He
condemned himself bitterly.
After all, what crime had she committed? She had tried to purloin a
letter--which did not belong to Stuart in the first place. And she had
failed. Now--the police were looking for her. His reflections took a
new form.
What of Gaston Max, foremost criminologist in Europe, who now lay dead
and mutilated in an East-End mortuary? The telephone message which had
summoned Dunbar away had been too opportune to be regarded as a mere
coincidence. Mlle. Dorian was, therefore, an accomplice of a murderer.
Stuart sighed. He would have given much--more than he was prepared to
admit to himself--to have known her to be guiltless.
The identity of the missing cabman now engaged his mind. It was quite
possible, of course, that the man had actually found the envelope in
his cab and was in no other way concerned in the matter. But how had
Mlle. Dorian, or the person instructing her, traced the envelope to
his study? And why, if they could establish a claim to it, had they
preferred to attempt to steal it? Finally, why all this disturbance
about a blank pieced of cardboard?
A mental picture of the envelope arose before him, the number, 30,
written upon it and the two black seals securing the lapels. He paused
again in his walk. His reflections had led him to a second definite
point and he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for a time, seeking a
certain brass coin about the size of a halfpenny, having a square
hole in the middle and peculiar characters engraved around the
square, one on each of the four sides.
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