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THE FOOTSTEPS
THAT STOPPED





The Footsteps
That Stopped
By A FIELDING
AUTHOR OF
“The Eames-Erskine Case," "The Charteris Mystery,”
etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers
New York
Published by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf Company
Printed in U. S. A.


COPYRIGHT, 1926, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED





C,F, Botiw
CHAPTER I
"I th1nk I'll go on up to Riverview." Chief Inspector
Pointer, one of the Big Five of New Scotland Yard, laid
down the report which he was reading. "Yes, I think I'd
like to see the house where yesterday the mistress was found
shot, the companion seems to've been endowed with second
sight, and where a caller apparently dissolved into air."
Superintendent Haviland stared at him blankly, and then
around his own Twickenham police station.
"The coroner's verdict was 'Death by misadventure,'" he
said finally, glancing at the clock as though to assure himself
that that was only half an hour ago. "Of course, as I was
just saying to Mr. Wilmot here, the verdict's all wrong, but
it was the only possible One according to the witnesses. Per-
haps it's just as well. It sounds better than 'suicide,' for the
relatives."
They were talking of the death of Mrs. Tangye who had
been found, yesterday afternoon, sitting dead beside her
tea-table, with a service-revolver lying on the floor beside her,
and a bullet from it through her heart. The Webley was a
souvenir of her days as an officer in the Waacs during the
last year of the war, and was kept on a bracket in the room.
Her husband had explaine'd to the Coroner that his wife had
recently spoken of having her initials engraved on it. He
suggested that she must have been looking it over with that
in her mind when she had met with her fatal accident. The
Coroner thought this sounded highly probable. There was
no question at the inquest, or before it, of foul play. To say
that there was no sign of a struggle, hardly did justice to
the ordered neatness of the room and the dead woman. She
wore at neck and wrist fine lace frills which would have
3


4 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
torn at a touch. The very material of her new gray velvet
frock was as spotless and smooth as when she had slipped
into it after lunch. The hullet fitted the revolver. The only
finger-prints on the butt were those of the dead woman.
Apart from these facts, Mrs. Tangye was the last person to
sit tamely in a chair and let any one press a weapon against
her breast, as the blackened frock, as well as the autopsy,
showed must have been done. She was a good shot. She
had once in France put a bullet through a drunken Annam-
ite's foot with most unrattled precision.
The chair on which she was found was a fragile, gilt
affair which she favoured for making tea. Any struggle,
and over it would have gone. It was not so much as
scratched. Behind her stood a none too firmly placed elec-
tric stand-lamp. It too would have crashed very easily.
On the table beside her lay a china bell-push. The bell was
in perfect order, and had not been rung.
Nothing was reported missing. Her purse lay in her
handbag with over five pounds in it on a chair in the room.
The French windows were said to have been found locked
from the inside. The servants were certain that no one
could have entered the house unnoticed between four, the
hour when Florence, the parlour-maid, had brought in the
tea-things and seen her mistress alive, and six, when she
had made the terrible discovery.
No sound of a shot had been heard, and yet the revolver
bore no marks of a silencer. It was thought that it must
have gone off when some noisy vehicle was passing.
All the friends of Mrs. Tangye with whom the police had
been able to get into touch agreed that she had seemed in the
best of spirits, and that the suicide was out of the question.
She was thirty-five, and even the gossipy circle could not
hint at any entanglement on her part.
Yet Haviland, the Twickenham police Superintendent,
did believe that it had been a case of suicide. For on the day
before her death Mrs. Tangye had sent off a large trunk of
clothes to the Salvation Army leaving out for herself only


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 5
the garment she was wearing. And yesterday, the fatal day,
she had spent some hours destroying all her private papers.
"What on earth do you mean, Pointer?" Wilmot, the
third man, asked curiously. "I've seldom listened to duller
evidence. But I suppose I'm prejudiced. Naturally, as a
newspaper man, I had hoped for something more worth
while, more"
The door flew open. A young man dashed in. Nodded
to Wilmot and Haviland. Shot a discreet glance at Pointer.
Seated himself in front of a battered typewriter in one
corner, and began a spirited imitation of a machine-gun in
action.
Pointer looked at him.
It was a pleasant glance, and Newnes was one of the
youngest reporters on the Staff of the Daily Courier, but he
interpreted it correctly.
"Let me see to-morrow's sun rise!" he pleaded. "I was the
first person called in by Mrs. Tangye's maid, you know.
And this is my last will and testament concerning her. You
needn't caution me to print nothing without permission.
I'm more than discreet. I'm dull."
The men laughed.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling your story again. I
wasn't at the inquest." Pointer settled himself in a chair.
.Newnes, like all his craft, minded nothing but exclusion.
He began at once:
"Yesterday afternoon, about six, I had just strolled over
Richmond Bridge, when a maid rushed out of one of the big
houses screaming, 'A doctor! Help! Help! She's dead!'
"Behind her in the doorway stood another woman, who
called to the first to 'Come back, Florence! Come back at
once!'
"I thought if 'she' was dead, I couldn't do much harm. So
I said 'Hold on. I'm half a doctor. Let's see what's
wrong.'
"'She's killed herself. Oh, she's dead! Come in and
see what you can do for her, sir. Oh, the poor mistress!'


6 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"I took her by the arm and walked her back to the door
again, where the other woman, who turned out to be Mrs.
Tangye's companion, was still standing. I explained that
I had been a medical student (I didn't add that it was only
for two months) and that perhaps I could do as well as any-
body. 'Quite as well.' She said as coolly as you please:
'There's been an accident. Mrs. Tangye has shot herself.
I think no one ought to go in till I've telephoned to the
police. Better give that hysterical girl something to quiet
her meanwhile.'
"I pointed out that as she and the maid had both been in the
room, I might be permitted a look at the lady. Possibly
something could be done after all. She nodded towards a
door. I opened it, and stepped in. I heard her ring up the
police station as I did so. There, beside a tea-table in a deep
recess, sat a handsome, well-dressed woman with her head
sunk on her breast. She looked about thirty. She was
quite dead. Her cheek, which I took care to do no more
than touch, was icy. A revolver. . . ." He proceeded to
describe what he had seen:
"While I was making my notes, the Superintendent ar-
rived. He"
"Many thanks." Pointer held out his hand. "If anything
turns up that the papers can be usefully told, you shall have
the first hint. And now—sorry, you know, but police-
routine"
Newnes made no protest. In a large town, a man is a re-
porter, not by the grace of God, but of the police.
Wilmot came under quite another heading. His discre-
tion, like his position, was not a mere promise, but a well
established fact. For several years, he and his articles had
been the helpers of the law. For Wilmot was that much
abused definition, a criminologist. And a great one.
"The ploughman homewards plods his weary way." He
watched from the window Newnes' reluctant turning of the
cornet. "And now, may merely mortal man inquire what


8 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
been out at all, she had gone into the room where Mrs.
Tangye was, immediately on her return, and found her dead,
before going on upstairs."
"What! Without saying a word to any one!" Superin-
tendent Haviland was a married man. Pointer was not.
The police officer thought that this was a bachelor's idea of
feminine powers.
"And the visitor who vanished into thin air," Haviland
went on, "do you mean Mrs. Cranbourn, sir, for your third
person? The lady whose coming at six led to the discovery
of the body?"
"Just so. Mrs. Cranbourn. But for her having been ex-
pected—that point only came out just now at the in-
quest"
"No, sir. As a matter o*f fact I mentioned her name here,
in the report I sent in last night." Haviland bent over the
sheets.
fit's not the visitor's name. It's the fact that she was
expected. Known to be coming. . . ."
"Coming by a boat-train," Pointer spoke slowly, with a
curious look in his eyes, "so the parlour-maid says she was
told by her mistress. No boat-train could get in in time
enough to let Mrs. Cranbourn have four o'clock tea with
Mrs. Tangye at Riverview. Then why was it ordered at
four? And Florence was not to bother to come in again
until Mrs. Cranbourn should come." Pointer looked down
at his boot-tips meditatively.
"Getting into touch with Mrs. Cranbourn should clear up
many difficulties! But even as it is, what became of her?"
"Florence—that's the parlourmaid—thinks she hurried off
without waiting, when she saw what had happened. Natural
enough under the circumstances." Haviland spoke rather
stubbornly.
"But where to? Which way did she go? Straight on up
to Heaven? Remember, Newnes saw only the running
maid, the standing Miss Saunders, and no one else. You
arrived before he left, and found no sign of her."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 9
"When you put it like that, it sounds odd, for a fact."
iHaviland bit his lip.
The caller had not been seen since. It was believed that
she must have slipped away in the general confusion. The
Coroner, though he regretted her absence, did not think that
her evidence would have been of more use than that of the
numerous other friends available. For she had not found
Mrs. Tangye alive. Mrs. Cranbourn was a barrister's
widow, living in Malaga, and was unknown to the maid by
sight. The police had had a cable from the consul there,
saying that the lady had left the town a week ago.
"Her visit seems a big trump in Tangye's hand—it cer-
tainly points to accident rather than suicide," Wilmot mur-
mured.
Haviland grunted, non-committally.
"Why don't you believe Mrs. Tangye's death an accident,
Haviland?" Pointer asked.
"How could it have been one, sir? Apart from the fa^t
of the trigger working uncommon stiff, the safety-bolt acts
perfectly, and Mrs. Tangye was used to that particular re-
volver. Then look at the tearing up of her papers, and the
packing off of her duds."
"Tangye explained that, you know," Wilmot reminded
him.
"But Mrs. Tangye wasn't going abroad for another month.
And why not leave her papers? To my mind, her desk and
her wardrobe were as good as a signed confession that she
had made away with herself."
There was a short silence.
"Personally my belief hasn't been changed by the verdict,"
Haviland murmured after a pause, "though it ends the case
as far as we are concerned."
"Unless, of course you, sir "he turned to Pointer and
left the sentence unfinished.
"Any special reason you know of which isn't given
in the reports for her to've killed herself?" was his only
answer.


1o THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"Well, there's Mrs. Bligh. She's just left for Cannes this
morning. Colonel's widow. Lives in Cadogan Square.
Belongs to a very smart set. She and Mr. Tangye. . . ."
Haviland's tone was full of meaning. "The fact is, though
there's nothing to prove it, I think Mrs. Tangye got wind of
the affair, and got fed up. Lost her grip of things, and de-
cided to end it all."
"If every woman whose husband goes off the rails at times
were to shoot herself, the surplus of females over males in
the British Isles would soon be a thing of the past," Wilmot
pointed out dryly. Haviland grinned, but stuck to his guns.
"I don't pretend I mayn't be wrong. As a matter of fact,
I've got two headings in my notebook, same as you say you
have in your head, Mr. Wilmot, and I enter things accord-
ingly. Most of 'em, so far, go on both pages. I can't think
you'll want me to add another headline, sir."
Haviland finished with his eyes on Pointer. The Chief
Inspector was skimming through the life story of the dead
woman.
"Mable Headly. Only child of the Rev. Charles Headly,
rector of Over Wallop for twenty years, and Nether Wallop
for thirty," he read out.
"Sounds peaceful!" murmured Wilmot. Haviland took
up the tale:
"Miss Headly taught at the Holland Park High School
till war broke out. Then went to France as an officer in the
Waacs. She married Clive Branscombe, the architect. He
built the Chelsea war memorial, I think?"
Haviland turned to Wilmot.
"May he rest in peace, in spite of that and other crimes
of a like nature," breathed the newspaper man.
"They lived in Cheyne Walk for some five years. A year
after he died, she married Tangye. That was three years ago
now."
"Any children?"
"None all round, sir," was the comprehensive reply.
There followed another short silence.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED n
"Only one will known," Pointer mused aloud, "leaving
everything to her husband. Made on her marriage to him.
Contents familiar to every one. How much did she have
to leave?"
"She had nothing when she married Branscombe, but he
left her ten thousand in cash, which she promptly invested
in Tangye's firm. There's a belief in some quarters in fact,
that that was why he married her. The sum came in very
handy just then, they do say. And besides that ten, she
had some nice bits of property here and there in Worcester-
shire that were rated for death duties at another ten thou-
sand. Of course, I don't know how much of the land she's
sold. You see, she'd destroyed all her memos."
Pointer stood up.
"I'd like to see the revolver."
Haviland brought it from the safe. It would have to be
returned within an hour or two to Tangye anyway, he
thought. Pointer lifted out the weapon on its slung carrier,
puffed some bright coloured powder over it, and blowing
gently, studied the result intently with his glass.
"Seems to've taken the marks of her grip very well."
"It has for a fact. The poor soul had been having but-
tered crumpets for tea."
"Have the Tangye's a dog?"
"No, sir." Haviland looked puzzled.
"Is there a cat in the house?"
"No, sir." Haviland wondered how many more animals
would be suggested, but he looked with wrinkled brows at
Pointer.
"Those scratches seem recent. What made them?"
"Tangye thinks they must have happened in France. The
revolver was always kept in its box at Riverview. You'll
notice her fingerprints are over the scratches, so the latter
can't mean anything, sir."
Pointer noticed more than that. He gave the weapon an-
other long look before he straightened up.
"I should like the usual photographs and enlargements of


12 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
that made at once, please." Then the Chief Inspector turned
away. "It's a problem!" he said, studying his boot tips.
"You mean the explanation as to whether it was suicide
or accident? I can't make up my own mind definitely."
Wilmot spoke in a surprised tone. It was true that he was
not often afflicted with doubt.
"No. I mean the explanation of the facts."
Haviland pricked up his ears.
"Why, sir, even the fact, which had first seemed puzzling,
that, though Mrs. Tangye was considered right-handed like
most of the world, the weapon lay beneath her left hand, and
carries its finger-prints, was explained by an old friend.
Mrs. Tangye had been left-handed in her girlhood, and
though she had trained herself out of the habit, yet in mo-
ments of great excitement she was liable to 'revert.' In-
quiries made in her father's parish—he's been dead these
fifteen years nearly—corroborated this. To my mind, there's
no question but that it was either suicide or accident. Judg-
ing by the facts, that is." X
Superintendent Haviland always judged by what he con-
sidered facts. And by them alone. "Those finger-prints on
her revolver, sir. They're Mrs. Tangye's right enough. It
isn't as if there were any reason to suspect they're faked.
They're uncommonly clear ones."
"They're uncommon from more points of view than one,"
the Chief Inspector murmured, with that air of detachment
that was so marked a characteristic of his, and so deceptive.
"What in the world are you driving at, Pointer?" Wil-
mot asked curiously. "Quite apart from her finger-prints,
foul play seems an absolute impossibility. Surely no woman
would have sat still and let herself be shot down like a mad
dog, without a struggle. Without ringing that bell beneath
her very fingers!"
"As a matter of fact, sir,"—Haviland was so bewildered
that he had some difficulty in finding his voice,—"I very
carefully looked even at the cushion on which her feet were
resting. I photographed it specially, though it doesn't come


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 13
out well. Those marks on it could only have been made by
a pair of resting feet. She hadn't pressed them in, or tried
to rise. Her slippers were a bit dampish from that stroll in
the garden which she'd taken just before tea. Yet they
hadn't done more than dust the velvet with sand, as you
might say."
"How does the woman's death strike you, Wilmot?"
Pointer asked abruptly. He was a great admirer of the
newspaper man's articles.
"Like Haviland, I think, on the whole, that it was suicide.
Though since hearing the evidence just now, I shouldn't be
amazed if the husband were right, and it turned out an
accident. Certainly the effect of tranquillity in Mrs.
Tangye's face and pose struck me very much when I was
taken to see her yesterday. I think it was more marked in
reality than it is in the photographs of the scene. What
intrigues me most in the case, I confess, is that Chief In-
spector Pointer should have thought it worth his while to
come down about it."
Haviland wondered too.
Pointer did not explain.
"As I said, I'll go on up to Riverview with you, after
lunch, Superintendent, if that time will suit you. I want to
ask a few questions. The answers may clear up some of
the items that puzzle me."
"You interest me tremendously, Pointer. By Jove, you
do interest me!" Wilmot was not flattering the other. He
really was glad now that Newnes had caught him—Wilmot—
yesterday. The whole affair was exceptional as far as he
was concerned. Newnes had dragged him out of the evening
boat-train at Victoria, where he had been on the point of
dashing across the Narrows with three other newspaper men
of his own standing to investigate a rumour. A rumour
which had only reached well-informed circles as yet, and
which very guardedly hinted at regicide. It came from a
state where such incidents do occasionally lend a mediaeval
touch to court life. The special correspondents were all keen


