CHAPTER

SILVERDALE BETOOK HIMSELF for luncheon to the pleasant surroundings of the Palatial Restaurant. Curiously enough, he had scarcely started on his soup when no less a person than Chief Detective-Inspector Garfield dropped heavily into the seat opposite.

      Silverdale nodded indifferently. "That you, Garfield? I thought you'd be along. How's everything?"

      "Much as usual, Jimmie. What am I going to have?" He studied the menu with deliberate care and chose soundly and solidly.

      Jimmie's heart thudded against his ribs. He had steeled himself to this encounter and although outwardly he wore his usual appearance of nonchalant equanimity, he was feeling far from easy. He wondered how much Garfield knew.

      Garfield's eyes twinkled. "You've got something up your sleeve just now. I thought we were going to pull this case through together. I just want to know, that Is all. What were you doing at Chelsea this morning?"

      "So you know about that," said Jimmie slowly. He realized the futility of the remark as he spoke. Of course the police knew all about it. Were not the officers there?

      "Yes." The inspector's eyes were still twinkling. It, had not yet occurred to him that Jimmie held any personal sentiment in the case. Sooner or later he would know all that Silverdale knew. "You beat us to it by a matter of inches. What have you done with the ladies?"

      Silverdale pushed his plate away and brushed back the lock of lank black hair that would persistently fall over his forehead. His eyes looked steadily into those of the detective. "You're all wrong somewhere, " he observed with a puzzled note in his voice. "I saw some lady friends of mine off to the seaside this morning. You're not suggesting that they're mixed up in this affair, are you?"

      It was not an easy thing to stagger Garfield. He stared helplessly at Silverdale. A thin shadow of suspicion leapt across his mind. Was Silverdale, after all, trying to carry off something by himself ? If he had laid his hands on the woman who had killed Harold Saxon and was holding her out of reach of Scotland Yard for some purpose—perhaps to achieve a great scoop for his paper—it would be explicable but for their compact. Silverdale would never go back on an agreement. No, this was somehow just a coincidence, the detective reassured himself.

      "You're not trying to fool me, are you?" he asked. "Do you know that, one of the women you took away from Glebe Crescent this morning was Hilary Sloane—the girl whom we are looking for? Why—I showed you a photograph."

      "You don't mean to tell me—" Jimmie leaned across the table in apparent eagerness— "that you—that Scotland Yard—suspects Miss Sloane! Why, when I saw that picture I put it down as a mere passing resemblance. Don't be a fool, Garfield. I've known Miss Sloane for—for a long time. I don't suppose she had ever heard of Saxon. It Is just mere silliness."

      "This is all very damn funny," said Garfield sternly, "but I'm going to get to the bottom of it. I've known coincidences happen but not quite as curious as this. We've been friends a long time, Silverdale, but I strongly advise you to be frank."

      "Don't get on your high horse," said Jimmie quietly. "It is a coincidence that you should suspect a friend of mine and I'll give you a piece of advice—don't make a fool of yourself."

      Garfield swallowed hard. He had been in danger for a little of losing his temper-a fatal matter in such a situation. "We're getting angry with each other now, Jimmie," he said and showed his white teeth in a smile. "Suppose we give up calling each other names and try to straighten this business out. I've never known any person realize at first that a friend could be a criminal. Anyone else's friend, yes, but one's own, never. If you give me your word of honor, Jimmie, that you've never had any suspicion that Hilary Sloane was suspect till this moment, I'll believe you. I'll believe you if you say that it was sheer coincidence that you smuggled her out of Chelsea this morning. But" —his tone changed— "in view of what we found at her studio when we searched it, "I'll not believe that she knows nothing of this crime."

      "What did you find?"

      "We found, " said the inspector slowly, "a hatpin, the exact replica of that with which Harold Saxon was murdered."

      There was no melodramatic emphasis in the chief inspector's voice. He was merely stating a fact, something as a lawyer presents a fact to a witness in order to bring out further information. Jimmie, however, apparently remained unmoved. He ate on unperturbed, save for a slight impatient lift of the shoulders.

      "Are you trying to manufacture a case a,gainst this girl?" he asked coldly. "It looks 'very much like it to me. "

      Garfield ignored the charge. To him, coming from a man who knew so much of Scotland Yard methods, it was too absurd to merit resentment.

      "Take this hatpin, now," went on Jimmie. "There may be a thousand or ten thousand women wearing that kind of thing."

