"'What do you want to know?" she said, and it sounded like a capitulation. At least it was a compromise.

"In the first place, what letters habitually came for Sorrell, and where did they come from?"

"He got very few letters altogether. He had not many friends on these terms."

"Did you ever know letters addressed in a woman's hand come for him?"

"Yes; occasionally."

"Where were they posted?"

"In London, I think."

"What was the writing like?"

"Very round and regular and rather large."

"Do you know who the woman was?"

"How long had the letters been coming for him?"

"Oh, for years! I don't remember how long."

"And in all these years you never found out who his correspondent was?"

"Did no woman ever come to see him here?"

"No."

"How often did the letters come?"

"Oh, not often! About once in six weeks, perhaps, or a little oftener."

"Lamont has said that Sorrell was secretive. Is that so?"

"No, not secretive. But he was jealous. I mean jealous of the things he liked. When he cared very much about a thing he would — hug it to himself, if you know what I mean."

"Did the arrival of the letters make any difference to him — make him pleased or otherwise?"

"No; he didn't show any feeling that way. He was very quiet, you know."

"Tell me," said Grant, and produced the velvet case, "have you ever seen that before?" He snapped it open to her gaze.

"M. R.," she said slowly, just as Grant had done. "No; I never saw it before. What has that got to do with Bertie?"

"That was found in the pocket of a coat in Sorrell's trunk."

She put her worn hand out for it, looked at it with curiosity, and gave it back to him.

"Can you suggest any reason why Sorrell should commit suicide?"

"No, I can't. But I can tell you that about a week before he left to go — left here — a small parcel came by post for him. It was waiting for him when he came home one evening. He came home that night before Jerry — Mr. Lamont."

"Do you mean as small a parcel as this?"

"Not quite, but as big as that would be with wrapping round it."

But the man in Gallio & Stein's had said that Sorrell had taken the brooch away with him. "Can you remember what day that was?"

"I wouldn't swear to it, but I think it was the Thursday before he left."

On Tuesday, Sorrell had taken the little parcel from the jeweller, and on Thursday evening the little parcel had been delivered at Sorrell's rooms. The inference was obvious. The woman had refused his offering.

"What was the writing on the parcel like?"

"It was addressed only on the label, and the address was printed."

"Did Sorrell show any emotion on opening it?"

"I wasn't there when he opened it."

"Then afterwards?"

"No; I don't think so. He was very quiet. But then he was always quiet."

"I see. When did Lamont come and tell you what had happened?"

"On Saturday."

"You knew before then that the man in the queue was Sorrell?"

"No; the description of the man wasn't published in full until Thursday, and I naturally thought that Bert had sailed on Wednesday. I knew that Jerry would have been with him up to the last minute, so I didn't worry. It was only when I saw the description of the man the police wanted that I put the two descriptions together and began to wonder. That was on Saturday."

"And what did you think then?"

"I thought, as I think now, that there was a very bad mistake somewhere."

"Will you tell me what Lamont told you? He has made a statement to us already."

She hesitated a moment and then said, "Well, I can't see that things can be worse than they are," and told him the story Lamont had told her. To the smallest detail it coincided with what he had told Grant and the constable in the train coming south.

"And you didn't find anything fishy in such a story?"

"I don't know that I would have believed the story from a stranger" — she was extraordinarily like her niece at that moment, the inspector thought — "but, you see, I know Jerry Lamont."

"But you knew Sorrell very much longer, and didn't know the things that mattered in his life."

"Yes, but that was Bertie. Length of time has nothing to do with it. I heard about everything that happened to Jerry, girls included."

"Well, thank you for telling me all you did," Grant said as he stood up. "If nothing you have said helps Lamont very much, at least it doesn't incriminate him any further. Did you ever have any reason to think that Sorrell wasn't going to America at all?"

"Do you mean that he was going somewhere else?"

"No; I mean that, if he contemplated suicide, his going to America might have been an elaborate blind."

"I certainly don't think that. I'm sure he intended to go to America."

Grant thanked her again, and went back to the Yard. From Simpson he learned that Mrs. Ratcliffe and her sister were still at Eastbourne, and there was no word of their return.

"Does Mr. Ratcliffe go up and down to Eastbourne, then?"

No; Mr. Ratcliffe had been down only once since they were there, and then he didn't stay the night.

"Did you find out what the quarrel was about?"

No; the maid apparently had not known. From the secret amusement that radiated from Simpson's freckled face Grant deduced that the interview with the Ratcliffe maid had been more amusing than informative, and he dismissed him dolefully. He would have to go down to Eastbourne and see Mrs. Ratcliffe — accidentally; but to-morrow he would have to attend the Lamont case at the police court. It would be a purely formal occasion, but he would have to be there. There was no time to go down to Eastbourne tonight, and get back, with any hope of obtaining the casual kind of meeting with Mrs. Ratcliffe that he contemplated. But, if the case was over quickly to-morrow, he would go straight down there. He wished duty did not call him to the court. That was routine, and the visit to Mrs. Ratcliffe was not — it was a hunt, a sporting chance, a gamble. He wanted so badly to see what Margaret Ratcliffe's face would look like when he showed her the monogrammed brooch.

Gowbridge police court is at no time a cheerful building. It has the mouldering atmosphere of a mausoleum combined with the disinfected and artificial cheerfulness of a hospital, the barrenness of a schoolroom, the stuffiness of a tube, and the ugliness of a meeting-house. Grant knew it well, and he never entered it without an unconscious groan, not for the sorrows that hung about it like invisible webs, but for his own sorrow in having to pass a morning in such surroundings. It was on occasions such as a morning in Gowbridge Police Court that he was wont to refer to his profession as a dog's life. And today he was in a bad mood. He found him-self looking with a jaundiced eye on the rank and file of the force as represented by those on duty in the court, on the hearty and self-sufficient magistrate, on the loafers on the public benches. Conscious of his nauseated mental condition, he hunted round as usual for the reason with a view of banishing it and, after a little cogitation, ran it to earth. He was unhappy about giving his evidence! At the bottom of his heart he wanted to say, "Wait a bit! There's something here that I don't understand. Just wait till I find out a little more." But, being a police inspector with perfectly good evidence and the countenance of his superiors, he could not do that. He could not qualify what he had to say with any remarks of that sort. He glanced across the court to where the lawyer who had Lamont's case was sitting. Lamont would want some bigger guns than that when he came up for his trial at the Old Bailey or he wouldn't have a dog's chance. But big guns cost money, and lawyers are professional men, not philanthropists.