LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter XX

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      Crasster waited while the inspector went over to the writing-table that stood at the other end of the room, and took down the receiver.

      "As I expected—exactly. The man is certain—there can be no mistake. I must see him before we do any more—tell him to be at my office at Scotland Yard at six o'clock to-morrow." He rang off and restored the receiver to its hook.

      As he came back to Stephen at the window his face was very grave. Stephen, glancing up, caught the questioning look and wondered.

      "I am lost in amazement at finding a telephone at the Carew Arms, inspector," he said lightly. "Who would have thought of anything so modern in this old-fashioned house?"

      Lennox laughed. "It is a bit out of the ordinary, isn't it, sir? Mrs. Curtis explained to me when I came about the rooms, that, as Sir Anthony was having the telephone put in at Heron's Carew, it was not a matter of much difficulty to get it here, and I gratified her greatly when I told her that it was my crowning attraction to the Carew Arms. But for its being here I should probably have gone to private rooms somewhere in the neighbourhood. As a rule I prefer them; folks get to know less of your business."

      "I don't fancy anyone gets to know much of your business here," Crasster said, laughing in spite of himself. "I think the length of your stay is put down entirely to Célestine's account. But about what you were telling me, inspector: The mark on that poor fellow's arm; I can't believe it is identical with the Chesterham blue star."

      "Can't you, sir?" The detective went back to his table, and, opening a case, came back with a paper in his hand. "There is a painting I had done on the spot, an exact copy of the mark on C. Warden's arm."

      Stephen took the paper in his hand and looked at it closely. "Yes! Well, it certainly is like the description I have heard of the Chesterham star."

      Lennox handed him another sheet. "This is a likeness of the Chesterham star, done from memory, by the nurse who attended the late Lord Chesterham in his fatal illness."

      Crasster studied the two in silence for a minute, then he handed them back.

      "Certainly they do look identical. But it seems to me inconceivable that C. Warden should be a member of the Chesterham family. Possibly it is only a coincidence."

      "Hardly probable," the inspector said dryly. "I have seen Lord Chesterham, sir, and I have been round the hall and looked at the old family portraits, and I have come to the conclusion that the murdered man bore a certain resemblance to the Chesterham family. Not a striking one by any means, but still sufficient to be noticeable. Oh, I think there's no doubt the clue to C. Warden's identity is to be found in this neighbourhood, Mr. Crasster."

      Stephen handed him back the two drawings.

      "Well, have it your own way, inspector. Only granted that C. Warden was a left-handed connexion of the Chesterhams, I doubt whether you will find anything about him here."

      "Well, I may or I may not," the inspector remarked oracularly. "In any case my stay here hasn't been entirely unproductive. I told you I had another reason for coming down, sir."

      "Connected with the Abbey Court murder?" Crasster questioned, shading his eyes with his hand.

      The inspector nodded. "You will remember the porter told us who he thought the lady he had taken up in the lift resembled."

      "I remember," Crasster said shortly. "Absolutely absurd, as I said at the time." His hand went to his chin and pulled it forward restlessly.

      The inspector watched him closely, his keen little eyes marking every movement. He did not speak for some minutes; it was evident he was weighing some course of action. At last he looked up.

      "Yet, but for that supposed recognition, we should have taken you into our counsel long before this, Mr. Crasster. You must have thought it strange you did not hear from me."

      "I fancied that you did not think much of my talents as a detective," Stephen answered. "But what do you mean about this porter's recognition? You cannot surely imagine—"

      The inspector got up and closed the open window before he spoke. "I have had the man down here, sir, there is no doubt about it."

      "No doubt about it," Crasster echoed as he sat back and stared at him. "What in the world do you mean?"

      The inspector leaned forward and spoke almost in a whisper, glancing round as if afraid that even the walls themselves should overhear his secret. "When Davis, the porter, told us that the lady he had taken up the lift into C. Warden's rooms was very like a fashionable beauty whom he had seen once or twice in the park, like you I was inclined to pooh-pooh the whole business. Then later on, when the affair seemed to have grown more inexplicable than ever, my mind went back to it, and I questioned Davis again. As a result I had him down here; he has seen Lady Carew twice, and has no doubt at all as to her identity. He says that he is prepared to swear to it anywhere."

      Crasster drew a long breath with a sharp inaudible exclamation. Then he waited, his keen, clean-shaven face distinctly paler, his eyes watching the inspector's face closely, his hands clasping the arms of his chair.

      Though at the bottom of his heart he had never cared for Lady Carew, though he had always been conscious of a certain latent antagonism towards her, the inspector's words came to him as a terrible shock. Anthony Carew was his dearest friend. To believe this horrible, this inconceivable thing, was to know that an abyss of horror and humiliation was opening before him. Peggy—ah! Crasster's heart failed him, he closed his eyes for a minute, as he thought of Peggy—how would she bear it, the shame and the terror and the sorrow? For that Peggy loved her sister-in-law very dearly, he knew well.

      "It is impossible," he exclaimed at last, springing to his feet, and beginning

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