14 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
as so many unhooded falcons, but Newnes, breathless, dash-
ing up with the effect of long legs floating behind him, had
seized Wilmot by the arm.
"Couldn't find you—wanted-stay-Vibart-letter." He
gasped. While well-meaning porters draped themselves
castily upon snatching, dels began to the sea
Wilmot, snatching up a bag from between his feet, had
sprung out as the wheels began to turn. The two other men
were half inclined to follow. If the great Wilmot found it
well to stay, where lay the point of their going on? But
they thought better of it. Even newspaper men may once in
their lives, have relations. It was possible that W. W. had
been fetched home for some overwhelming family disaster.
Newnes had handed the man beside him a letter. Tear-
ing it open, Wilmot-in a vile temper-for he had had to
make a dash to catch that train, had read:
"Dear. WILMOT,Rumour unfounded. H. M. was merely
having a private week-end. Want you to ring me up on the
'phone immediately.
“Yours, VIBART."
Within five minutes Wilmot was connected with his tem-
porary Chief, editor and permanent friend, Lord Vibart, the
owner of the Daily Courier. To him the other spake winged
words. Since the affair which Wilmot had been commis-
sioned to undertake had fizzled out, Vibart had another sug-
gestion to make. It seemed that the Courier's youngest re-
porter had just had a stroke of beginner's luck by being the
first outsider to find a Mrs. Tangye, wife of a member of a
well-known county family, sitting dead beside her afternoon
tea-table. The police thought it was suicide. Would Wil-
mot take a look at the case, and send along one of his special
articles.
"Of course, I quite understand, my dear chap, that you're
above any suicides except royal ones," Vibart said dryly
(Wilmot's high opinion of himself was well known) "but I


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 15
particularly want the spot light to play on Twickenham just
now."
Wilmot knew that, and knew why. Vibart was backing a
new helicopter, and the trials were to be staged there next
month. But he failed to see why he should alter his plans
for the sake of the other's pocket.
"It's not in my line," he said unyieldingly. Nor was it.
Outside of the realms of politics, murders, difficult and in-
volved, were Wilmot's province. He had no superior in lay-
ing bare the psychology of the criminal. And he did it, not
with the scalpel, but with the pitying touch of one who saw
something beautiful dragged through the mire, something
fine blunted. No man living could surpass him in investing
the most sordid crime with a touch of the Inner, of the Noble.
He was a master in the art of suggestion. Like some marvel-
lous chemist Wilmot could extract 'atmosphere' from a
poker and a bottle of stout.
"Anything's in your line, if you'll undertake it," Vibart
said placatingly. "Look here, there's no other chap can
handle it as you can. Stir up the public to run a special
bus out to see the house where it happened."
Vibart had the soul of a tradesman.
"But the arrangements for my holiday are already made,"
Wilmot protested truthfully enough. As the other affair
had fallen through, he did not see why he should not put the
clock forward. In fancy he was already basking in a green,
sunny nook between Lequectico and San Sebastian, where
little black pigs curled their tails in the orchards, and the
trout were only waiting to rise to anything with blue Anda-
lusian cock-hackles on it.
"Well, my dear chap, forgive the remark, but he who pays
the piper—you know. You stood out for a pirate's ransom
before you promised to go to Gretonia. I think we must
get our money back somehow. I don't see you returning
that cheque." Vibart thought plain-speaking might avail.
It did. Wilmot capitulated. He had gone out with


16 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Newnes to Twickenham. To the handsome old house near
Richmond Bridge, had sent in an article of "The Hollowness
of the Solid," which was a little masterpiece in its own morne
line, and was prepared to send in one last, on the blood-lust
that crowds inquests. Neither article was in the least what
Vibart wanted, but Wilmot was apt to take his own line.
Haviland turned away from the safe.
"I've finished now, sir. But I can take you up to River-
view after lunch if that would suit you better."
Wilmot reached for his hat. "I'm off for my deferred
holiday in Spain." He spoke with an anticipatory smile.
"Otherwise I should have enjoyed hearing how it all flattened
out into a most ordinary affair."
"Why not wait a day or two," Haviland urged, "it won't
take long either way. I mean, until we find out for certain.
The Tangyes like the Branscombes had lived here, or near
here, all their lives. We know all about them."
"That's why I'm off," Wilmot tossed a match away.
"People whom you know all about, Haviland, aren't in my
line at all."
"Don't you believe it, Superintendent, and waste a fond
farewell." Pointer scoffed: "We shall see Mr. Wilmot
again at Riverview this afternoon, depend on it. And very
welcome you'll be," he finished, turning to the newspaper man.
"You, and any help you can give us."
"Help? What in?" Wilmot opened his eyes till they
looked like round marbles. "Oh—you mean in putting the
room to rights after you've had the carpet up, and the wall-
paper down, and taken the furniture to pieces. I know your
airy methods. But possibly I may drop in on my way to the
boat-train for the last time. Possibly I may."
"Very possibly," Pointer agreed. Wilmot, with an an-
swering smile, walked briskly down the steps of the police
station.
A hand touched his shoulder, it was Cheale, a solicitor, and
the claims investigator to the Company in which the dead
woman had been insured.


18 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Cheale looked pointedly at the grouse, the wine, and then
at the man opposite him. Wilmot and he laughed.
"Our directors read that article of yours this morning.
They want you to investigate this case for us, if you will.
For, as you say, we have a suicide clause in all our policies.
Of course the Company doesn't want to contest an honest
claim, as you know well. Not that I mean that Tangye would
put forward a dishonest one"
"But you think so!"
"Well—no. I wouldn't go as far as that, either. Other
people too can sit on both sides of the fence. But Tangye
struck me as over-keen this morning in the court-room about
the death being an accident. Ram it down your throat—
dare-you-to-disbelieve-it tone and manner, that I thought a lit-
tle odd. Though he looks a bit of a blusterer. Also the
evidence itself seems to me to point as much to suicide as to
a slip. But I must go over to Dublin at once on a com-
plicated investigation that may need time. Will you take the
case on? Prove for us that Mrs. Tangye's death, was, what
I believe it was, a suicide?"
"How do you prove a suicide?" Wilmot asked captiously.
He was known to his conferes as Wilful Willie. "Isn't it
rather like proving something to be a ghost? I can see how
you prove a murder, but a negative?"
He inhaled the bouquet of the wine. Fragrant. Hinting
at far-off violets.
"Yet, quibbling apart, you think it's one? Come, out with
the truth! You were better than the best detective in the
Brice Revenue Frauds. And in the Tomkins murder, you
were right again as to where the murderer would be found.
I heard that you prophesied before any one else how the
Palking diamond theft would turn out."
"Some song, Caedmon!" Wilmot murmured approvingly,
with closed eyes and a fatuous smile. "Sing on, Minstrel!
Sing on the Works of Wilmot the Wonder. The Wizardry
Winner!"
Cheale took no notice.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 19
"Well then," the Special Correspondent laid aside his chaff.
"To my mind, on the evidence as so far known, I—the verit-
able I—hover between a suicide and an accident. Now in-
clining strongly to the one, now to the other conviction.
When did Mrs. Tangye insure with you?"
"She and her husband both took out policies in favour of
each other, instead of settlements, when they married."
"Big ones?"
"Ten thousand pounds apiece."
Wilmot pursed his lips.
"Who pays the premiums?"
"Tangye pays both according to the agreement."
"Supposed to be fairly well-to-do, isn't he?"
"Used to be. Very much so. But the firm has never re-
covered from that Mesopotamian crash in oils just before he
married. And we happen to have private information, that a
big Irish broker with whom he has large commitments, won't
be able to weather settlement. That's day after to-morrow.
Hit by the fall in the franc. If so, Tangye too, may have to
go under. I shall be able to get more definite information to-
morrow on the spot. Now, what's your answer? Will you
look into the case for us? Sift any claims that Tangye may
make? As I told you, he's already thundering for the in-
surance money."
"The river always gives me rheumatism," objected Wilmot.
The other mentioned what sounded like an excellent plaster
in Bank of England notes, and Wilmot did not consider him-
self a wealthy man.
"You'll take your own line, of course." Cheale lit a cig-
arette. "Had it been any one but you, I intended to suggest
looking up Mrs. Tangye's past as a first step."
"Mrs. Tangye's past! Mr. Tangye's present is very much
more to the point, believe me, if you hope to prove a suicide."
"That's our platform obviously. The idea of domestic
trouble. But you haven't given me an answer yet. Will you
take the case on for us?"
"For the truth—yes," Wilmot corrected him quickly. And


20 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
to do Mr. Cheale and his Company justice, that was what he
wanted. They settled it at that. Cheale went into partic-
ulars.
His lunch over, Wilmot telephoned his new interest in the
'case to the Chiswick Police Superintendent, who was just
finishing a modest midday meal with the Chief Inspector.
Pointer in particular welcomed the news most cordially, for,
as he explained to Wilmot, it would greatly help his own in-
quiries.
"If you'll slip me in under your cloak, and let me ask some
questions ostensibly to help you make up your mind I'll be
greatly obliged. Otherwise, I should be rather put to it to
get the information I need, without arousing suspicion that
suspicion was aroused."
As Wilmot taxied out to the two officers, he ran over in his
mind the questions he wanted to put. He had not troubled
to do so before. Wilmot was not a detective. He had care-
fully abstained from probing the Hinterland of the Tangye's
married life yesterday. All he had sought then was sufficient
material for his dreamy, gloomy sketch of the quicksands un-
der the smiling ripple.
Arrived at the station, he hastily skimmed through Havi-
land's report.
Besides the servants, the household at Riverview only con-
sisted of Mr. and Mrs. Tangye, and Miss Saunders, the
companion. It was Miss Saunders who, after telephoning to
the police, had rung up Mr. Tangye's offices in the city. The
head clerk, who took the message, told her that Mr. Tangye
had already started for home. He had reached Riverview in
a quarter of an hour to be met by the sympathetic Superin-
tendent with the news of the tragedy.
Questioned about the way in which the rest of the day had
been spent by Mrs. Tangye, the maids had had nothing out
of the way to report. Nor did the diary which the police had
reconstructed with great care of the days before yesterday, the
fateful Tuesday, show anything noteworthy.
On Saturday the husband had gone off for a week-end in


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 21
the country. Mrs. Tangye often shared these, but this time
it was a man's shooting party in Norfolk, and she had re-
mained at home. On Sunday morning, however, she had
telephoned to a local garage for a car, and had driven down
to an orchid-show which was being held at Tunbridge Wells.
She had left home in the car about twelve in the morning,
after arranging over the telephone to lunch with a friend in
that town. The telephone messages sounded as though both
ideas had been suddenly taken. Mrs. Tangye had let her
three servants go off duty until six. Returning at that hour,
Florence found her mistress had just got back with a head-
ache, and wished dinner cancelled. Next day, Mrs. Tangye
had seemed quite herself again.
Most of the morning she had spent at the hair-dresser's.
In the early afternoon she had sent Florence, who acted more
or less as her maid, with a note to Jay's. It concerned an
evening frock which they were making for the woman who
was not to live to wear it.
As he read the note aloud which Florence had taken to the
firm in question, the Coroner had agreed with the husband
that it did not sound as though Mrs. Tangye were weary of
life. She had asked for something younger-looking in the
way of trimmings to be sent her for selection.
Florence had got back by five, in time to serve tea as usual.
Mr. Tangye had returned by then from his week-end. He
had only stayed a short time before returning to his office on
some very pressing business, which Mrs. Tangye had told
Florence would detain him in London overnight, and pos-
sibly for a few days.
The husband explained that the business in town which had
taken him away on this last, complete, day of his wife's life,
was only an accumulation of letters. There was nothing
whatever in the nature of business worries to call him from
home.
In the additional notes which the Chief Inspector put at his
command, Wilmot learnt a few other items about the husband.
Pointer was known to keep his papers always up to time, with


22 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
suggested work blocked in, and to lock them daily in bis safe
at Scotland Yard, so that should anything happen to him, the
case would not be hampered.
Wilmot read that the firm of Latimer and Tangye was one
of the most respected on the London Stock Exchange, and
though it had suffered severe losses a couple of years back,
yet, by moving from an expensive house in Chelsea to River-
view, and cutting down their household to its present modest
proportions, the Tangyes seemed to lead a very comfortable,
care-free existence.
Latimer was long dead. Tangye was in sole command.


CHAPTER II
The afternoon was very still with the misty stillness of a day
in late November. To Wilmot, the Thames, running so
softly beside them as they walked up from the police-station,
seemed like the river of life. Enigmatic. Uncertain.
Never the same for more than a minute. Now an unbroken
stretch of shadows leaden and hopeless. Now a fairy stream,
all silver and glitter.
Much hung on their errand. One word from the tall
young man swinging ahead in front, and some life now at
ease would become a hunted thing. Wanted by the police.
The life itself wanted. Forfeit to law. It must be a strange
feeling. He had sometimes thought that criminals enjoyed
their peril with an awful joy. The exultation of wit pitted
against wit. But would that word be spoken here? The
Special Correspondent had found nothing yesterday to justify
it. He was looking forward keenly to seeing the Chief In-
spector at work.
Wilmot had never been accused of a lack of belief in his
own very considerable powers. It was therefore, perhaps,
characteristic that the possibility of a man entering a room
with him, or after him, looking it over, and discovering clues
where he could see absolutely nothing, should seem to, him a
marvellous feat. He remembered Pointer's words about the
dead woman's finger-prints on her revolver. Uncommon in
more ways than one, the Scotland Yard expert called them.
Yet they had looked all right to Haviland. And they had
looked all right to him. They were Mrs. Tangye's without a
doubt. What then was odd about them?
Wilmot had never been of the French school which ranks
reasoning higher than observation. To him, the bushman's
23


24 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
gift of reading a spoor was one of the most entertaining
exercises of intelligence still left to a humdrum world.
Twickenham has some fine old houses. Riverview was
one of these. Wilmot, looking up at it, thought, as he had
thought yesterday when Newnes had taken him to it, that a
less likely setting for a tragedy it were difficult to imagine.
Every brick spoke of security. Of comfort. Of calm. The
garden that surrounded it was an overcrowded, cluttered-up
affair where one acre had been made to carry the trees, and
shrubberies, and herbaceous borders of three.
Florence, the parlourmaid, opened the door. A constable
who had followed took up an unostentatious seat in the hall.
Pointer was never eavesdropped.
"Shall I show you to the room, sir?" Florence evidently
thought that the house held but the one. Haviland still had
the key in his pocket from the inquest. "Miss Saunders is
out for the moment, but she'll be back soon."
The three men stepped into a large room which had a little
windowless extension jutting out towards the river, forming a
snug, draught-proof retreat, where stood a tall lamp, a square
double-tiered tea-table, a couple of comfortable armchairs, and
the high, slender, little, occasional affair on which Mrs.
Tangye had been found seated.
The room itself opened into the garden by a couple of long
windows which fastened with a patent catch impossible to
open from the outside.
Wilmot looked about him with interest. He had not had
time before, or rather, his mind had been too occupied with
other things, to let him sense the atmosphere then. Gazing
around him now, he tried to reconstruct the dead woman's
personality from what he could see, as might a man fresh
come, knowing nothing of the tragedy. He was planning a
little article on "Hidden Forces" for one of his impressionist
sketches.
It was a pleasant room. Dark brown, with covers and
hangings in vivid wall-flower tints ranging from red to clearest
amber. It was a comfortable room. Even the castors were


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 25
well oiled. Symbolic this last, Wilmot thought. Life too,
for Mrs. Tangye had evidently been well oiled. It was not
in the least a subtle room. Yet the dead woman had obviously
cared for music, for, on the two pianos the parts of Stravin-
sky's own reduction of his latest concerto were still open.
Wilmot flicked the pages shut with a contemptuous finger,
murmuring something about "watered Bach." Then he
seated himself on a chair by the wall, and folding his arms,
stared around him inch by inch. He could see nothing,
however small, that looked even odd, let alone suspicious.
Evidently neither could Haviland. Though his eyes flew
along the walls—the ceilings—the windows—with the speed
of a new fighting plane doing stunts at a review. The gaze
of both men came to a standstill on Pointer, who was saunter-
ing around the room with his swift, unhurried, step.
He stopped at the tea-table first. On a used plate the
handles of a little gilt knife and fork detained him. Then
he stooped to the undershelf. Only one cup and plate showed
signs of use.
"You found no finger-prints in the room, except those of
the people in the house?"
"Just so, sir."
"Those on the bolts of the French windows inside the room
were Miss Saunders's?"
Haviland nodded assent.
"Correct, sir. She says she tried them to make sure they
were fast. They were."
"She claims to've been away from the house changing a
book for Mrs. Tangye at the circulating library from four
to nearly six. How about it?"
"I couldn't verify it at the library itself, sir. But she was
seen in some tea-room close by about that time. I confess I
haven't tested her alibi, for her evidence seemed all right—
I mean, the case seemed quite straightforward, in fact. I
mean "Haviland pulled up. What he really meant was
that he thought the case was not one that required investiga-
tions of that kind.