      "There may be," assented the inspector.

      "Look here, sonny. I'm no Sherlock Holmes and I've seen too many dead certs go wrong ever to be cocksure. What your interest is in this girl I don't know—though I shall know. My business is to add two and two together. I have found it makes five, but not very often. Listen, Jimmie! Here first of all we have Hilary Sloane's picture in possession of the murdered man. Point number one. We know that she was in association with Eston who instigated a burglary at Saxon's flat for certain papers. Point number two. She disappears after the murder (with your help). Point number three. A hatpin, similar to the one with which Saxon was murdered, is found in her studio. Point number four. That may be manufacturing a case in your view. In mine, I can only say that I'd deserve to be broke if I didn't follow up that singular string of coincidences. I don't say she's guilty; only a blind man could maintain that she is not suspect."

      "I gather you suspect her," said Silverdale dryly.

      He was doing some hard thinking. He knew, none better, the bull-dog tenacity with which men like Garfield, backed by the whole resources of Scotland Yard, would follow up a trail. The simile of a stoat flashed across his mind—a stoat comparatively slow but following a rabbit with deadly methodical unswerving precision. Superior activity availed the rabbit little. The end was inevitable. If Hilary Sloane was innocent—and he held stoutly in his own mind that she was—she could if she willed prove her innocence. Sooner or later she would be put to the test. Every day, every hour that she remained in concealment would add to the black cloud of suspicion against her.

      Perhaps Garfield guessed something of what was passing in the other's mind. "I think I see how the land lies," he said smoothly. "I guess this is a pretty hard thing for you. You've been used to a seat in the stalls and now you find yourself on the stage among the actors. Suppose you forget I'm a Scotland Yard man for a bit and just remember that we've been pals for a good many years."

      "And how long would you forget you're a Scotland Yard man?"

      "Just as long as my duty allowed me. You know I've got nothing personal in this, Silver. I've got a job to do and I'm going to do it. But I'm not going to hurt anyone more than I can help. It might be easier for you to trust me."

      The gaze of the two men met—long, steady,and appraising.

      "If I don't?" asked Silverdale.

      "It will make no difference. It will be a little longer way round, that's all. We'll get there in the end."

      "And if—if you got what you considered proof—if you found that Hilary Sloane—"

      Jimmie did not complete the sentence. He was striving to read the other's face. Garfield had finished his lunch and was meditatively chewing a toothpick.

      "We haven't got that far yet," he said. "It's always a long way from suspicion to evidence that will convict. That's where the detective of fiction has a pull over us, Jimmie. I've seen detectives—in novels—have a man hanged on evidence that would not convict a dog in real life."

      "But if—" persisted the journalist.

      "If there was strong evidence pointing to Hilary Sloane," said Garfield sternly, "—something much stronger than there is at present.— I should only have one course to take. She would be arrested and the facts placed before a jury. They would be the judges. If, however, this girl is innocent, you cannot do better than trust me. All I want is the truth."

      Silverdale's hands clenched and unclenched beneath the table. He was curiously irresolute. "I'll take you at your word, Garfield," be exclaimed in sudden resolve. "Hilary has no guilty knowledge—of that I am convinced. God help me if I'm doing wrong. Listen!"

      He had become convinced that the open policy was the best. He talked quickly, tensely, with now and then a sharp nervous gesture to emphasize a point, painting a picture of the girl and her character with all the vivacity and skill of a man practiced in description. Garfield did not interrupt till he had finished, chewing his toothpick stolidly and drumming with his fingers on the tablecloth.

      "That is Hilary Sloane," concluded Silverdale. "Is that the sort of woman to commit murder? "

      "Murder is not crime in the ordinary sense, commented the detective. "A person may be honest, courageous, straightforward, even lovable, and still be a murderer—or murderess." He spoke the last words as an afterthought. "In spite of all you have told me, you know little of this girl. You don't even know her antecedents before you met her."

      "I don't need to. I know Miss Sloane and that is enough. Do you know anything against her?" The words were a challenge.

      "No—but I shall," said Garfield. "I hope it will clear things up. Now the thing is for you to get me in touch with her."

      "That's impossible," said Jimmie.

      "Impossible—why?"

      "Because she has disappeared. I had a wire from my aunt before I left the office. Miss Sloane and Miss Dring should have reached her before ten o'clock. They had not got there by eleven."

