Suppose she had?
Where had they met?
Had they gone driving together, and had she shot him in making the circuit of the Park?
But why should he be wearing list slippers?
Why should his coat be off, and why should the night-dress be bound round and round his body?
He thought the matter out, but the more he thought the more puzzled he became.

It was a very depressed man who interviewed an authority that night and secured from him a search warrant.
Armed with this and accompanied by Whiteside he made his way to the flat in Edgware Road, and, showing his authority, secured a pass-key from the hall porter, who was also the caretaker of the building.

Tarling remembered the last time he had gone to the flat, and it was with a feeling of intense pity for the girl that he turned the key in the lock and stepped into the little hall, reaching out his hand and switching on the light as he did so.
There was nothing in the hall to suggest anything unusual.

There was just that close and musty smell which is peculiar to all buildings which have been shut up, even for a few days.
But there was something else.
Tarling sniffed and Whiteside sniffed.

A dull, "burnt" smell, some pungent, "scorched" odour, which he recognised as the stale stench of exploded cordite.