26 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Pointer had passed on to the fireplace, where Haviland had
had the ashes kept. Pointer picked up a newspaper and
gently fanned them.
"Only paper ashes. Mrs. Tangye seems to've burnt her
letters out on the hearth. Piece by piece. No marks of
stirring on the tiles. But what about the fire itself?"
Pointer asked.
"Must have been lit late. Just a couple of smouldering
logs were all I found, sir. I had them taken away, but the
ashes haven't been touched."
"Wasn't the room cold?" was the next question.
"Not to notice. At least ... I had my great coat
on . . .
Haviland flushed. Had he overlooked something? But
Pointer turned away immediately.
"Now, Superintendent, you saw, when you first came in
here yesterday?"
Haviland was secretly impatient.
A lot of work was waiting for him back at his station. He
had been here on the day before, and had gone over the room
very thoroughly. A detective from the Yard had been here.
The Coroner had been here. It seemed hardly likely that any
late comer could find anything worth while, even if that late
comer was the youngest Chief Inspector at the Yard. Mrs.
Tangye's death was either suicide or accident, a quite or-
dinary affair. Merely imperfectly docketed at the inquest.
But he obediently explained to his superior how the room
had looked when he had entered it.
"That clothing over there is what she was wearing
when found, I suppose?" he asked when Haviland had
done.
"Correct, sir. I had them brought in here for the
jury to look at this morning." Top of all was the velvet
frock with the powder blackened breast, and the scorched
hole.
"You can see, pressed into the pile, the very ring the auto-


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 27
tnatic made." Haviland pointed to a little circle. "At least,
a part of it. Along this burnt bit here."
You could see a mark. But was it made by her revolver?
It looked a very thin line to Pointer.
He turned away, and seated himself at Mrs. Tangye's writ-
ing bureau. Haviland watched him with the air of a man
about to be completely and entirely justified. He felt cer-
tain that he would yet leave the room without a stain upon his
official character. He had found nothing amiss because there
was nothing amiss to be found.
"You say in your report, that, not finding her keys, you
opened the desk with a pass-key. How about it?" Pointer
asked on rising.
"They're mislaid somewhere. I only looked through this
one room for them of course."
Pointer made no comment, but asked to see the body.
They found Newnes in the upstairs room, putting the last
touches to a sketch. Pointer signed to him to finish.
"If she did it intentionally, I wonder if she's glad now or
sorry." Newnes hoped to start a little debate which would
enable him to slide into the official circle. No one answered.
"Has she changed her lot for the better?" he mused, with
one eye on Pointer.
"She certainly has for good," Wilmot said dryly, pulling
up the blind to its fullest extent.
Death is not the brother of sleep. Nor does it look it.
Sleep is active. As active as waking. The subconscious is in
full control. The work of repairing, rebuilding, is going on
full speed ahead. But death—for what lies before us, is the
actual end. Nothing now but a return to its component
parts await the wonderful machine which has been definitely
scrapped by its owner. To Wilmot indeed, all that there ever
could be, or ever had been, to Mable Tangye lay before them.
As for the two police officers, the point of greatest interest
for the moment was not why, but how.
Newnes took another reluctant departure. Then only did


28 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Pointer go up to the coffin. He gazed very searchingly at
the face inside.
Suicide demands an unusual temperament. Pointer saw
no signs of it here. To him these were the last features to
associate with the voluntary pushing open of that door which
we call death. Mrs. Tangye looked a handsome, upstanding,
hot-tempered, rather selfish woman of around thirty. One
who would put up a good fight for all her possessions, in-
cluding life. There was pluck in her face, as well as resolu-
tion. He would expect this woman to have found a way to
cut her losses, supposing she had them, not allow them to
swamp her. Yet equally certainly she was a woman who
would not have gone against the accepted order of things.
Respectability was stamped on her. Conventionality en-
graved on every line. Even around the corners of the mouth
where an impulsive temper lurked as well.
Pointer studied her hands carefully.
"Come on anything, sir?" Haviland asked, after a pause.
"They have been washed, of course. But on her left hand
under her two wedding rings are traces, of what will prove
to be butter, I fancy "He pushed a tiny wad of sterilised
cotton beneath them and then put it away in a corked bottle
which he swiftly labelled, "—as you'd expect from the greasi-
ness of her finger-prints on that revolver. That's why I
asked about a cat or a dog. I thought she might have been
feeding one. Yet apparently only a quarter of a crumpet was
eaten, and that with a knife and fork, on whose very smooth
and polished handles she left no finger-prints whatever.
Odd!"
"Shall I tell you what I think is odd?" Wilmot, giving up
all idea of spectacular developments, lit a cigarette, and, as
usual prepared to take the centre of the stage. It was his
favourite stance.
"The oddest thing about this affair that I can see, is the ,
reason that made Miss Saunders have Miss Tangye's body
put in this shabby room at the end of the Corridor. Why
not in her own bedroom?"


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 29
"Because of Mr. Tangye, I suppose," Haviland suggested.
He liked commonplace explanations. He found them gen-
erally the right ones.
"Why not shift him? There's a well-furnished spare-
room nearer the stairs. Why stick her away in this box-
room? It's little more," the newspaper man insisted.
"Well, that's a fact," muttered Haviland, "that's a fact."
Pointer led the way downstairs. In the hall they met
Tangye. When he heard that Wilmot was acting for the In-
surance Company, his jaw tightened. After a second's pause,
he asked all three into his study which was opposite the room
where the tragedy had occurred.
The stockbroker was an unusually handsome man. So
well dressed, that he was only saved from being over-dressed
by a certain ease of carriage. He had rather full, dark eyes.
A pleasant manner when he chose. And a very pleasant
voice at all times.
As he was one of those people who cannot imagine a talk
without a drink, he unlocked a tantalus at once.
Pointer declined a cocktail, and so, after a moment, did
Haviland. He could not see what the Chief Inspector had to
go on, or even whether he were going on, but should this
prove a "case" then Tangye obviously might be in it, and
the rules of the Force forbade a drink with a possible arrest,
unless for the purpose of getting at the truth.
"You sent me a note, I think," Tangye returned to the
Chief Inspector, "asking me some question or other about my
wife's friend, Mrs. Cranbourn. I've just had a cable from
her from Marseilles. Would you care to see it?"
The stockbroker handed him a slip of paper on which
Pointer read: "S.S. Reina Hermosa.
"Read of your dear wife's tragic death in paper. Terribly
grieved. Maid mistaken in my name as visitor. Mable knew
I am away Mediterranean cruise. Started week ago. Could
not possibly have been England yesterday. Only reached
Marseilles this morning. Leaving to-day. Next stop Pi-
raeus. Letter follows."


30 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"Must have been another lady of the same name who was
coming," Tangye explained. "There seems to be some sort
of a muddle. Not that it's of any consequence except in so
far as that the mere fact of a caller coming, renders the idea
of suicide absolutely preposterous. Some imprudent gesture
on my wife's part—she handled that revolver very recklessly
—I don't pretend to explain it. But there was no cause, none
whatever, for her to take her own life. The very supposition
was monstrous." And he glared at the Superintendent.
"Nothing is missing, I understand?" Pointer asked.
"Nothing whatever."
"How about her keys?"
Just for a second Tangye hesitated. Then he said casually,
"I don't call them lost; mislaid, possibly. Nor are they of
any importance."
"Had she no latch-key?"
"I suppose she had. But they're sure to be somewhere in
the house."
"There's a safe in your bedroom, I think?"
"Always open. We never used it. It was in the house
originally. My wife had no valuables. She didn't care for
jewellery."
"Mrs. Tangye had a cousin," Pointer began, after a
leisurely glance around the room, "who was brought up with
her from childhood. About the same age too, I believe."
"Oliver Headly?" Tangye nodded. "Quite so."
"Was she in communication with him at all?"
"Not as far as I know. He's not been heard of for years."
"I suppose he's been notified of her death?"
"No one knows his address."
"He's her only living relative, I understand?"
Tangye nodded once more. "Supposing him to be alive.
He hasn't given a sign of life for ten years or more."
Pointer was looking out of the window.
"There's no way down to the river from the house, is
there?"
"Oh, Lord, no! None needed. River at the bottom of the


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 31
garden, always means garden at the bottom of the river,"
Tangye spoke with feeling.
"But you fish?"
"Dace or roach, which?" scoffed their host.
"Oh, come now, sir," Pointer eyed the expensive double
outfit on a side wall. Split cane, and spliced salmon rods
hung to one side of trout rods, and a couple of serviceable
hickories such as he himself used. Tangye's gaze followed
his.
"Oh, those! I do a bit now and then, when away. But
my wife could land a salmon with the best of them on the
Tay."
Pointer continued to stroll around the room in a negligent
way. Then he glanced at Haviland, who rose thankfully.
"Can we look over your bedroom, sir?"
Tangye said by all means, and chatted on to Wilmot.
Pointer found that, unlike Tangye with the river, Haviland
had not overstated the case in his notes. Mrs. Tangye had
cleared out practically everything in the way of clothes but
those in which she had been found dead.
"She hadn't packed anything for herself," Haviland pointed
out, "didn't even have her dressing-case taken down off the
wardrobe. The fact was, she'd finished with clothes.
That's what I think."
He watched Pointer draw aside a strip of tapestry which
hung between the beds. Behind it was a safe. Haviland
talked on.
"Tangye's a cool chap! His wife's not buried yet, but
here he is chatting away about Mayflies as lightly as though
he were one himself. In fact, to listen to him, you'd think,
now the inquest is over, that he hadn't a care in the world!"
"No." Pointer said reflectively, looking along the door
of the safe. "No. I wouldn't make that mistake. Tangye
has at least one care left. And that is to direct as much as
possible of his conversation to Wilmot, less to you, and as
little as possible to me. But he's not a cold-blooded man. I
take it he's been very highly keyed-up, and the let-down is


32 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
coming along a bit fast for his nerves. Just send a puff of
finger-print powder over this door, will you. You have your
bag with you."
The yellow powder discovered no marks, not even on the
handle-knob. Pointer and Haviland tried the other metal
objects in the room. All showed the usual signs of handling.
"That's funny, for a fact." Haviland peered through a
glass at the immaculate surface of the safe door. Pointer
sniffed at the hinges.
"Been recently cleaned with ether. Unlike the handles of
the little knife and fork in the morning-room, which were
clean, but not cleaned."
Pointer led the way downstairs, and asked for a room in
which the claims investigator could put a few questions to the
household—or have them asked—ostensibly for his benefit.
Regina Saunders, who had just returned, was the first
called. She came in so quietly that Wilmot did not hear
her. He looked at her attentively as she seated herself.
Yesterday he had barely known that she existed.
Walking up to the house just now, he had wondered
whether the explanation of the discrepancies in her state-
ments which had puzzled Pointer was going to turn out one
of those sordid, triangular affairs called usual, because they
are the exception. She did not look like a charmer. But
you never could tell. Never. At a first glance she seemed
to consist chiefly of negatives. She was not old. Neither did
she suggest youth. Without being pretty, she was not bad-
looking. Apparently she had no marked characteristics of
any kind, unless it were those of the perfect background.
She seemed a type of "Ye Discrete Companioun." Silent.
Dark. Attentive.
Gazing at her intently, Wilmot put her age, correctly, as
close on forty. For the first time focussing his mind on her
as she sat composedly facing Haviland,—Pointer was casually
glancing through the morning paper,—noting her down-
dropped lids, her pale, tight lips, Wilmot felt as though he


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 33
were standing in front of a house with drawn blinds and
closed doors, behind which were wild doings.
It was one of his intuitive, telepathic impressions which,
so far, had never let him down.
"I should like to run through the facts of yesterday again,
with you," Haviland explained, "for the benefit of Mr. Wil-
mot who is looking into Mrs. Tangye's death. He has asked
the Chief Inspector and me to put a few more questions."
She said nothing.
"How long have you been with Mrs. Tangye?"
"Three years." The little dark eyes looked up for a
second. Something in the glance told Wilmot that the time
had seemed long to this woman; very long.
"And before that?"
"I was mother's help to a Mrs. Wren. She will be quite
willing to answer any questions. I was with her five years,
and left of my own choice."
"May I ask why Mrs. Tangye wanted a companion origi-
nally?" Pointer asked.
"Chiefly for music. She had a good voice also, she was
extremely fond of duets."
"Were you ever a nurse?" the Chief Inspector continued.
She looked surprised. "Never."
"Was Mrs. Wren's husband a doctor? Was your father
anything connected with medicine?"
She was obviously puzzled. "Mr. Wren was a vicar.
My father was an organist. I've never had anything what-
ever to do with nursing, or medicine, or illness, or anything of
that sort. Why do you ask?"
"Only part of our regular routine," Pointer said reassur-
ingly. He rose and, followed by Haviland, stepped out
through the French windows to look over the garden. They
had agreed that Wilmot should be left alone with her to do
some of the questioning.
"Now, between ourselves, Miss Saunders, what sort of a
woman was Mrs. Tangye?" Wilmot spoke confidentially. It


34 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
was a tone that had helped him more than once. It was
wasted on Miss Saunders.
"Do you think there's much difference in women?" she
asked indifferently. "Much real difference?"
"The Colonel's lady, and Judy O'Grady," he quoted with a
smile.
"Quite so. Though there's no case of Judy here," she
spoke sharply. "Mrs. Tangye is dead, poor soul. Dead."
She repeated the word, lingering on it. To Wilmot's acute
ear there was something approaching unction in her voice.
"I, for one, would rather say nothing against her."
And with that she gave a most illuminating character sketch
of her late employer. Envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharit-
ableness were in every sentence. According to her, Mrs.
Tangye had been a selfish virago.
"Yet you stuck it here for three years," Wilmot said
thoughtfully.
"The pay was good."
Pointer and the Superintendent returned from their inspec-
tion of the garden.
"All seems in order. Now, Miss Saunders, about Mrs.
Tangye's last days"
But when it came to Monday, Regina Saunders was of no
help. Once a month she had that day off in addition to her
free Sundays. As she had explained at the inquest, this last
Monday had been her own, and been spent away from River-
view.
"And when did you decide to leave here?" Pointer asked.
"You could hardly expect me to stop on after Mrs. Tangye's
death," she said coldly.
"It's a censorious world," Pointer agreed, "still—you left
• —when?"
"About seven, I think."
"I see. Now, as we explained to you, this gentleman,"
Pointer turned to Wilmot, "is investigating the death on be-
half of the Insurance Society, and we want to give him all the
aid we can. Would you object to occupying your old room


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 35
again for a few days? It would be a help to be able to turn
"to you at any time."
"I am here all day. I am staying on to superintend the
household for a little while—at Mr. Tangye's request. But
I prefer to go home to my sister's at night."
"But to oblige us? Just for a night or two?" Pointer
wheedled. "Something might turn up after you had left
here?"
Miss Saunders looked impatient.
"I never go back on a decision. Once I have made up my
mind, I stick to it."
"Admirable trait," Wilmot murmured in mock admira-
tion.
"We should, of course, expect the Insurance Society to pay
for the convenience," Pointer went on, "a pound a night is
the usual thing, I believe, in a case of this kind, where it's
done merely to help the investigation, and is only a question
of two, or at most three nights." He turned to Wilmot.
"Quite so; a pound a night," Wilmot agreed.
Miss Saunders pondered the proposal for the first time.
Evidently Pointer's improvised tariff appealed to her. But
after a minute she shook her head. "I prefer to go to my
sister's, as I have arranged."
There was a pause.
"Did any one see you leave the house yesterday when you
went to the circulating library?" Haviland asked.
"I don't know. But at any rate the person who served me
with tea in the Japanese tea-room next door might remember
me. She knows me by sight quite well." Miss Saunders
spoke indifferently.
"Did Mrs. Tangye want any particular book brought back,
or leave it to you?" Pointer asked.
"She left it to me. I found nothing that she would care
for, so I brought home the book she had given me. She had
not quite finished it I knew."
"Did you ask the librarian for any book?"
"No."


