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of her shapely legs and of perilously high-heeled shoes.

      As he stood there, he was joined by an attractive young lady with ginger hair and a discriminating eye. Her official title was "Miss Simpson," but she was generally known in the building by her adopted name of "Marlene." She was nominally private secretary to a company promoter who had his office on the second floor; but as the post was a sinecure she spent much of her time in the ladies' cloakroom on the ground floor, improving her appearance for conquest.

      "Admiring the golden calf?" she asked, appraising the quality of the silken legs herself before they disappeared around the bend of the staircase.

      "She's got nothing on you there, Marlene," declared the porter.

      He had a daughter who was a student at a commercial school and was biased in favour of typists.

      "Except her stockings, Daddy. Where's the boss taking them?"

      "I was asking myself that. The gent's a party after an office. There's only a small let vacant, right at the top and that's not in his class."

      "Maybe the girl's going to Goya to get her fortune told," suggested the ornamental typist, tapping her teeth to suppress a yawn.

      For nearly ten minutes she lingered at the foot of the stairs, chatting to the porter and on the outlook to intercept any drifting male. The place, however, was practically deserted, so presently she mounted the flight on her way back to her office. She paused when she reached the landing of the first floor, where there were three mahogany doors in line, each embellished with a chromium numeral.

      Just outside the middle door--No. 16--the major stood talking to Raphael Cross. Impressed by the striking appearance of the fair stranger, she patted the wave of her ginger hair and lingered in the hope of making a fresh contact.

      Consequently she became a witness to the beginning of the amazing drama which was later entered in Alan Foam's case book as "Disappearance of Evelyn Cross."

      Although she was friendly with the major, on this occasion he was neither responsive nor helpful. He merely returned her smile mechanically. Only a keen observer might have noticed a flicker of satisfaction in his hawk-like eye, as though he had been expecting her.

      Then he started the show, like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, by pulling out his watch.

      "Your daughter's keeping you a dickens of a time," he remarked to Cross. "I thought she said she'd be only a minute. You're a patient man."

      "Used to it." Cross grimaced in continental fashion. "I'll give her a ring."

      He prodded the electric bell of No. 16 with a powerful forefinger. After a short interval it was opened by the tenant of the apartment--Madame Goya.

      She was stout, shortish and middle-aged. Her blued-white permanently waved hair did not harmonize with an incongruous dusky make-up and orange lipstick. Her eyes were dark, treacly and protruding, in spite of being set in deep pouches. She wore an expensive black gown which flattered her figure and a beautiful emerald ring.

      "Will you tell my daughter I'm ready to go,' said Cross.

      "Pardon?" asked the woman aggressively. "Your daughter?"

      When Cross amplified his request, she shook her head.

      "Miss Cross was here only to make an appointment. She left some time ago."

      "Left?" echoed Cross. "Which way?"

      "Through this door, of course."

      He stared at her as though bewildered.

      "But the major and I have been standing outside," he said, "and I'll swear she never came out."

      "Definitely not," agreed Major Pomeroy. "Are you sure she's not still inside, madame?"

      "If you don't believe me, come in and see for yourself," invited Madame Goya.

      Throbbing with curiosity, the ornamental typist crept to the closed door of No. 16, after the men had gone inside. She heard voices raised in angry excitement and the sound of furniture being bumped about. Presently the major came out alone. His face wore a dazed expression as he took hold of her elbow.

      "You've just come upstairs. Beautiful, haven't you?" he asked. "I suppose you did not notice a blonde in black coming down?"

      "No," she replied. "I didn't meet a pink elephant either. It's not my day for seeing things. What's all the blinking mystery?"

      "Hanged if I know," said the major helplessly. "Boss out, isn't he? Be a good girl and nip round to every office and flat in the place. Ask if anyone's seen her. They haven't. I know that. But I've got to satisfy her father."

      The ornamental typist made no objection to being useful, for a change. She spun out her inquiries to a series of social calls throughout Pomerania House. True to the major's forecast, no one had seen a loose blonde, so presently she returned to the first floor.

      Raphael Cross, the fair stranger who had attracted her fancy, had come out of No. 16 and was pacing the landing as though on the verge of distraction. Her first glance at him told her that it was no time for overtures. His features were locked in rigid lines and his eyes looked both fierce and baffled. He glared after the figure of the porter as the man returned to his station in the hall. The major spoke to him in a low voice.

      "You heard what the fellow said. I've known him for years before I employed him. He's definitely reliable."

      "The hell he is," growled Cross. "Someone's lying. Where's my girl?"

      "Oh, we'll find her. I admit it's an extraordinary affair. Almost uncanny. I'm at a loss to account for it, myself. But you may be sure there's some simple explanation."

      "I know that. This is a put-up job. There's someone behind all of this. It's an infernal conspiracy."

      Major Pomeroy stiffened perceptibly, while the sympathy died from his eyes.

      "Who do you suspect?' he asked coldly.

      "I'll tell you when I've got my girl back. I don't leave this ruddy place without her. Order that porter to see to it that no one goes out of this building until there's been a systematic search through."

      "Certainly...Shall I ring up the police?"

      The question checked Cross' hysteria like a snowball thrown in his face. He hesitated and gnawed his lip for some seconds before he made his decision.

      "No, Pomeroy." His voice was low. "This may be kidnapping. If it is, the police are best kept out."

      The major's hostility melted instantly.

      "I understand," he said in a feeling voice. "Come down to my office and I'll ring up a reliable private detective agency."

      Halfway down the stairs, he returned to caution Marlene.

      "Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut--there's a good girl."

      "Cross my heart."

      Within two minutes after the men had entered the major's office, she was telling the whole story to the tenant of the flatlet, No, 15. This lady--according to her visiting card inserted in the slot of the door--was named "Viola Green," while her occupation was supposed to be that of a mannequin.

      She limped out onto the landing, her hands in her pockets and a cigarette between her lips; yet, in spite of her pose of nonchalance, there was no hint of stereotyped boredom in her face. Her expression in its vivid expectancy was a challenge to the future, as though she claimed the maximum from life and refused to admit to compromise.

      She was distinctly attractive, although both face and figure were somewhat too thin. Her short black hair had bright brown gleams and her eyes were hazel-green. She wore black slacks, a purple-blue pullover and rubbed silver sandals.

      Although the majority of males in Pomerania House were on friendly terms with Marlene Simpson, the women avoided speaking to her. Viola Green was the exception. She was not only unhampered by snobbery or moral criticism, but she was responsive to a psychic bond between them.

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