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it up," he commanded.

      The builder caught the major's eye and nodded.

      "It's only cheap wood," he said. "It's not genuine old stuff."

      The men seemed to enjoy their job after they had received license to wreck. They hacked at the wood and tore it down in jagged sections while Viola gasped with rapture.

      "Gorgeous," she said. "I'm just in a mood to appreciate a nice spot of destruction."

      "Why?" asked Foam.

      "Because property can't feel. No nerves."

      "Any connection with the I.R.A.?"

      "No, no initials by request."

      "Then why have you got this extraordinary grudge against property?"

      "Because I am one of the unemployed," Viola told him. "Yesterday, I was a mannequin. I was showing a dress when I slipped on the polished floor and did a nose dive. I passed out cold--but no one bothered about a little thing like that. They reserved their sympathy for the model gown. I'd split it when I fell and it was ruined. So I was sacked."

      She stopped her story and caught hold of his hand.

      "I've got to clutch someone," she said. "I've been mopping it up--but now I'm growing afraid. There's only one panel left. It will be there--behind the last bit."

      She infected Foam with some of her apprehension. In spite of his common sense he could feel the electric quality of her suspense vibrating in her fingers as he watched the swinging picks of the men. He heard the heavy breathing of Raphael Cross, while Madame Goya stood motionless like an idol.

      Then the last section of panelling was removed--to reveal only a blank plaster surface...

      Foam was conscious of deep relief--and unconscious of a stifled flicker of disappointment. This case had promised to be something out of the ordinary. In spite of sordid eavesdropping and vigils, his sense of romance was not extinct. The secret service was still the poster of a thrilling film--plastered with foreign travel labels and drilled with bullet holes.

      But now the alleged disappearance of Evelyn Cross was revealed as the wild guesswork of hysteria. A man had lost his head and played the fool. Probably a drink too many over the odds.

      The time was still to come when he would envisage the case as a newspaper poster of a crime, with blood-stained corners flapping in the wintry rain--a record hideous with gruesome details of cold-blooded murder...

      At first, no one dared to look at Raphael Cross. The workmen began to grin but quickly composed their faces in recognition of an awkward situation. Then the builder spoke to Major Pomeroy.

      "The way out," he said, "is through this door. It's close on six. I'll be seeing you in the morning, chief."

      He hurried away as though to avoid any further argument, while the others straggled after him. As he reached the landing, the decorative typist--Marlene--began to descend the flight of stairs leading to the second floor. She was dressed for her homeward journey, for she wore a fur coat and a comedian's hat; but she had been waiting for her chance to see the mysterious Evelyn Cross again.

      The sound of six notes striking from a church tower in the Square made the builder glance at the tall grandfather's clock which stood out from the wall in one corner of the landing.

      "Stopped," he commented. "That's the worst of these antiques."

      "Oh, Grandpa still toddles more or less," explained Viola. "At his age, he likes a rest now and again--but he was going strong this afternoon."

      Her words made Foam glance casually at the clock, when he noticed that the hands were stationary at seven minutes past four. This was about the time when Evelyn Cross had visited Pomerania House.

      He could never explain the impulse which made him suddenly open the back of the case. As he groped in the interior, he could feel two foreign bodies which had interfered with the mechanism of the works. Drawing them out, he held them for inspection.

      A pair of fashionable ladies' shoes with very high heels.

      CHAPTER FIVE--POTTED PERSONALITIES

       Table of Contents

      There was no doubt in Foam's mind as to their ownership, He turned instinctively to Raphael Cross who was staring at them as though stunned.

      "Are these your daughter's shoes?" he asked.

      "Yes," replied Cross dully.

      "Can you identify them positively?"

      Cross twisted his mouth in doubt before he shook his blonde head.

      "Of course not," she said. "But it's the kind she always wears."

      "You're sure there are no distinctive marks?" insisted Foam, thrusting the shoes into his hand.

      "Hell, how should I know? Her shoes all look alike to me."

      Although he himself hardly knew pink from blue, Foam was annoyed by this lack of paternal perception. Before he could connect the shoes positively with the missing girl, he would have to establish her claim by the tedious process of elimination.

      Fortunately Viola came to his rescue.

      "They aren't mine, worse luck," she said. "And they aren't Power's. She always wears the sensible sort, with low heels. Perhaps they belong to Madame Goya--"

      "Pardon," broke in a confident voice. "Those shoes are mine."

      Foam did not need Viola's gasp to realize that the claimant was a courageous opportunist. The decorative typist--Marlene--stepped forward and took the shoes from Cross' limp hands.

      "I bought them last week, in my lunch hour, at the Dolcis in Shaftesbury Avenue," she explained glibly. "They had a sale on. You can see the soles aren't marked. I've not worn them yet."

      "Last week?" commented Foam. "Why didn't you take them home?"

      "Because I've been out to dinner and pictures every evening. I couldn't lug a parcel round with me."

      "But how did they get inside the clock case?"

      "I can't even guess," replied the girl lightly. "Someone's idea of clean fun, I suppose...Well, thanks frightfully for finding them. Bye-bye."

      "And try checking up on that tale," muttered Viola ironically, as she watched Marlene's triumphant descent. "A sale and the lunch-hour rush. Nice little combination...Well, she's got them now for keeps--and good luck to her."

      "Am I right in concluding that young lady has a successful technique?" asked Foam.

      "Positively stunning," Viola told him. "She eats on the house. Everyone takes her out, from the boss to the office boy. Fair play to her; she treats them all alike...Now I'd be nice to the boy and snub the director. That's snob complex, really."

      She stopped talking as Madame Goya came on to the landing--her draped figure looking massive and majestic as the Statue of Liberty.

      "Don't let the men go," she commanded Major Pomeroy. "They'll have to move my things at once. It's up to you to find me good temporary quarters in this house...Impress on the builder to make a rush job of renovating No. 16. I can't risk losing my connection."

      "You shall have preferential treatment," the major assured her with dreary patience. "If you will go down to my office, I'll join you as soon as I possibly can."

      He glanced uneasily at Cross, who still stood staring into vacancy--and then basely shifted his responsibility to Foam.

      "You'll want to discuss this business with Mr. Cross," he said. "What about my flat? It's next to my office. You'll find drinks there."

      "Nothing for me," broke in Cross. "I've got to get this clear. Where's Evelyn? Where's my girl?"

      He staggered slightly

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