36 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"You didn't change any book whatever there?"
"No."
Pointer glanced at Wilmot.
"Now going back to the cause of Mrs. Tangye's death," the
newspaper man began, "which is what I want to establish, you
.feel sure that she didn't shoot herself intentionally?"
"Quite sure. Why should she shoot herself? She had
everything in the world that she wanted, hadn't she?" the
last words came with a rush.
"Do you mean Mr. Tangye?" Wilmot asked so blankly that
Haviland bit his lip.
"I mean everything." But Miss Saunders spoke more
guardedly. "Mrs. Tangye wasn't used to the kind of life he
gave her. A motor, and maids, and that. She told me her-
self once that she had known what it was to be bitterly poor."
The stipend of the Reverend Charles Headly having been
under three hundred a year, out of which he had to pay a
curate, the men thought that that was quite likely.
"Then you think she was happy?" persisted Wilmot.
"As much as her temperament would let her, I do. She
was one of those women who always want what they haven't
got. She was always contrasting Mr. Tangye with Mr.
Branscombe's perfections."
"That doesn't sound to me a happy life," Haviland mur-
mured.
Miss Saunders flashed him an ironic glance.
"You mean in fact that they quarrelled?" he persisted.
"They led the usual married life," she said dryly. Wilmot
laughed, while Haviland, who was a very happy man in his
home, looked at her with marked distaste.
"Mr. Tangye says you were the last person to see Mrs.
Tangye's keys. Could you tell us when that was?" Pointer
asked suddenly.
Her eyes were on his as he spoke. Far back in them a
spark glowed suddenly. The question had obviously come as
a complete surprise. And all three men thought that the
surprise was not the only emotion stirred. There was anger.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 37
And there was something that for a second suggested dismay.
But she looked down her nose immediately, and said with
perfect composure, "I can't think that he would say such a
thing!" This was true enough.
"My mistake doubtless," Pointer said easily, and changed
the subject to the visitor, the supposed Mrs. Cranbourn, Miss
Saunders said that she saw no one as she ran down the
stairs. She thought that the caller must have stepped into the
drawing-room and let herself out later on.
"But the reporter who came back with the maid said that
you remained in the hall till the police came."
"That's quite true." Miss Saunders looked puzzled.
"But perhaps she left after the police arrived. We were all
in the morning-room together for a time then."
"Impossible. I had a man posted at both doors. Front
and back." Haviland was very certain of this.
"I hadn't thought of it before. What did become of her?"
Miss Saunders looked uneasy.
"Leaving her on one side for the moment, how did you first
learn that Mrs. Tangye was dead?"
Miss Saunders repeated what she had told Haviland, and
the Coroner.
"You came immediately Florence screamed?" Pointer's
tone suggested a delay. A suspicious delay.
"Certainly."
"At her first scream?" Pointer persisted. As though he
intended to prove that in some way the companion had been
dilatory.
"I ran down immediately. She only screamed the once.
I glanced in at the open morning-room door, and hurried after
her to try and stop her making a scene in the street." Miss
Saunders spoke contemptuously.
"But Mrs. Tangye was not sitting where you could see
her from the door."
Miss Saunders made a movement with the edge of her
cupped hand, as though brushing off some imaginary crumbs
from the table top beside her.


38 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
The room was very still.
"I may have gone in far enough to see her sitting in her
chair," she said finally.
"And by merely glancing at her from a distance, you—
without any medical knowledge—were able to tell the reporter
who met the maid that no help was wanted? That he need
not go into the room where Mrs. Tangye was?" Pointer
spoke gravely. "You took that formidable responsibility on
yourself after one look?"
"Didn't you try to do something for her?" Wilmot burst
out. Both he and Haviland were watching the woman in-
tently, at whom Pointer seemed barely to glance. She looked
quite unruffled. But again her hand swept the table top,
with a slow, considering movement.
"I suppose I must have run up to her," she said medita-
tively. "As to helping her "there was something re-
pressed in Miss Saunders level tones, "of course, I didn't
want to touch her till the police came."
Haviland nodded official approval of that eminently cor-
rect attitude. But Pointer looked very wooden.
"Why? Did you think a crime had been committed?"
She passed a furtive tongue over her thin lips.
"Such an absurd idea never entered my mind."
"Any more than the equally absurd one of trying to see if
you could do something for the poor lady," Wilmot retorted.
She did not shift her eyes from Pointer, though she an-
swered the comment.
"One does not need to be the king's physician, nor yet a
gifted detective," her gaze was mocking, "to know what a
bullet wound over a heart means, with a dropped revolver on
the floor by the body's side."
"To go back to what happened after Florence screamed,"
Pointer continued; "you still maintain that you were able
to run down the stairs, get across the whole of the morning-
room to the recess, make certain that Mrs. Tangye was dead,
get out of the room again, and be seen standing in the front
door before Florence had more than left the house? The re-


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 39
porter said that as the door opened, and she rushed out, you
stepped into the open doorway behind her."
"It all happened so swiftly," Regina Saunders muttered.
"Still, human beings take some time to move from one spot
to another, you know."
"This cross-examination is ridiculous," she snapped de-
fiantly. "It tells nothing."
"On the contrary! It tells much," Pointer's voice was
very hard. "It tells us that you didn't run into the morning-
room at all when Florence called out. You went straight
down the stairs to the front door, reaching it just as the maid
flung it wide. In other words you knew, without going in,
what was in the morning-room. You knew because you had
already been in there. Don't try to mislead us!"
Pointer turned on the woman with something very for-
bidding in his stern face. He towered over her. He stood
six feet three. She paled. But her eyes remained watchful
and ready. Again she swept the table beside her, her gaze
now following the motion of her hand.
"You're right," she said suddenly, speaking in a pleasant,
conversational voice. "You're quite right. When I got back
from the library, or rather from the tea-room a little before
six, I went in to the morning-room to tell Mrs. Tangye about
not bringing her any book. I found her—dead! Just as
Florence did a little later. I was so horrified. ... It was
such a shock. I managed to get to my rooms. But once
there—I think I fainted. I had just pulled myself together
when I heard Florence scream, and ran down to the front
door. As you guessed. Frankly, I cannot see what is wrong
in my not saying that I saw poor Mrs. Tangye a moment be-
fore the maid did. And lost my nerve in consequence for a
few seconds."
Pointer made no comment on this amended account.
A question put by him as to whether she had ever met Mrs.
Tangye's cousin Oliver was answered in the negative. She
did not even know, she said, that Mrs. Tangye had a relative
alive.


40 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Florence came in next. She was very nervous, but Havi-
land soon put her at her ease.
Pointer, apparently for Wilmot's sake—seemed much in-
terested in Mrs. Tangye's directions about her expected
visitor. Especially in her order that she was definitely, and
distinctly "not at home," to any other caller. No matter
whom.
"She told me that I wasn't to worry if Mrs. Cranbourn was
late. Very late. As the boat train was often hours behind
time."
"Worry?" Pointer echoed, "what did she mean by that?"
"I suppose that I wasn't to worry her," Florence suggested
shrewdly, "the mistress couldn't abide fuss. Never liked me
to go in and out much. Oh, I had to make my head save my
heels with Mrs. Tangye, I assure you, sir. I think she spoke
as she did to stop my bothering her with more hot water, or
freshly-toasted cakes."
"That was quite usual, was it?"
It was. Florence repeated that there had been nothing in
the least unusual, or out of the way, in her mistress's manner
or directions yesterday, and also that nothing however trifling
had happened then, or before, which she had not already
told.
"How was it that the police only found a couple of logs
alight in the morning-room fireplace when they were here
yesterday evening? Was the fire only lit very late?" Pointer
asked casually.
"Oh, that fire!" Florence clasped tragic hands.
She told them that the chimney was always uncertain, but
that yesterday it had distinguished itself. Nothing the maids
could do would make it burn, let alone blaze. From before
breakfast until the hour set for tea it had smoked sullenly.
"I wonder that Mrs. Tangye didn't use another room,"
Pointer mused.
"You'd have wondered more, sir, if you'd seen how thick
it was in there. Fit to kipper a haddock, it was really."
Florence went on to tell how she had urged her mistress to


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 41
let her bring the tea-things into the drawing-room, as on
other occasions when the morning-room chimney had been
tiresome; but Mrs. Tangye would not hear of it.
"The wind changed after four, I noticed when I opened the
door at six that the fire was behaving itself—all things con-
sidered—better than I'd hoped."
The fireplace was in the main part of the room.
"Wasn't the room cold?"
"Not so bad when the windows were shut, for the kitchen
chimney warms it then, but it was bitter when I brought in
the tea-things. Mrs. Tangye had to keep the windows open
because of the smoke. She must have shut them later on
when the fire began to blaze up.
Florence was as certain as she had been at the inquest
that the windows were tightly fastened when she caught sight
of her dead mistress.
"Tell us once more about the visitor, what did she look
like?" Wilmot asked, on Pointer glancing at him.
"Mrs. Cranbourn, sir? Sort of stout and all muffled up in
a fur coat with a large collar up to her eyes. Very wheezy
voice. I couldn't notice much, for she stepped past me at
once, saying, 'I'm most frightfully late, I'm afraid.' She
was talking and moving all in one breath. I opened the
morning-door and went forward saying, 'Mrs. Cranbourn to
see you'm. But when I got to the alcove "The rest
they knew.
She had no idea what had become of the caller. "I sup-
pose she caught sight over my shoulder of Mrs. Tangye. At
any rate I didn't see her no more. But when I think of the
poor mistress sitting there"
"Did the visitor step towards the morning-room as though
she knew the house?" Pointer asked.
"She did. Mrs. Tangye always has tea in there in winter."
"Then the lady must have been to Riverview before?"
"Very likely. But not in my time. I've only been here a
year. Mrs. Cranbourn must have known the house from
before then."


42 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"Are you sure it was Mrs. Cranbourn?" Pointer asked
quietly.
"Why, who else could it be, sir? At that hour, and all
bundled up from a journey?" Florence stared at the Chief
Inspector as though he must be strangely dense not to see this
for himself.
"That's true. She was very agitated, you said, I think?"
"She was in a frightful rush, sir. She almost shoved past
me. But there! We little know! The next moment I must
have pushed past her to get out of the room!"
Florence could not amplify her account of the caller. The
shock of finding Mrs. Tangye dead had wiped away all clear
remembrance of the woman whose arrival had led to the dis-
covery.
Pointer turned the subject.
"Mrs. Tangye's dress looks to me rather handsome. All
that fur and silver embroidery. Isn't it more elaborate than
she usually wore of an afternoon?"
"Oh, yes, sir. Mrs. Tangye dressed very quiet. That
frock was going to be worn at a wedding next week."
"Had she had it on before?"
"Once. This last Monday."
"Ah yes, the day she sent you to Jay's." .
Pointer went over the Monday too, very carefully with
Florence. He learnt nothing fresh.
Coming again to Tuesday, and to the missing keys,
Florence said she was sure that she had seen them lying on
the top of her mistress's writing bureau when she was in the
room at four.
Pointer glanced at Wilmot.
"You look a clever girl," Wilmot said flatteringly, "what's
your opinion of this sad affair? Your honest opinion as be-
tween friends. The inquest is over now."
"Oh, sir, of course it was an accident!- She didn't kill
herself! Not she! Why, there's that evening-dress. She'd
only just ordered it. You don't throw away sixty pounds for
nothing, do you? At least Mrs. Tangye didn't. And those


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 43
shoes that were being made to match. Oh no, sir. It was an
accident. Mrs. Tangye did something careless-like with that
Webley of hers, and that was that!"
"As a matter of fact, have you ever see her handling the
revolver when you were in the room?" Haviland asked.
"I shouldn't have been in the room long, if I had, you bet,"
Florence spoke with a vigour that made the men smile.
"And when did you last see it in its box?" asked Pointer.
"Monday morning it was there all right. I know by the
weight. But it wasn't in it yesterday morning."
The inquest had elicited the fact—from Tangye—that his
wife had spoken of putting it in a drawer in her bureau to
help her to remember about the initials.
"Can you suggest any reason why Mrs. Tangye went
through her papers so thoroughly yesterday morning?"
Pointer was now questioning her. She could not.
"And about Miss Saunders—did she start her packing on
Monday or only yesterday morning?"
"Yesterday morning, sir."
Haviland inwardly opened his eyes.
"Ah yes! After that quarrel she and Mrs Tangye had."
Pointer was bluffing.
"You mean their talk after breakfast, sir? Oh, they
weren't quarrelling. The mistress's voice was quite low and
soft. And she always raised it when she was angry. Al-
ways. It sounded to me more like it was Miss Saunders
who was huffed. I heard her say, 'It's not the money. It's
how it looks. I insist on staying till at least the end of
the week.' That was the first thing after breakfast, that
was."
"Ah yes," mused Pointer again, "the quarrel came after
lunch, I think."
"It couldn't have, sir. The mistress went out directly
lunch was over, and there was no trouble when they were at
table. There hadn't been no quarrel or the mistress would
never have talked to her as she did. Talked quite a lot for
Mrs. Tangye."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 45
she heard a crunch-crunch on the gravel behind the mistress.
But then Olive "she hesitated, "my sister hears things.
She's not normal, the doctor tells us." She announced the
fact with some pride. "She's taken on something cruel at
Mrs. Tangye's death. Says she felt it coming, and ought
to've warned her. But there, Olive is that way! It's not
being normal does it."
"What did she hear out of the pantry window V
"Something like steps coming after the mistress over the
gravel, sir. Very soft-like and cautious. I switched on the
electric to have a look—we was working by the fire—and at
that the steps stopped dead. Not Mrs. Tangye's. The other
ones I mean."
"You heard them, too?"
"Quite clear for just a moment before they stopped."
"Footsteps that stopped when you switched on the light,"
Pointer looked at his boot tips. "I'll look at your pantry in a
minute. Did you or Olive hear the steps again?"
They had not.
"Some butcher's boy coming for orders," Wiknot's tone
was dryly amused.
"At that hour of an afternoon, sir!" It was Florence's turn
to be diverted.
"Oh, well—missed the tradesman's entrance in the dark,
and hoped to be directed to it."
"Then why did the steps stop, sir?"
"Were they peculiar footsteps?"
"In a way. They seemed to have a sort of kink to them
every now and then. Sort of a catch, if you know what I
mean." She tried to illustrate her meaning, and did a High-
land fling which failed to convince.
Olive was next summoned. She was a slender, pale,
young woman with over-large eyes, and a timid smile.
"We're still uncertain about this affair," Wilmot began on
a sign from Pointer, "now what do you think about it? You
ought to have formed your own opinion, living in the same
house. Do you think that Mrs. Tangye meant to shoot her-


