that newly donned garments have. They lay to his shoulders as a much-worn garment does, however ill-fitting.

"Like a trinket, sir?" said Mullins, the pedlar, opening the lid of his wicker tray. On the baize lining lay a collection of articles mostly of cheap Italian manufacture — paper-knives, painted wood ornaments of all sorts, useful and useless, papier-mвché bowls, stucco figures.

"Good!" said Grant. He took from his pocket a thin thing wrapped in tissue paper. As he unrolled the paper he said, "I want you to go to 98 Brightling Crescent, off the Fulham Road, and find out if the woman who lives there has ever seen this before." He laid a silver dagger with an enamelled handle down among the painted wood and the stucco. "Needless to say, it isn't for sale. What's the price of this?" he added, picking up an article.

"Give that to a gentleman like you for one-and-ninepence," said Mullins, without hesitation.

As the passer-by went beyond hearing, Grant continued cheerfully as if there had been no parenthesis. "When you've disposed of the woman in Brightling Crescent — and keep your eyes open generally — go to 54 Lemonora Road and see if any one there recognizes it. Report as soon as you have finished."

When the pedlar of Italian goods reached the back door of 54 Lemonora Road about teatime, a pretty but sapless maid said, "Goodness, here's another!"

"Another wot?" said the pedlar.

"Another man selling things."

"Oh? Bin a lot? Bet they hadn't anything like mine," he said, and opened the tray.

"Oh!" she said, obviously enraptured. "Are they dear?"

"Not them. 'Sides, a girl with wages like yours can easy afford something nice."

"What do you know about my wages, mister?"

"Well, I don't know anything. I'm just dedoocing. Pretty girl, nice house, good wages."

"Oh the wages are good enough," she said in a tone that indicated other shortcomings.

"Wouldn't the lady of the house like to have a look at them?" he said.

"There's no lady," she said. "I'm the lady of the house just now. The misses is at Eastbourne. You been in the Army?"

"I was in the Army during the War. That's the only time bin in the Army counts. France? I was four years in France, miss."

"Well, you can come in and have some tea, and let me see the things properly. We're just in the middle of it."

She led him into the kitchen, where the table was spread with butter, bread, several kinds of jam, and cake. At the table, with an enormous cup of tea halfway to his mouth, was a freckled fair man with a blue muffler and a discharged soldier's silver badge on his lapel. Beside him on the table was a pile of cheap writing-pads.

"This is another ex-serviceman," the maid said. "He's selling writing-paper. I shouldn't think there's much sale for it now. It's ages since I seen some one round selling pads."

"How do, mate?" said the freckled one, meeting the quizzical regard of the pedlar with complete equanimity. "How's trade?"

"Fair. Just fair. You seem to be very comfortable."

"Well, I needed it. Haven't sold a pad today. This country's going to the dogs. It's something to come across some one now and again who has a heart."

"Have some jam," said the maid, pushing his cup of tea across to the pedlar, and he helped himself liberally.

"Well, I'm glad the missus isn't at home in one way, but I'm sorry in another. I thought as how she might buy something, too."

"Well, I'm not sorry," she said. "It's a blessed relief. What with her airs and her tantrums, life isn't worth living."

"Got a temper, has she?"

"Well, I call it temper, but she calls it nerves. And ever since this murder affair — she was in the queue that night the man was murdered, you know. Yes, stood right up against him. And oh, what a to-do! And then she had to go to the inquest and give evidence. If she'd done the murder herself she couldn't have kicked up a bigger fuss about going. The night before she was screaming and howling and saying she couldn't stand it. And when the poor master tried to quiet her down she wouldn't let him go near her. Hurling names at him you Wouldn't use to a dog. I tell you it wasn't half a relief when she went off to Eastbourne with Miss Lethbridge — that's her sister."