A dramatic explanation of their presence was soon supplied.
"These gentlemen, sir, are Chief Inspector Winter and Detective Inspector Furneaux of Scotland Yard," said the ex-sergeant, in the awed tone which some people cannot help using when speaking of members of the Criminal Investigation Department.
Though daylight had not yet failed it was rather dark in that corner of the station, and Theydon saw now what he had not perceived earlier, that the usually sedate Bates was pale and harassed looking.
"Why, what's up ?" he inquired, gazing blankly from one to the other of the ominous pair.
"Haven't you seen the evening papers, Mr.Theydon ?" said Winter, the giant of the two.
"No, I've been at Brooklands since two o'clock.

But what is it ?" "You don't know, then, that a murder was committed in the Innesmore Mansions last night or early this morning ?" "Good Lord, no! Who was killed ?" "A Mrs.Lester, the lady--" "Mrs.Lester, who lives in No.

17 ?" "Yes." "What a horrible thing! Why, only the day before yesterday I met her on the stairs." It was a banal statement, and Theydon knew it, but he blurted out the first crazy words that would serve to cloak the monstrous thought which leaped into his brain.

And a picture danced before his mind's eye, a picture, not of the fair and gracious woman who had been done to death, but of a sweet-voiced girl in a white satin dress who was saying to a fine-looking man standing by her side: "Dad, aren't you coming home with me ?" His blurred senses were conscious of the strange medley produced by the familiar noises of a railway station blending with the quietly authoritative voice of the chief inspector.
"Mr.Furneaux and I have the inquiry in hand, Mr.Theydon," the detective was saying.

"We called at your flat, and Bates told us of the sounds you both heard about 11:30 last night.