46 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
self, or was it a genuine accident? Come now, as between
ourselves."
"Well, sir, I don't know what to think. Florence, she
thinks"
"We know what your sister thinks," Pointer assured her
pleasantly, "but you now?"
"Well, sir, cook thinks"
"We shall learn in good time what Cook thinks, but what
about you? Mr. Wilmot wants to hear your opinion."
Olive grew desperate.
"Well, sir, I can't help thinking the mistress did do it.
But was drove to it like. She was all of a twitter that last
day. Yesterday. I think she did it in a fit of passion, half
wild about something. I felt it coming along, sir. Oh, I felt
it creeping on her."
"Just what do you mean by that?" Wilmot spoke gently,
but with obvious curiosity.
"I feel things beforehand, sir. I knew when father was
going to die weeks and weeks before the crane broke. I felt
the same feeling come on me again a couple of days ago.
Sunday morning it was I got up with it. And it's never left
me since."
"Surely it's left you by now," Haviland suggested in his
hearty, healthy, beefy voice.
"Not to notice, sir." A cryptic reply that made his lips
twitch.
But she, too, had heard no sound yesterday afternoon that
could possibly have been a shot.
"Now, about Mrs. Tangye, did you see her by chance in
the garden before tea?" Pointer asked, as though nothing had
been said on the subject.
"I heard her walking up and down on the path that
runs past the morning-room windows. It's been freshly
gravelled."
"Was Mrs. Tangye alone?"
"I—don't—know." Olive spoke slowly. "I have wonder-
ful hearing, sir. That's what makes it seem so funny I heard


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 47
no shot. No blind man can hear better than me. I heard
footsteps creep up behind the mistress. Getting nearer and
nearer. They weren't more than a yard behind her when
Flo turned up the light, and they stopped. Flo heard them
too, just then."
"But I thought you said you weren't sure if Mrs. Tangye
was alone in the garden." Wilmot spoke in some perplexity.
"But you can hear things sometimes that you couldn't see."
Olive spoke under her breath with a quick dilation of her
pupils. "I know you won't believe me, sir. Flo doesn't in
her heart. She thinks its because of what happened after.
But I knew then those steps meant harm to the mistress."
"Were they peculiar footsteps?" probed Wilmot again.
"Not in the way you mean, sir, though they had a sort of
stumble to them. But I pray God never to hear 'em no more."
Haviland thought the atmosphere was getting a bit tense.
"You spoke of Mrs. Tangye having killed herself," he be-
gan, "why should she do that? Come now, Olive, just you
hold on to facts. Don't think of spooky things any more."
Olive looked rather hesitatingly at the police-officer.
"Well, Mr. Superintendent, now it can't harm nobody, now
that the inquest's over, I don't mind saying that I saw her
myself going through the master's over-coat pockets. This
last Saturday, just before dinner. He had left his top-coat
behind that he usually wears down to his office. And Mrs.
Tangye pulled out a letter and stood reading it. Short note
it was. She folded it up, and stood tapping the floor with her
foot before she put it into her handbag and went on into the
dining-room with a toss of her head that as good as said she
had made up her mind to something "Olive stopped, as
though she had said too much.
No pressing could get her to supply the name of any woman
from whom the letter might have come. Obviously she did
not know it. And to the rest of the questions put her, she
could only bear out what her sister had already told them.
She too had never heard Mrs Tangye refer to any living mem-
ber of her family.


48 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Miss Saunders stepped in to say that the undertakers' men
were coming, and that Mr. Tangye would be obliged if they
need not know that the police were in the house. They would
be some time. Half an hour probably. Pointer turned
ostentatiously to Wilmot.
"Let's go for a stroll," that figure-head suggested. "We
can come back and finish afterwards."


CHAPTER III
The three men walked towards the river in silence for some
minutes. A soft, sibilant murmur came from the water
which had lost its lights now, and lay hidden in mist. It
seemed to Pointer to be chanting "Accident—Suicide—Mur-
der? Accident—Suicide—Murder?" under its breath.
Any of the three might still be the word that would fit
the puzzle which the Chief Inspector intended to solve.
Haviland turned to the newspaper man.
"Well, whether accident or suicide, we hand it over to you
now, Mr. Wilmot. Unless the Chief Inspector thinks other-
wise, of course. I suppose the case is closed, as far as the
police are concerned? Olive seems to've got hold of the right
tip. That letter that she saw Mrs. Tangye reading must have
been the last straw. As a matter of fact, I said we should
find that something of that kind had happened."
Pointer lit his pipe.
"The footsteps that stopped," he spoke the words as though
they pleased his ear. "Sounds like one of your own articles,
Wilmot."
Wilmot turned a meditative eye on the Chief Inspector,
"Nice head-line. But I make a point of never misleading my
public."
This time it was Pointer who looked his question.
"Well, even if they ever existed, which I very much doubt.
Tangye may have run down from town hoping to make his
peace with his wife. Say that there was a row on Monday
which made him skip dinner at home." Both Wilmot's lis-
teners nodded. Each had already said that to himself. "He
may have gone into the garden after her. It would cost me
my reputation to raise hopes of a dramatic development, and
then have it fizzle out into father's list slippers."
49


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 51
of the bridge and staring straight before him with level, quiet
eyes.
Haviland fidgetted with a cigar. "Of course," he said du-
biously, "it's a question of finding out what's essential and
what isn't. . . ."
Wilmot gave a short laugh. "Be able to do that, Haviland,
and you'll be a god, not a policeman."
"Still, as a matter of fact," Haviland went on doggedly,
"that is what has to be done."
"And pray what is the essential fact or facts here?" Wil-
mot asked indulgently.
Pointer answered for the Superintendent, "The most es-
sential thing in. this case is to find out exactly what happened
on Sunday. When the break occurred."
"Break?"
"Between the old Mrs. Tangye and the new Mrs. Tangye.
Between the woman who went on as always, and the woman
who apparently changed her habits so much."
"She seems to've quarrelled with Tangye on Monday as
usual," Wilmot reminded him.
"True," Pointer had to smile at the other's tone. "Yet she
first began then to prepare for her coming departure."
"Safe word that. We can all meet on it," Wilmot mur-
mured approvingly.
"Apparently, only apparently, of course," Pointer went on,
"she seems to've been her usual self till Sunday morning."
"Till that letter she read," Haviland breathed.
"Until she went to Tunbridge Wells at any rate. Possibly
that decision itself marked the beginning of the change. For
when she gets back she goes to bed. She starts next day
weeding out her wardrobe; the day after she tears up her
private papers. It looks to me as if something had happened
down at that flower-show."
"Sunday," Wilmot repeated meditatively. "I don't follow
you there, Pointer. The break, as you call it—the breaking-
point would be nearer the mark, I think—occurred in my
judgment, not between two Mrs. Tangyes, but between her


54 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
den, without having to pass any other window. Now, adding
this interesting detail to the unusual fondness of Mrs. Tangye
for a smoky room yesterday, and you get quite an intriguing
little sum."
"You might, if they belonged together," Wilmot agreed
cautiously, "but if you add the density of the atmosphere to
the distance from the earth to the moon, your result's not
likely to be of much practical use."
"That's what I thought when I learnt from the evidence at
the inquest that Mrs. Tangye had been expecting a visitor.
An expected caller drew a straight line through my sum.
This cable of Mrs. Cranbourn's, however, reverses that. Or
rather, what seems like a stroke through the whole, becomes
one of it's most important items."
"Are we at last to be permitted to glimpse your meaning—
to fathom the mysterious depths with which you credit that
fact?" Wilmot screwed up his eyes. A sign of close atten-
tion.
"Remember the situation of the morning-room. Mrs.
Tangye's sticking to it in spite of discomfort, and add the
new fact that very definite instructions were given by her that
she was not at home yesterday, except to a certain, very care-
fully specified lady, who quite positively couldn't come. I
maintain that my sum total's worth thinking over. Espe-
cially if you add a few other extras floating around."
Wilmot pondered for some minutes.
"You mean?" he repeated cautiously.
"This: Mr. Tangye never gets back on Tuesdays from his
office until half-past six at the earliest. Mrs. Tangye sends
her companion off just before four to change a novel for her
at the circulating library and tells her to have tea out. The
library is about half an hour away. It doesn't close till
seven. Tea at Riverview was ordered at four; one would
have thought that Miss Saunders could have had it before go-
ing for the book. The maid, after bringing in the tea-things,
always leaves her mistress undisturbed until she clears away
at six. That is a rule of the house, we learnt. Now, if in


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 55
addition, Mrs. Tangye tells her that on no account will she be
at home to anybody except to some one who isn't—can't be—
coming, then, in this way she both has an excuse for ordering,
as she does, a very ample tea, and also insures in every possible
.way that she can count on being undisturbed for two hours.
Four to six."
"But the caller of later on? The woman who came and
said she was frightfully overdue," Haviland protested, "aren't
you forgetting her? Her name may have been Cranbourn
too, as Tangye suggested."
"Sort of gratuitous little muddle that's quite to be ex-
pected," Pointer agreed."
"Yes," Wilmot said slowly, thinking over Pointer's words,
"you can't get around the fact that some woman came. And
on an appointment, you know."
"I don't know," Pointer put up his pipe with a sigh, "I
must leave her on one side for the moment. Her coming
doesn't explain anything—nor hang together with anything."
"She made a bee-line for the morning-room," Haviland
pointed out.
"True; but I can't see why Mrs. Tangye should stick to
that particular room in spite of smoke, and bitter cold, for the
sake of some one who could come to the front door, and
therefore could have been shown into any other room. At
least as far as we yet know to the contrary."
"Then for what reason did she stick to it?" Wilmot asked
irritably. He never liked asking for solutions.
"There's just a possibility that Mrs. Tangye gave some
one an appointment in that room. Some one who was not to
come to the front door. It was this bare possibility which
brought me down to Twickenham in the first place. Only
that expected visit—that bluff—about Mrs. Cranbourn—put
my theory all out, for the moment."
"Um-m. Seems to me a very heavy scaffolding to build
around one smoky chimney," Wilmot temporised. Had he
been the one to originate it, he would have hailed it with joy.
"Oh, there are other things. Why did Mrs. Tangye walk


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 57
sex. "But even if you're right about Mrs. Tangye's reason
for speaking as though she expected Mrs. Cranbourn, I hold
that it would only be to gain time for the last, fatal step. That
at least is how I read the story. Sorry. But it seems to me
the only reading—so far. I see no possibility of that bullet
having been fired by any other hand but Mrs. Tangye's.
"I maintain," he said again, after turning Pointer's sug-
gestion carefully over in his mind, "that Mrs. Tangye stuck
to that room because it was, or rather had been, her favourite.
She had spent many happy hours there. The room tells that.
She wanted to say good-bye to life in its friendly atmos-
phere."
"And the order for a larger tea than usual?"
"More bluff. To have the room to herself. Remember
you yourself suggested that reason for the minute directions
about admitting any one but Miss Eden."
Pointer shook his head.
"I can't see that Mrs. Tangye's actions yesterday play any
part in the theory of a suicide. In mine they do. In mine
each is vital. They're unintelligent in any other light. Mrs.
Tangye could have shot herself much better in bed."
"The fact is, that's what's been bothering me," Haviland
broke in, "but I think she may have meant to be found by
Tangye. Or even by her caller."
"Anything's possible." Was all Pointer would allow that
shot, by way of marks. "But so far, no new facts shake my
theory. And when a theory's not shaken by closer inspec-
tion, it's strengthened."
"Nice little pile of chance sweepings is all I can see," Wil-
mot sighed.
"Naturally."
Pointer and Haviland both smiled.
"It's all very well," Wilmot admitted grudgingly, "but your
theory doesn't hold the late caller."
"I don't know yet if it's necessary that it should," Pointer
said equably. "Mrs. Tangye's own actions don't seem to
have included her either. The order to the maid might have


58 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
been to exclude her. Time will show where she belongs.
Outside or inside. But the idea of suicide makes the whole
series of things incomprehensible to me."
"And you think in your theory they become translucent?
Comprehensible? Come, as a favour to me, expound them
in that light."
Wilmot was quite in his element. He always enjoyed a
discussion of theories. He obviously meant what he said
Pointer was never keen on holding forth, but Wilmot pressed
him again.
"I really should like to know how the facts look in this
new light to your Scotland Yard mind. If you'll excuse me
calling it that. I mean it as a compliment. And after your
unkind references to my biased point of view "he laughed
and settled his elbows more comfortably on the coping of the
bridge.
"Well, looking on Mrs. Tangye's death as a crime. Always
bearing in mind that that's only a hypothesis as yet"
"Oh, I do!"
"The first thing that strikes one is the way she was killed.
A bullet rather suggests, other things being equal, that the
murderer was not a member of her household. Poison is
their usual weapon, in a premeditated crime. Next—there's
been no effort to mislead the police, or delay the finding out of
the dead woman's identity."
"Granted," Wilmot said at once; "identity evidently plays
no part in this sinister affair."
"It may play a part just the same," Pointer demurred. "Its
part may be that the sooner it's known that she's dead, the
better."
"You mean the Insurance claim Tangye sent in by the
eight o'clock evening post yesterday?" Wilmot raised an eye-
brow reflectively. "Ton my word, Pointer, almost thou
persuadest me. . . ."
"The visitor was apparently not one of whom Mrs. Tangye
was frightened. She sends Miss Saunders out on Tuesday.
She had sent Florence out on Monday, the day when, I think,


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 59
the caller came the first time. The crime, if I'm Tight, and
there was one, was too well executed for it to have been
planned without a very careful inspection of the premises.
But to continue with Tuesday, the husband is away from
home. Judging by the preparations, the secret caller is some
one Mrs. Tangye is prepared to welcome. The ample tea and
so on. Of course they may merely represent so many at-
tempts at propitiation. But Mrs. Tangye doesn't look to me
like a woman who would bend easily under pressure."
"It all sounds to me like her cousin," Haviland mused
again.
"But her smart frock?" the Chief Inspector queried, "her
dressed hair? But whether Cousin Oliver or some one else,
obviously the relationship, or tie, between them is not one
that Mrs. Tangye cares to acknowledge. The visitor is to
come and go unseen."
"Supposing—just for the moment—that such a being ex-
ists, wouldn't any murderer have taken care to trump up some
specious need for secrecy?" Wilmot pointed out.
"Possibly. But unless the need were real, and affected
both, I should have expected, since she was perfectly mistress
of her own time—that she would have arranged to meet
him elsewhere. But obviously that might not suit the mur-
derer. One place would be very unlike another place to
him.
"Then the secrecy was more important to her than to him,
in your fascinating, but to me, quite impossible melodrama?"
Pointer thought not.
."As a rule, when it's only to one person's interest that so
much trouble be taken, the other person, the one not so vitally
concerned, makes some slip, that gives the whole show away.
None has been made here. On either side. Mrs. Tangye
seems to've taken as much care beforehand that nothing
should be known about a caller coming in by the garden, as he
takes afterwards to be sure that he's left no trace."
"There wasn't a mark of finger-print in that room that
didn't belong there," Haviland said earnestly.


