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others, and stopped at a headline, titled, “ Woman Murdered”.
    â€œ Lady Murren, widow of Sir Henry Murren, was found shot through the heart at her Mayfair flat last night. The discovery was made by her maid, who returned from a visit to relatives and found her mistress lying in the drawing-room. The flat had been ransacked. Scotland Yard officers …”
    Rollison said thoughtfully: “Sir Henry Murren, Jolly. Who was he?”
    â€œVery prominent in Anglo-French spheres before the war, sir. He lived in Paris for a number of years.”
    â€œI thought there was a French association with the name. Sure?”
    â€œThere is no doubt, sir.”
    â€œThanks,” said Rollison. “Anything in the post?”
    â€œNothing of consequence, sir.”
    â€œOur guest?”
    â€œShe woke up twice during the night, but the nurse reports that she has been comfortable, and there is ho fever. Dr. Mason looked in a few minutes ago, and appears to be quite satisfied.”
    â€œBetter than it might have been. Has she talked?”
    â€œNo, sir. Mr. Grice has sent a man, who is waiting in the kitchen. He said that he has orders to sit in the room with the girl, but I refused to allow him access until I had consulted you.”
    â€œHmm. Grice trying to stymie us, he was too affable last night.” Rollison yawned and sipped his tea. “We could do without the chap, but I suppose we mustn’t expect miracles. Bath ready?”
    â€œIt will be, in five minutes, sir.”
    â€œAny bright ideas?”
    â€œI have inquired, and am assured that there will be no difficulty in getting accommodation on any of the aeroplanes to Paris today. There is always more room during the winter, and an hour’s notice will be sufficient.”
    Rollison sipped again.
    â€œMadame Thysson?”
    â€œI telephoned Mr. Latimer, of the Record, and he has promised to call at half-past ten,” said jolly. “He has just completed a series of articles on Paris for his newspaper, as you may recall, and it occurred to me that he was the most likely man to assist us. I did not mention Madame Thysson to him.”
    â€œJolly, you improve with keeping.”
    â€œThank you, sir,” murmured Jolly.
    â€œTell the flat-foot in the kitchen that as soon as I’ve finished my bath, I’ll come and see him.”
    Jolly inclined his head, and went out. He enjoyed nothing more than suggesting that he was an automaton, and seldom showed any sign of human emotion; unless one knew him well, as few did.
    Rollison poured himself out a second cup of tea, and got out of bed. His shoulder was only slightly painful. He rasped his hand over his dark stubble, bathed his face in cold water, and then went into the spare room.
    A solidly built nurse looked up from a chair, where she was sitting and knitting.
    â€œGood morning, sir.”
    â€œâ€™Morning. Any change?”
    â€œShe is likely to—she is awake,” said the nurse, and jumped up.
    The girl looked into Rollison’s eyes, not blankly: she had been awake when he had come in. She even smiled a little. The turban-like bandage could not hide the fact that she was lovely; and her face wasn’t marked. She looked pale, but even thus, her complexion was a maiden’s dream. She moved her hands as he approached, and he took them lightly, and spoke in French.
    â€œAre you better?”
    â€œMuch, much better.”
    â€œWonderful! What else can I do to help you?”
    The smiled faded.
    â€œTell me,” urged Rollison.
    She said in a low-pitched, earnest voice: “I am so frightened. Please allow me to stay here.”
    The nurse looked blankly from the patient to Rollison. The girl was watching Rollison closely; and he did not see any fear in her eyes. She was rested, probably had no more than a headache, and wanted to stay here. But she was no longer as frightened as she had been last night.
    â€œDon’t you want