      "H'm?" The detective put an interrogation note into his interjection.

      "I'm hoping it may be all right. They may have been delayed—missed their connection at Reading—there may be some very simple explanation." He had risen and was struggling into his overcoat. A waiter came forward to assist him and he checked himself till he had settled the bill and the functionary had gone. "But I've got an uneasy feeling—and if anything has happened I may want your help."

      "H'm," commented the inspector again. "Sure you're not being played with, Jimmie? Now, suppose this lady—it's only supposition, mind—is not the angel you think her. It might suit her book not to arrive. She might want to dodge like a hare."

      "I'd pledge my immortal soul she'd play the game with me, " asserted Jimmie. "There's something gone wrong if she isn't there. What's this Eston man got to do with her, anyway? I didn't tell you that I met him an hour or two ago—immediately after I'd seen the girls off."

      He repeated the story of his encounter outside Paddington Station as they walked out. Garfield's face changed as he listened. He smacked Silverdale on the back and laughed Softly.

      "Jimmie, if you wanted to convert me to your point of view about Hilary Sloane, why didn't you tell me this first? I'll suspend opinion on her."

      "But you have always known that Eston was in the case somewhere."

      "Sure I did. But I didn't know he was so vitally interested that he'd do such a senseless thing as that. He's a cold, callous rogue," —Garfield used another word,— "and if be wasn't deep in this, held not take the risk of interfering now. He'd not lift a finger for Miss Sloane, yet he wants to head us off. There's a deep game on here, Jimmie, and I'm hanged if I see the bottom of it. Could he have intercepted the girls after he left you?"

      Silverdale shook his head. "Not if the train was on time."

      "Well, this makes it more or less essential that I see Miss Sloane and get her story. You will see to that, Jimmie?"

      "Come back to the office with me now and we'll see if there are any wires."

      The inspector glanced at his watch. "I'm with you," he said shortly, and held up his hand for a taxi.

      It was typical of Garfield that he would not accompany Silverdale inside when they reached the Daily Wire offices. Ile preferred to sit remotely back in the recesses of the car and wait. Presently Silverdale returned, two wires in his hand. He looked very serious.

      "They have not arrived," he said.

      "Ah!"

      "What do you make of this? It's from my aunt." He handed over one of the wires and Garfield read:

      "Girls not arrived just got telegram tell jimmie twyford don't understand."

      The British telegraph system is a wonderful institution but it has some defects. Its neglect of punctuation is apt to throw some messages into incoherence. The detective wrestled with it for a second and read it aloud, putting in the proper pauses.

      "Girls not arrived. Just got telegram: 'Tell Jimmie Twyford.' Don't understand."

      "I don't like it," he said portentously.

      "Somehow or other the girls have been lured off the train at Twyford—a riverside station on the Great Western line, a f -ew miles this side of Reading." He thrust his head through the window. "Hi!driver! New Scotland Yard."

      "Why lured off? They may have stopped off at their own free will."

      "Scarcely, in the circumstances. If Miss Sloane sent that wire she sent it in a hurry or she would have been more explicit. She wants you to know where she is. She had only time to write the address and three words. It suggests she was under compulsion.

      "Eston?"

      "Maybe. There's a frame-up here and I think I see his hand."

      Silverdale rolled a cigarette. "I'll drop you at the Yard," he said. "I'm going to Twyford."

      "Call it ten minutes at the Yard, Jimmie, and I'll come with you. I want to see this girl and it won't do any harm, if things are as I think, that you should have company."

      As a matter of fact, Garfield took less than ten minutes. He lef t a man at the telephone, putting through a call, to the police at Twyford, had a brief interview with Superintendent Winter, grabbed a budget of papers from his desk, which he stuck in his pocket, and was leaving when he came face to face with Wade.

      "We've got on to Velvet," said the sergeant.

      "That's good. Grab him and keep him till I get back this evening. I've got to get down to Twyford. "

      "That's funny," said Wade. "Velvet left for Reading on an early morning train. I am getting in touch with the Reading police."

      Garfield placed a hand on his shoulder and twisted him round. "You'll do no such thing," he declared. "You'll come along with me down to Twyford. We'll get Velvet there if we want him. And, Wade—I nearly forgot—you might slip up and get me three automatic pistols if you don't mind. I don't like the beastly things, but they're useful to have on occasion."