60 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Pointer felt sure of this.
"The visitor whom I'm imagining," Pointer went on, "came
in the day-time. On a Tuesday. Though in winter Mrs.
Tangye's generally alone over the week-ends. Choosing the
day-time looks to me as though he were either married, or
lived in chambers, or at an hotel, or some place where his com-
ings and goings at night might be noticed. As to the day of
the week, that looks as if time pressed, and he couldn't wait
till the next week-end."
"What about the past week-end?" Wilmot asked, "and
even if it were any one in the house—mind, I don't believe
for a moment in your theory—they might well be too shrewd
to choose the night. Rather a home-made look about a job
done then."
Wilmot had a wide experience of murder cases. Wider
even than Pointer's. For Wilmot was only called in to take
or make—causes cclebres.
"They could have faked a burglary," Haviland suggested.
"Good faking is an art not acquired in one night," Wilmot
pointed out.
"Suppose we say that hole is halved," Pointer suggested.
"But was it Mrs. Tangye, or this mysterious visitor of hers
that made her leave nothing among her papers bearing on her
own affairs? Or is their absence unconnected with her
death?" He was asking himself the question. "At any
rate her visitor belongs, or came into her life, before she went
to France. Before she corrected herself of being left-handed.
Apparently he has not seen her in the meantime, since she's
trained herself out of it. Offhand one would say some old
lover cropped up. . . . And that, I think, is as far as mere
deduction takes us."
"It could scarcely carry you much further unless you as-
sisted it with a crystal ball, and a Ouija board," Wilmot mur-
mured.
"Except," Pointer was impervious to sarcasm when he
chose, "that no sounds whatever were heard from the
morning-room. Which looks as though there had been no


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 61
unexpected entrance of still another person, a third party,
.who was not in the secret."
"Of course, Tangye being out, Miss Saunders out, and the
servants having their own tea shut away in their quarters, that
doesn't mean much in fact," Haviland murmured. "But the
room, and Mrs. Tangye herself—no, sir! There was no sign
of any sort of trouble to be seen."
"Just so. We may take it that there was only one visitor.
Some one whom she thought a friend. But who was not.
Some one who profited by her death. For it was a deliberate
crime—if a crime."
"You should write novels," Wilmot scoffed.
"Ah, I said this was only theory—speculation. Like some
of your articles."
"Quite so. But I live by my fancies, whereas I thought
you at the Yard depended on footing the solid earth for your
daily bread. And once again, what about the woman who
came at six, and said she was frightfully late? It looks as
though in your solution of the problem A and B would have
to meet 'Which is absurd.' According to your own premises,
I maintain that there was only one caller at Riverview yester-
day. The woman whom Florence showed in. Or do you
suggest that Mrs. Tangye was playing the part of Providence
to a young couple? And the gentleman arriving first, shoots
her as a lesson not to meddle?"
"I don't think Mrs. Tangye would have put herself out to
such an extent for any mere friend. For anything but sheer
necessity."
"Then your theory exonerates Tangye—I mean, if it's a
fact that there's a criminal here?" Haviland asked. "Though,
as a matter of fact, there can't be, sir! You must excuse me,
but I can't see it your way."
"So much the better! If I'm right you'll come round,
both of you. If I'm wrong, there's only one misled. As to
Tangye—it could have been an accomplice of his. Though I
see no reason for that thought, and many objections. Still,
it could have been."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 63
said again, "is she shielding some one? If the latter, what is
the motive? Love?"
"Of lying," Wilmot finished cynically.
Pointer laughed, but refused to believe that here they had
an example of art for art's sake.
"I had thought when I read about that visitor in the reports
on the inquest that Miss Saunders might be shielding her, but
assuming her ignorance about the lady's departure to be hon-
est, and I do, it looks as though she might be shielding
Tangye. And that fits in with another impression left by
her evidence. An impression as though she had been more
guarded when Haviland first tackled her yesterday than she
was this morning, or at the inquest."
"And that's a fact," Haviland agreed, "though it's gener-
ally the other way around. People generally come out in
black and white first of all, and then begin to tone 'em down,
and mix one in with the other, as they think things over and
get qualms. But not Miss Saunders. It was yesterday she
was careful. Didn't want to come down hard on any state-
ment as it were. But this morning everything was sharp and
clear. No more 'I thinks' nor 'to the best of my beliefs,'
about her to-day. And I wonder why she won't stop at
Riverview at night. . . ."
"Fear," Pointer said briefly. "She's afraid. She wanted
to accept that preposterous offer I made on your behalf, but
wouldn't."
"You think she's afraid of Tangye?" Wilmot asked.
"Queer!"
"Her being afraid of Tangye," Pointer went on thought-
fully, shows that he either is, or she thinks he is, at least con-
nected with his wife's death."
"As a matter of fact," Haviland said slowly, "that's what
I thought as I watched her. That she was afraid, I mean.
And I should think that's another essential in the case?"
Haviland eyed Pointer.
"Not if she's wrong. And she may be. Only time—and
Tangye—will show. As Miss Saunders' evidence is so


64 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
strongly on his side, it looks as though they might have made
a bargain with each other. If so, in some way, the lost key;
are mixed up in it. He and she both jib at those keys.
Neither has made any* effort to have them found. The
maids were unaware of their loss."
"They both claim the keys are unimportant," Haviland re-
minded him.
"They do. And they both look uneasy when they're men-
tioned. At least Tangye does, always. And Miss Saunders
was more than uneasy that time when I made her think
Tangye had connected her with their loss."
"Well! Well! Well!" murmured Wilmot with gusto.
"I still don't see any sign of a crime materialising, but you
do give a glimpse into a very intriguing little family circle.
But speaking about that visitor, how did she get out? That
still remains as great a puzzle as ever."
Haviland promptly solved it for him.
"There's a cupboard in Mr. Tangye's room where overcoats
and golf-clubs and such things hang. The back of it is really
a door we found just now, leading out by the tradesman's
gate. I didn't notice it yesterday, for I didn't search the
house. I'm afraid I took her leaving a bit for granted in
fact."
"You think she got out that way?" Wilmot asked. "If so,
that would show?"
Pointer answered for Haviland, who was not quite certain
what it ought to reveal by Scotland Yard standards of divina-
tion.
"For one thing that the caller who was mistaken for Mrs.
Cranbourn, knew the house."
"Whew-w-w!" whistled Wilmot, "bloweth the wind that
way?"
"Which way, Mr. Wilmot?" Haviland asked with a fur-
rowed brow.
"Secret passages—vanishing ladies—gent's smoke-room—
Sultan's favourite—that way. The way of the film vamp.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 65
Are you going in for the mysteries of Udolpho, Pointer?
If so, I get off here and now. Architectural details always
bore me to tears. There's no scope for the brain in that sort
of thing."
"There's plenty of scope for any brains in this," Pointer
reassured him. "For all of ours. Even for yours, Wilmot."
But the newspaper man shook his head.
"I ought to've refused the job. It's quite out of my line.
This hunting for clues. . . . The Insurance Company ought
to've sent down a retriever dog, not me!"
Pointer burst out laughing, so did Haviland, and so, after
a moment's gloom, did Wilmot himself.
"Think so? Could Fido tell me why Miss Saunders gave
no thought as to how that visitor got out? I think her be-
wilderment was genuine. What has been occupying her
mind so intently that there was neither time nor room in it
to spare? What's she been so busy over? I really think
that's more in your line than Fido's, Wilmot. So, don't let
them exchange you for him yet awhile."
"But I'm no good at this game," Wilmot protested. "You,
as becomes a C.I.D. man, can't be happy without a crime to
unearth. While I, for the life of me, am unable to even see
the possibility of one here." He, too, spoke very seriously
now. Seriously and thoughtfully. "I see odd trifles such as
must generally accompany accidents or sudden deaths one
would imagine. When the roof's torn off a man's house.
But no more. For one thing, to me that revolver having
been fired by Mrs. Tangye's left hand seems conclusive."
"It's the Insurance Company's best trump, I agree," Pointer
said handsomely. "Yes, it's odd. Very."
"I don't call it odd. I call it an impossibility unless her
death was either self-inflicted or due to an accident. For it
clearly marks emotion. And as such is of great weight in
proving a suicide, and not out of place in asserting an accident.
But it couldn't exist—couldn't—in a murder. For I should
like to remind you, Pointer, that there are such things as
.


66 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
genuine suicides, and genuine accidents. Though they don a
seem to've come your way. That Charteris tangle coming ooi
top of the Fames Erskine Case has put your eye out."
"Very possibly. But your clever criminal always stages the I
effect of either accident or suicide. Preferably the former.I
Don't forget that either. You know as well as we do that!
not every case is docketed at the Yard under the label which]
the coroner's verdict hangs on it.**
Wilmot did know.
"And that's a fact," murmured Haviland fervently.
"Speaking of doors, Mr. Wilmot, that door found leading
out of Tangye's smoking-room. . . . Well, what leads out
of a thing, leads into it too!"
"And that's a fact," Wilmot quoted gravely.
"Of course it may mean nothing. In fact, I still don't see
how there's a crime here, for Mrs. Tangye would have rung
that bell quick as light if any unauthorised person had come
into the morning-room."
Wilmot sighed.
"Entrances—exits—butter on fingers—Fido's job!" he
murmured disconsolately. "But supposing this were a crime
—which I'm perfectly satisfied it's not—on the evidence so
far, that is to say——"
"Perfectly satisfied? Is that the Insurance Company
speaking?" Pointer imitated a telephone call.
Wilmot grinned.
"Fairly satisfied then. A nice look-out for us it would be!
Not the ghost of a hope of catching the criminal."
"I wouldn't bank on that," Pointer said tranquilly.
"Do you really mean that you believe we could catch a
criminal with nothing more to start on than the little we've got
hold of so far?" Wilmot's tone showed his incredulity. Yet
he was a firm believer in New Scotland Yard. In the will
to win of the quiet men trained there. And among these men
Pointer had risen high and swiftly. Wilmot wondered if
more had reached the ears of the C.I.D. than of the police.
"Routine does a lot," Pointer murmured placidly.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 67
Wilmot laughed outright.
"I feel like Watson's youngest bady in the arms of the
mighty Sherlock. Do you mean to tell me, seriously, that
without the person who killed Mrs. Tangye—you quite under-
stand that my acceptance of his, or her, existence is purely
academic, and solely for the purposes of discussion—with-
out his making one false step, you could hope to bring home
this crime? I'd be willing to bet a thousand pounds it
couldn't be done."
"You'd lose, Mr. Wilmot," Haviland said loyally. But he,
too, had his doubts. He knew Pointer's record. But every
man makes mistakes sometimes. The Chief Inspector was
a favourite with those who worked under him. He was
probity itself, unassuming, open-minded, quick, accurate, and
absolutely untirable once he had set out on a trail. But he
was no wizard. Haviland wondered uneasily if this case
might not be going to be one of the Yard's few blunders.
Somehow, Haviland could not say how, he felt that Wilmot
might have less science, less determination, but more luck.
It was not the way by which Wilmot considered that his past
triumphs had been won. But allowance must be made for
esprit de corps.
"If I'm right, then it's the one •false step he's already taken
which ought to do the trick," Pointer said grimly. "He's
killed. And unless it's an entirely motiveless crime, a homi-
cidal impulse—killed for a reason. In the case of a lunatic,
I grant you, the best detective outside of a book, might not
be able to do his duty. But if a motive once existed, it can
be found again. It exists as much as a lump of concrete
exists. It's better evidence. For it's indestructible.
"Of course," Wilmot mused. "I agree that once a man
commits a crime, he sets machinery in motion which he can't
stop without showing himself in the effort. For he's part of
it. But what if he's too clever to make any move?"
He shook his head at the prospect of the law in such a case.
So did Haviland.
Pointer's face hardened. "Murderers always think that if


68 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
they can plan their crimes cleverly enough, they can get away
with it. My whole life is based on the conviction that you |
can't have a premeditated crime with a motive so clever that
it can't be found out, and traced home. Unless there's a'
slip in the handling of the investigations. The murderer
gambles on that slip, that's all."
"I wonder!" Wilmot weighed the thought in his mental
balance, then shook his head.
"Speaking of facts," Haviland suggested, "if we could find
a few more. That cleaned-off safe door was odd. That
smoking-room exit very handy. Still, they don't prove any-
thing. Mr. Tangye's alibi seems very sound."
Pointer shook out the dottle from his pipe.
"Time's up. We had better return to the house. After
that, I, or rather you, Wilmot, have an appointment with
Stewart, he's the Tangyes' family solicitor as well as the
Coroner, you know. And then you got Miss Eden to give you
an appointment over the telephone for later in the afternoon."
"Miss Eden?"
"The friend with whom Mrs. Tangye spent the greater
part of Sunday at Tunbridge Wells. She's up for the in-
quest and the funeral. I doubt though, if it will be easy to
learn anything fresh from her—judging by her deposition."
"Sorry," Wilmot said apologetically, "but you'll have to
deputise for me. I seem to've made double engagements for
this afternoon. So, unless you would like to write my next
article, and send in half a colmun of your opinion on the
new Opera"
Pointer declined with a laugh.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 71
Tangye mumbled what was meant for an apology.
"I don't see how you can be sure that Mrs. Tangye might
not have gambled in another name," the Scotland Yard of-
ficial went on.
"No point in that. She was absolutely her own mistress."
"The exact halving of the money looks as though she had
some definite purpose in view," Pointer went on unruffled.
"And how do you know that none was spent yesterday, sir?
A lady can get rid of a lot of coin in a couple of hours, for a
fact," Haviland said with the gloom of a husband and father,
as he went off to the library to telephone the numbers of the
missing banknotes to his inspector at the police station, with
instructions as to where to try to-night.
"Fifteen hundred pounds!" Tangye repeated the sum un-
der his breath as though the figures loomed large to him.
"It's not the money in itself. But I don't like to be done.
No man does. I won't be done!"
"It seems quite simple to me," Pointer said mendaciously.
"Those lost keys and the lost money will be found to belong
together. Find who has taken the one, and you'll find who
has taken the other."
He was watching Tangye in the mirrc", as he seemed en-
grossed in getting his pipe to draw better.
Tangye stiffened in his chair.
"Damned nonsense. You must excuse me, Chief Inspec-
tor. But that cock won't fight. Can't. I know those keys
are somewhere in the house, as I told you. On thinking it
over, I remember now quite clearly seeing them myself lying
about the place after the police left. I can't recollect where—
but I know I saw them."
Pointer dropped the subject of the keys.
"Mr. Tangye," he said instead in a low voice. "You know
more than you're telling us. About this missing money. Or,
at least, you suspect more. You have some reason for feel-
ing so certain it was stolen."
Tangye's face paled a little. He detached a cigar-band
with extreme care, and laid it on the exact centre of a log, as


72 . THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
though it were a votive offering, and as such had to be pre-
sented with strict conformity to rule.
"Not at all. But my knowledge of my wife's habits makes
me feel sure that Mrs. Tangye had done none of the things
with the money you suggest. I believe it was in the house
when she had that fatal accident. I believe that some one,
knowing it was there, stole it."
Pointer bent forward.
"Whom do you suspect?"
Tangye. got up and walked to the window. Drew up the
blind with a snap, and let it down again with a crash. That
done, he helped himself to a stiff drink. Then only did he
reply.
"No one. That's what I want you to find out. You're so
extraordinarily interested in Mrs. Tangye's death, which is no
mystery, and perfectly simple—though God knows it's ter-
rible enough—yet, when I hand over to you a genuine in-
quiry, you seem to want me to do the work, the investiga-
tion."
Tangye's nerves were evidently strained.
"It's the idea of being done, I can't stand," he said himself,
as though in excuse.
They sat in silence for a few minutes.
"By the way, while the Superintendent is putting one of his
men on to trying the railway stations and other open-all-night
places, I'd like another word with you about Mrs. Tangye's
cousin. We want to be sure he wasn't in touch with her
just before her death."
"You can be sure. They were on anything but a friendly
footing. Naturally. Oliver is a thoroughgoing blackguard.
My wife usually refused to even speak of him. He would
hardly venture to write to her"
"But he might have come."
"Here? To Riverview? I should like to see him dare to
show his face here. I should have had him kicked out inside
of ten seconds, and as for Mrs. Tangye !I suppose you
know something of his record?"


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 73
Pointer only confessed to an extreme interest to learn it.
"He was sent down from Oxford. Cheating at cards.
He's been auctioneer's clerk, sailor, orchid-hunter, and rum-
runner since then."
"You feel quite certain that he had not written to Mrs.
Tangye in all these years? She was his only relative."
Tangye sat, apparently thinking back.
"'Pon my word! I wonder if he could have had the col-
lossal nerve! She used to say that he could blarney a can-
nibal. You know that he once got Branscombe to give him
some money for a fresh start? Oliver started all right—
drug-smuggling to the Bantus. Mrs. Tangye stopped the
supplies as soon as she learnt of it."
"Was there anything odd about his appearance? I mean
anything that would attract attention? Stick in the memory?
Been easily recognised again?"
"Yes to all the list. Unforgettable sort of face. Bird of
prey, yet clever! Then he was immensely tall and thin."
"Had he a limp?"
"He hadn't when I saw him, but if the rumour's true I
heard some years back that he was gun-running for the
Riffs, I should think it probable that he has one by now."
Pointer got as detailed an account of the missing man as
Tangye's remembrance could supply. He asked if Miss
Saunders might join them for a moment.
She came in with her quick, silent step, which yet conveyed
no suggestion of lightness.
Pointer watched her in the mirror, his back to the door,
as she entered. She flashed a swift glance first at him and
then at Tangye. That glance was unmistakable to the eyes
on her. It was a confederate's glance.
"Anything wrong?" was telegraphed as clearly as though
ticked out in Morse. So these two were partners, at least
for the time being. At any rate in something. Tangye's
eyes avoided hers.
Turning, Pointer explained the circumstances of the miss-
ing money to her. He noticed that Tangye waited for him to


74 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
do this. She looked startled and uneasy, and something else
that even Pointer could not decipher, it was so quickly re-
pressed. Pointer thought that she seemed inclined to doubt
the whole story until she heard of the solicitor from whose
offices Mrs. Tangye had taken the money only yesterday.
She then said that Mrs. Tangye must have banked it, or used
it in some way. Tangye retorted that that was what they
all thought. He looked at the woman with a lowering
stare.
"Do you want us to list the money under 'missing or stolen,'
or only under 'solen'?" Haviland asked returning to the
room.
Tangye started a little.
"Under 'missing or stolen,'" he said after moment's
thought. It was the most natural form where a doubt ex-
isted. But it was also the only form which would let Tangye
stop the inquiries should he later find, or pretend to find the
money. Once entered as Stolen, only an order from the
Home Office could check the search being carried through to
the bitter end.
Did Tangye know this?
Pointer let Haviland do the talking, while he sat appar-
ently listening. In reality observing. He noticed again how
little the stockbroker turned to him. He made Tangye un-
easy in some way. What way? And he made him more
uneasy now that he was talking of the missing money. Why?
And again why did Tangye try so hard to pull himself to-
gether during this talk. Each time that he was on the point
of being natural, would come some evident effort.
Evident to Pointer's observant eyes, that he was anxious
to make no slip. What sort of a slip? But he seemed gen-
uinely eager that the money should be traced. Eager, and
yet cautious. Who was he shielding or prepared to shield?
The Chief Inspector speculated on the new turn the case had
taken. Was it an honest turn? Fifteen hundred pounds in
the house Tuesday afternoon. Was that connected with the
death of Mrs. Tangye or was it but a coincidence? Cer-


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 75
tainly his idea of a crime was not weakened by this new
piece of intelligence. There came another thought. This
lost money fitted in so well with his theory of an outsider,
.was it possible that that was Tangye's aim? What if he too
knew of the unknown's existence, was in league with him,
feared lest the police had learnt of his visit, and with the
guilty man's haste to cover even non-existent tracks—had in-
vented the lost money as a pretext for the stranger's visit?
But the longer Pointer studied the man talking to the keenly
interested Haviland, the more he decided that Tangye's emo-
tion about the loss was genuine. That Tangye was trying
to repress, not to force, the note on this point. He acted to
the very keen, trained eye of the detective officer like a man
much more concerned in the matter than he cared to show.
On this came the reflection that possibly Tangye had wanted
the whole £3,000 so badly that he had had a hand in his wife's
death. A hand so carefully concealed that now, little by
little, he could venture to direct the search towards it. Was
it a case of a criminal having been "done" by his accomplice,
and trying to get that accomplice caught? Tangye's fre-
quent use of the word suggested this. So did his manner.
By what he did not say, as much as by what he did. Pointer
believed that for some reason he dared not be more explicit.
Yet Tangye was emphatically not a man to be frightened of
shadows. A stockbroker must have good nerves.
Rising, Pointer asked Miss Saunders to come into the
drawing-room. He closed the door with ostentatious care.
It gave a confidential suggestion.
"Miss Saunders," Pointer spoke very low, "there seems to
me, quite frankly to be something rather—well—odd, about
this claim of Mr. Tangye to that fifteen hundred pounds.
What do you think yourself?"
"Of course it isn't lost," she spoke shortly, and with a
note of anger in her thin voice. "Mrs. Tangye's invested it
somewhere that they haven't found yet. That's all."
"It's very perplexing," he said a little dismally, "very per-
plexing, indeed. Did you make any arrangements on Mon-


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 77
"But who would steal bank-notes?" Miss Saunders asked
pertinently.
"When did you last see Mrs. Tangye at her safe?"
"Many months ago I saw her lay some books in it. She
used it as a sort of cupboard at times. It was always un-
locked."
"Could it be locked?"
"I don't know." She turned to Tangye, whose jaw shot
forward.
"Of course it could be," the master of the house said
briefly.
"And the key was on her key-ring, I suppose?" Pointer,
continued.
"Possibly."
"Then the missing keys might be important, after all."
Tangye said nothing. Miss Saunders brushed the top of
the marble mantelpiece with her hand. She, too, said noth-
ing.
"Florence saw them at four on her mistress's desk," Pointer
went on.
"So she says." Miss Saunders' tone was contemptuous.
"You seem to attach great weight to a maid-servant's word—
almost as great as to a reporter's!"
"As a rule, neither have anything to gain by mis-statements
in a case of this kind," he said blandly. "You didn't hap-
pen to notice them in the room on your return from the
library? I mean, before Florence came in?"
Tangye started. He cast a quick, furtive, look at Pointer
and then at the woman.
"No," Miss Saunders said very composedly. "I do not
think they were there then."
Pointer was apparently bending over a table near him, but
he saw the hard, suspicious stare that Tangye gave the
speaker. She returned it with something of defiance. There
/was a silence which the detective officer did not break. Here
was no love affair, he thought. Whatever had been in the


78 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
past, these two did not like, did not trust, each other now.
He wondered why Tangye seemed so unwilling to link the
lost keys with the lost money. The stockbroker did not
strike him as a clever man outside of his own walk of life.
If there. Though Pointer had a feeling, had had it from the
first, that Tangye's path was beset—at least to the man's own
thinking—with pitfalls. That he was afraid of saying one
unweighed word, one hasty conclusion.
"She invested it, you may be sure," Regina Saunders said,
turning towards the door, "but it's most distressing for every
one until it's found. Olive's already given notice. Florence
wants to leave when she does. Cook's looking out for a new
post. I'm afraid, Mr. Tangye, that you won't be able to
keep the house running many more days." She left them
at that, with a cool nod apiece. Tangye looked after her
without saying anything. There was a set to his full mouth
which was not easy to read.
"I should like to see the maids, please—alone."
Olive came in first. She had told Pointer already that she
had not seen the keys since just before lunch yesterday, and
then in Mrs. Tangye's hands. Mrs. Tangye was in her bed-
room at the time talking to Miss Saunders.
He had not asked for further details then. Now, he did.
Olive was quite sure that she had heard the door of the safe
shut and locked as she went on down the stairs, dusting the
banisters. No other lock in the house sounded like a safe
lock, she maintained, and Pointer privately agreed with her.
Miss Saunders and Mrs. Tangye had passed her a moment
later, going in to their lunch.
"Had they been quarrelling, do you think?"
"Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Tangye was looking quite calm. She
was saying something like T can't help that, Miss Saunders.
By this evening, if you please.'"
"And Miss Saunders?"
"Oh, she said nothing, sir. But she gave her a look as
she stepped behind her for to pass. It was a look that said
'Just you wait; my lady!' if ever one did."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 79
"Mustn't make too much out of a glance, Olive," Pointer
said lightly.
"But you see, sir, Miss Saunders—she has a way of getting
even with you. You can't tell yourself how she does it. If
the mistress had lived—but there!" Olive stopped herself or
tried to, then she burst out, "If Mrs. Tangye had lived, Miss
Saunders wouldn't be acting as if she was mistress here.
But there!" Again she pulled herself up. "We're leaving.
It won't matter to Flo and me."
"Why are you leaving?"
Her voice faltered.
"I can't stand it, sir. I'm not so sure as I was that it was
an accident. The more I thinks it over the more I feel as
though there was something—something—not quite right
about the mistress's end, sir. It's thinking about those foot-
steps does it."
"You've no other reason for leaving?"
"I've nothing to complain of, sir. But how can I stay on
in a house where there's a room I can't abear to enter, and a
garden I can't pass through without it gives me a turn."
"The garden too?"
"Oh yes, sir! I never go through it without hearing those
footsteps coming up behind me same as they come up behind
the poor mistress. Seems as though they was after me too."
Looking at her pale face, Pointer thought it high time that
she left.
"Have you any place in your mind?"
"Well, sir, Florence thinks1"
Pointer laughed.
"I'm quite sure she does. And so does Cook. But I want
to know what you are going to do."
"I'm to go to Lady Ash, sir, and Flo is to come too, later
on. It was Miss Barbara as settled it. I'm glad to be going
there. There won't be nothing to be frightened of in a house
where Miss Barbara is."
"Ash? Wasn't that the name of the partner of Mr. Brans-
combe, Mrs. Tangye's first husband?"


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 81
"We know she wasn't very fond of her husband," Pointer
spoke as though half sorry for what he had said.
"Then you know more'n me, begging your pardon. Any-
way, that's no reason for thinking that of her. She wasn't
that sort. Not at all!"
"Yet there was a quarrel," Pointer spoke as though he
knew what he was only guessing. "Was it connected with
Miss Saunders, do you think? We've been told that Mrs.
Tangye was sometimes a little jealous of her."
"My goodness! Whatever for?" Florence opened
amazed eyes. "Why, Mrs. Tangye was twenty times hand-
somer! And whatever her faults, the mistress had a heart.
Miss Saunders hasn't any heart. Cruel unkind she can be,
if she thinks she dare."
"Oh, we were told that Mr. Tangye"
"Don't you believe all you're told, sir," she said earnestly.
Pointer kept his grave face. "There was nothing of that
kind. At least I think so. I mean, I think not." Florence's
tone showed that the idea was new to her.
"Then what did Mr. and Mrs. Tangye quarrel about on
Monday afternoon? It was a very violent one. He struck
her—i—" Pointer went on in a low voice. Florence jumped.
"Oh, no, sir! Never! The master wouldn't do such a thing.
Besides, it was she who was so angry. He kept trying to
pacify her." Florence put her hand to her mouth. Too late.
Then she began to cry.
"Oh, I wouldn't do anything to make things worse for
any one," she sobbed. "And it hadn't anything to do with
her accident the next day, nor to do with this missing money,
sir. It hadn't really!"
"Well, of course, if we knew that for certain "Pointer
said in an undecided tone, "of course if we could be sure it
had nothing to do with the case why, that might be different.
But you're certain it wasn't he who was in a rage?"
"Oh no, sir. That he wasn't! He never is!"
"But you told me that there was no quarrel at all between
them? How can I believe you now?"


82 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Pointer did not speak angrily. Florence was a gentle soul.
She choked.
"I didn't want to make bad trouble worse, sir. But the
mistress did go for the poor master last Monday. She seemed
quite beside herself. Yet just before she spoke to me very
quiet, as she'd been all day long."
Pointer still looked undecided.
"Well, of course, if we knew for certain what the quarrel
was about, and it might not have to be entered at all," he re-
peated vaguely, "what exactly did Mrs. Tangye say? But
be very careful, Florence, to only tell what you really heard.
Not what you thought was said."
"I didn't hear anything worth repeating sir. Just half bits
and ends. I wasn't listening, only putting something right on
the tea-tray that had toppled over. I had to wait a moment
before I could come in. The mistress—it's dreadful to say
of her now she can't ever speak again—but she was raging
wild. 'The house is mine and I insist on your leaving it,'
was the only sentence I heard. Complete that is. But she
never meant it. Fond of the master she was, and he of her
too, in his own way. But she kept on that he was to leave
the house. A thing I shouldn't have thought she'd have said.
He said he was going all right. But he stayed on for tea
after all. So they must have made it up."
"But Mrs. Tangye must have said more than one sentence."
"Lots more, sir, but I couldn't give you her exact words.
She said she had come to the limit. That she wasn't going
to put up with things any more. That sort of talk, sir. Not
meaning half, nor a quarter, of what she said."
"And he?"
"He kept his temper wonderful, sir. Kept hushing her.
I heard him say once that she was making mountains out of
molehills."
"Didn't he say anything more? I can't believe that there
was no reference to money?"
"I didn't hear none, sir. Nothing but his trying to quiet
her."


84 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"That's no way to treat a corpse, is it, sir? Disgraceful,
, I call it. Cook and Olive and me, we've put all the greenery
around we can, but it's not a room fit for a corpse, is it, sir?"
Pointer thanked Florence and pausing for a second outside
the den to hear the two voices within, slipped upstairs into
Tangye's dressing-room. He gave it a quick, but sufficiently
thorough search. In the clothes-basket he found a crumpled
silk handkerchief, which still smelt of ether, and showed
marks of dust. It was Tangye's own handkerchief. It had
been used to wipe the safe. But was it he who had used it?
Like everything else, it was inconclusive.
Pointer slipped downstairs once more, and let himself into
the morning-room. He had "forgotten" to return the key.
He put all thought of the missing notes entirely on one
side for the moment. The death was a fact. They were but
a tale told him, and a tale with many perplexing features.
Even granted moreover, that all was exactly as Tangye said,
and even supposing them to be connected with Mrs. Tangye's
death, they did not help to solve the immediate problem
of how the woman had been killed, supposing the Chief In-
spector to be right, and that she had been killed.
It certainly was going to be a stiff proposition to prove a
crime there; let alone solve it. Hitherto, even when they
had first led the search astray, there had always been some
clue, a match, a print of hand or foot, withered leaves, a
smear of paint, to serve as a kick-off. To start the ball
rolling. But if, as he believed, a murder had been committed
here at Riverview, the criminal had done his work very
neatly. No tags had been left lying about.
In an obvious murder a detective gets a certain amount of
help from the general rule that an inmate of the house
stages, or tries to stage, the effect of an outsider, an outsider
that of a member of the household.
Clues in such cases read in the reverse direction as it were.
But outsider and insider meet and merge in a well-set suicide
scene.
The windows had been found latched by the Superintend-


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 85
ent. That suggested some one in the house. Pointer and
he had questioned Miss Saunders as well as Florence very
closely, and both had no reason to think that the companion
was holding anything back when she said that she had found
them closed. If Pointer put a question mark beside her
statement, it was merely because the woman had been in the
room before the alarm was given. Was she an accomplice?
The suicide effect made that doubtful. This was not a death
by force, but by cunning. Mrs. Tangye had not been over-
powered. That was certain. But out-witted in some way.
So Pointer believed. Nor did the manner of death chosen
suggest an accomplice.
Supposing she had1 been killed. How could it have been
done? Swiftly he went over the room piece by piece. Still
he found nothing suspicious. Finally he took out a couple
of photographs which Rogers, the constable, had handed him
at the police station. They were the enlargements of the
marks on the revolver, and of Mrs. Tangye's finger-prints.
He studied the latter first of all. They were certainly won-
derfully clear. They had been made by Mrs. Tangye's left
hand. There was no doubt of that. Her hand had been so
greasy that it had left a perfect impression even of the palm.
Yet there was a fitted basin with hot and cold water beside
the morning-room. Was it likely that a woman—a lady—
would sit still with fingers as buttery as a new cat's paws,
and not wash them? Wilmot's suggestion of a slip and a
hasty grab, did not explain this—supposing she intended to
live. Of course if Wilmot and Haviland were right, Mrs.
Tangye might have been so lost in brooding thoughts as to
be inaccessible to material things. But the plate on the tea-
table with its neat little lake of congealed butter did not bear
out the'idea of an accident.
The enlargements showed that his keen eyes had been right.
The grip was a most singular one. The tips had clutched
the revolver no harder than the palm of the hand. If as
hard. But Pointer could not believe that such a shock as a
bullet through the heart sends to every atom of the body,


86 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
would not have contracted the hand sharply. Here, all had
been even—flaccid. The only really strong pressure shown
had been made by the palm and the bases of the fingers.
Pointer could think of but one explanation to that. An
explanation so terrible that he must make sure that it really
was the only one. Or at least, as sure as possible.
He looked long at his boot-tips. Then he studied the pho-
tographs again. But this time of the scratches on the revol-
ver. They looked freshly made. Though in a weapon kept
in a closed box that might not mean much. Apparently
at some time or other the weapon had been bounced up and
down among a lot of metal oddments. But that is not usually
a Webley's fate, even unloaded. Nor did they look erratic
enough for that. The enlargements showed him that two
small marks were exactly duplicated on both sides. And the
trigger had a central rake which did not extend to the bev-
elled edge. But for the finger-prints, it looked as though
the trigger had been fired by some mechanical means. He
thought of the missing key-ring. The mark on the trigger
could well have been made by a ring snapped back.
But apart from probability, was there even the possibility
of such a plan as that would mean, having been carried out
here? The marks on the Webley puzzled Pointer, but not
so much as the fact that it had been fired actually touching
the woman's dress, pressed against her breast. This was
the real kernel of the problem. How could a revolver have
been got as near as that by any hand but her own, without
alarming Mrs. Tangye? flaviland and Wilmot were one in
saying that here lay the proof of accident, or suicide. And to
crown all, as Haviland pointed out, the Webley must have
been held very level. No hasty swing, or chance pointing of
a weapon, this, if it were a crime. Full front, level with
her heart, touching her dress.
And the bell beneath her nimble fingers had not even rung!
It was a riddle. Granted that the firer was an intimate
friend, companion, husband even, how could they have got
that weapon so close against her? There had been no strug-


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 87
gle. Pointer agreed with the upholders of the suicide, or
accident theories on that.
He slipped out across the hall and stood a moment by the
smoking-room door. Haviland had interpreted his glance
correctly and was leading Tangye on to discuss past and
present men to whom he had given odd jobs about the house
and who might therefore, be labelled possible suspects.
Pointer heard the gush of the soda water, and Haviland's
"I don't mind if I do, sir," and returned to his own problem.
He locked the door behind him and took% turn up and down
the room. He felt as though he were faced by a stone wall,
on the other side of which lay his goal. Somehow, or other
he would get over or break through.
The fine poise of his head, the set of his jaw became more
pronounced. Danger signals both with him.
It was the photograph of the dead woman herself, which
he stood in front of him this time. Square and at her ease
she sat in her light chair, feet together, one hand, fingers
up, on her knee, the other extended limply down with the re-
volver on the floor below it. Why did she sit beside, not
turned towards her tea-table?
Pointer did not believe that she had been moved after
death. Yet there was something artificial about her pose
which had struck him from the first. Something arranged.
, . . Something set. . . . Set!
Pointer had an idea. She looked as though posed for her
portrait. Suppose she had been!
Suppose the revolver had been hidden in a box-camera,
and that Mrs. Tangye had been asked to sit for her picture.
That would explain her position. Straight on her chair,
facing into the room where the murderer would be pretending
to focus her. The composed and yet stiff attitude of her
body, especially of her feet. It would also explain the
scratches on the revolver.
Pointer imagined an emptied box-camera, fitted with a few
wires to hold the revolver. Its muzzle pressed against the
hole in front where the lens would have been taken away.


88 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
The click of the shutter at the side could be made to pull
the trigger by the simplest of mechanical arrangements, such
as a ring passed through a stout elastic band.
Pointer imagined the murderer asking for a portrait of the
seated womn. Coming close and apparently focussing her in
the "finder." Then suddenly advancing the box with a rush,
and sending the bullet straight through her heart, almost
noiselessly.
As he saw it, the murderer at once picked up Mrs. Tangye's
left hand, rubbed itdightly with butter from the muffin dish,
he had used his handkerchief probably, and then, pressed it
around the weapon as much as possible as a living woman
would have done, had she fired it. Then he had dropped the
hand. It was a most artistic performance, but, as almost
inevitable, just a shade over-acted. He had been a little too
prodigal with the butter. He had pressed the palm a little
too closely on the revolver.
Those footsteps in the garden, the "footsteps that stopped"
. . . Pointer did not think the murderer would be late for
his appointment. Rather the other way. Suppose he had
been waiting in the garden till the exact time set. When
Mrs. Tangye walked out into the darkness he might well have
thought that a still better variant of the original idea was
possible. The camera packed probably with asbestos shav-
ings, would deaden the sound of any bullet—even if fired
when all was still. There is always a certain risk in an in-
doors murder that some one may enter, and the crime be
prevented, or suspicions aroused, or the murderer be caught
red-handed. Pointer thought that those steps outside on the
gravel path which the maids had heard coming closer, closer
yet to Mrs. Tangye, might well have belonged to the mur-
derer stalking his prey, until Florence's unexpected turning
on of the light had stopped him, and told him that, after all,
it would be best to proceed according to plan.
But whose steps were they? Whose? Man's or woman's?
It was a devilishly ingenious idea. Who had thought it out,
and carried it out? It could be any one, provided he, or she,


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 89
had some excuse for taking Mrs. Tangye's photograph.
There was Oliver Headly? He fitted many of the spaces
very well indeed. Was he back in England? He had been
an orchid-hunter at one time. It was to an orchid show that
Mrs. Tangye had gone on Sunday. Had the cousins met at
Tunbridge Wells? Had a reconciliation of sorts taken place?
There was Miss Saunders. . . . There was Tangye—
Pointer thought of the glance which they had exchanged
just now. Some understanding was between them. Her
belief that Tangye had something to do ^ith his wife's death
must rest on some foundation, or Tangye would not be so
reluctant to take a high hand about the money which he
claimed was missing. For that Tangye suspected the woman
of having stolen the money, Pointer was certain. His alibi
was not what Pointer considered a good one. Like a mid-
dling hand at Bridge, it was neither bad enough to pass, nor
good enough to bid on. All depended on what other cards
might fit in with it.
And that quarrel with his wife. Her ordering of him out
of the house which legally was hers. Tangye's face showed
a temper that could, if let loose, be violent enough. He had
used a Webley in the war. He reaped an immediate he-
ward in the cessation of the double premiums, in the payment
of the Insurance money, as well as in the control of his
wife's invested funds.
Yes, Tangye stood to gain tremendously by his wife's
death. In more ways than one, if gossip were true. One
thing was certain. Whoever had killed Mrs. Tangye knew
that the heralded visit of Mrs. Cranbourn was a bluff. The
Chief Inspector did not believe that they would have chanced
it otherwise.
Pointer heard the two men in the den go upstairs, Tangye
saying something about showing Haviland a loose shutter.
Pointer stepped into Florence's pantry.
"Look here, I want to take a good photograph of the
morning-room by flash-light. Just as part of the usual rou-
tine. Is there a camera in the house that I can borrow?"


go THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"The master has one. He was talking of taking Mrs.
Tangye's portrait only a few days ago."
"Mr. Tangye's just gone out, I think. But, anyway, his
would hardly be large enough for a picture such as I want.
I suppose it's one of the usual fold-up kodaks? Goes into a
flat case like this?" He motioned a size.
He learnt that Tangye had just bought a new one, a large
one, the kind of one that the Chief Inspector wanted, Florence
thought.
"He took it down into the country on Saturday. I don't
know if he brought it back or not."
Florence opened a press in the smoke-room. It was not
there. Did any one else at Riverview photograph?
Miss Saunders did. The master had shown her how to use
a camera that had been given her. It might do. It, too,
was a box, though Florence thought not so large as Pointer
wanted.
Perhaps there was an old one of Mrs. Tangye's that he
could have for the time being?
But Mrs. Tangye only had a very small vest pocket kodak.
At that, to Pointer's apparent surprise, Tangye was heard
descending the stairs. Thanking the maid, Pointer said he
would be able to ask him about it, after all. But he took very
good care to do no such thing, as leaving Haviland to follow,
he walked on to the police station alone.
So Tangye photographed. Tangye had bought a new, large
camera about a fortnight ago. Tangye had spoken of taking
his wife's portrait. Humph. . . . And Miss Saunders pho-
tographed too. . . .
The lapping of the river no longer sounded to him like a
whispered, threefold question. Rather it was like slipping
footsteps with a catch in them. Slithering footsteps with a
kink. They softly kept pace beside him till he reached the
station, as if some Unseen were close at hand.
Here, as he had taken the longer way round, he found
Haviland and Wilmot, who had cut his engagements and
come down in a hurry.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 91
"Of course, this is just some chance, some coincidence that
has happened at the same time as Mrs. Tangye's death," Wil-
mot began at once. Wilmot's determination to be biased
amused Pointer.
"Tangye may be quite right in saying that the loss of the
money is unconnected with her death," Pointer reminded him,
"I think there was a murder. He says there was a theft. If
that's true, it's quite possible that we have two distinct crimes
here, with two distinct criminals, or sets of criminals."
"Kind Heaven above, bring me safe to shore!" prayed
Wilmot. "Fortunately, I have suicide to cling to or I should
be drowned. Still, it's all vastly interesting. All this seeing
an investigation in the raw, as it were. I confess I never
realised how difficult it is to strike the right trail. How easy
to get lost along the wrong one."
"There's one thing fairly certain," Pointer spoke with de-
cision. "// the man who planned and carried out the murder
also took the notes, then he will either have some paper ex-
onerating him, purporting to be written by Mrs. Tangye, or
really written by her, or it is Tangye himself. Tangye or
a tool of Tangye's. He alone could have disposed of the
notes without any questions being asked; without the numbers
being traced. They are his property on the death of his wife.
He may possibly have expected the whole sum to have been
in the house. Certainly he had been let down over them in
some job or deal. Nothing else explains his temper at their
loss."
"Luckily, I'm not asked to do more than investigate any
claim Tangye may make in proper form by a fortnight from
yesterday. It's a fascinating cross-word puzzle. Though,
mind you, suicide's the right word, and all these others are
only duds that Dame Fortune insists on slipping into the
spaces." The newspaper man spoke, as usual, with certainty.
"It's a funny show for a fact." Haviland's voice marked
but little enthusiasm for the humour of it, but a great deal
of determination to find the right word. "I thought at first
that this money alters the whole case. So it would, in fact,


92 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
but for the way she died." Haviland ran over the whole ar-
ray of beloved facts.
Pointer unfolded his idea of a portrait—of a camera.
Haviland gasped. Wilmot actually let his eye-glass drop
from a distended eye. He stared at Pointer with something
like awe.
"By Jove! You really . . .? By Jove! I wonder!
But, of course, it was suicide. Yet If by some mir-
acle it weren't!" He paused for a moment. "That criminal
you're supposing has brains, Pointer!"
"So have we!" Pointer retorted briskly. "Better brains.
Just because we're not criminals. They may commit clever
crimes, but those gentry are never really clever, or they
wouldn't commit them at all."
"That's not been my experience," Wilmot said sadly. "No.
On the whole I'm afraid I think a criminal brain can be a
very clever one. Too clever to be caught sometimes."
"You can't compare a crooked thing with a straight thing.
Their minds must be warped." Pointer, apart from being one
of the heads of the finest detective force in the world, was
by nature of that "deep goodness given to men of real in-
telligence." He would never permit a crime to be invested
with any aureole of genius, if he could help it. Wilmot
shook his head, after another long "think."
"And how far does this new idea waft you? Mind, I
don't for a moment think you're right, Pointer. But I
like to have the novel read to me chapter by chapter."
Pointer clasped his hands behind his head, and looked up
at the ceiling, his pipe between his teeth.
"Keeping my belief in a secret visitor—whether cousin or
not—out of it, for safer reasoning, speaking offhand, going
merely by the camera, not trying to fit it in with any other
idea, I should say that it looks as if the murderer, if a man,
was not a big man. Not a crack shot. Or hadn't good sight.
He's very careful not to be able to miss. He's quick and
deft with his hands. Those scratches on the revolver aren't


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED f 93
fumbling ones. I should say his little machinery worked
well. Quick and deft with his brains too, I should say. Neat
and careful in all his ways. He makes no real blunder.
Not one. I think, to be fair, we can't count the trifling over-
doing of the butter a fault. Except for the machinery part,
the whole has an almost feminine touch."
"I'm bound to say you're half persuading me there's some-
thing in your theory," Wilmot spoke grudgingly. "But no,
no! That's the primrose path of fancy. I stick to the hum-
drum,—the proven. The more I think it over, the more I
doubt that camera idea of yours. It's too brilliant. It does
too much credit to your imagination. Yet it's most alluring!
Of course there is that cousin—but no! no!" He seemed to
pull himself up on the brink of a swerve.
"Then you think her finger-prints were made for her?
That she was dead at the time?" Haviland could add two
and two together as quickly as any man, provided they dealt
with facts.
Pointer nodded.
"Haviland, farewell!" Wilmot declaimed dramatically.
"I see that thou art lost to me. From now on, T am even as
it were the sparrow that sitteth alone upon the house-tops.'
I grant that it's a seductive theory "Wilmot looked as
though greatly tempted to come over to the official camp
too, "but there's too much of a revelation from Sinai about
it for me. I'm a slow-going chap. I plod. I stumble. I
grope."
Pointer and Haviland burst out laughing. For Wilmot's
lightning deductions were famous. Though, as he truly said,
they had hitherto always been made after the facts had been
clarified and sifted, and the possibly relevant set aside from
the provenly irrelevant.
"The strange thing is that use of the left hand," Pointer
ruminated. "For—unless a blunder, of course—it dates
the murderer. And as, so far, we've found no other blun-
der, it's possible that it was unavoidable. That he didn't—


94 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
couldn't—know that she had educated herself out of it. That
would mean that he belongs to an early part of her life.
Before she went to France. Before her first marriage."'
"In fact, it looks as if that left hand pointed directly to her
cousin; first met again after long years, on Sunday," Havi-
land suggested. "Do you think he took Mrs. Tangye's keys
off with him?"
"Possibly."
"If so, then it looks as though Mrs. Tangye had some-
thing he wanted to get hold of. Something more than the
money, supposing he took that. I've tried banks and safe
deposit vaults, and so on. I can't think of any other lockable
place. . . ." Haviland sat turning over in his mind possible
misses.
"You know," Wilmot thoughtfully swung his glass of
light beer to and fro, "if I thought this a crime. If I were
you in fact, Pointer, or you either now, Haviland, I should
remember that it's quite possible that neither the cousin nor
Miss Saunders, are connected with the murder, and yet that
Tangye is. He seems to've been hard up for ready cash on
Tuesday. Cheale's going to wire me in code if he learns
of anything definite over in Dublin about that Irish failure
that's expected to be announced next Saturday." And on
that the party broke up.


f CHAPTER V
The first name on the list which Pointer had drawn up be-
fore coming down to Twickenham was that of Mr. Stewart,
the solicitor to the Tangyes, and also the Twickenham
Coroner.
The Chief Inspector was shown in without any delay on
sending in his card, and at once explained that he was acting
for Wilmot, who was unavoidably prevented from coming.
Stewart put the tips of his thin white hands together and
waited. He was a very punctilious, elderly man, who did
not look over pleased at Wilmot's substitute.
"Did Mrs. Tangye withdraw her will even temporarily
from your keeping?" Pointer asked.
"She did not, Chief Inspector."
"Then I take it that she wrote to your firm suggesting
altering her will, or at least asking for it back."
"And why do you 'take it' that way?" Stewart asked
bleakly.
"Because of the character of the very searching questions
you put at the inquest."
Stewart was drumming on the table before him.
"The point—about her having possibly asked for her will
back—will have to be cleared up," Pointer spoke as though
regretting the necessity. "Since Wilmot inclines to the be-
lief that Mrs. Tangye's death was suicide. And you know
his standing. The Company has given him carte blanche.
He did think of applying formally for the handing over of
any papers, or letters, in your possession, but I think we can
arrange it between ourselves. After all, it's only just a
matter of routine. She did write you on the point. We
feel sure of that."
95


96 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Stewart pressed a bell, and a moment later handed Pointer
a docketed letter.
It was from Mrs. Tangye, and was dated the night before
she died.
"Dear Mr. Stewart,—Please send me my will at your
earliest convenience for some alterations I wish to make. And
please treat this request as strictly confidential.
"Sincerely yours,
"Mable Tangye."
"Did you send her the will?"
"It would have been posted to her Tuesday night, but for
hearing of the terrible accident," Stewart stressed the word,
"that happened to her."
"I think Mr. Wilmot would like to keep this. I'll give
you the usual receipt." Pointer folded the letter away in his
pocket book. Stewart said nothing.
"Had she ever asked for her will back before?"
"Never."
"Have you any idea as to the nature of the change she
wished to make?"
"None whatever. I doubt if she would have made any—
perhaps a small bequest to Miss Saunders. A very faith-
ful, conscientious woman that. Otherwise I feel sure that
the principal beneficiary would have remained Mr. Tangye."
"Yet you didn't mention the letter at the inquest."
"Mentioning it, which means producing it, would have
served no useful purpose except to arouse painful and most
unfounded gossip. And would have been contrary to her
own written request." Stewart looked sharply at the man in
front of him. "I, too, take it that you are not satisfied with
the finding of this morning?"
Had Stewart asked before that verdict was given he would
have had a full reply, but now he was a dethroned monarch.
Pointer said briefly:
"I am helping the Insurance Company, or rather Mr. Wil-
mot, to get a few facts together for his final judgment, and


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 97
unfortunately I was not at the inquest myself. I've only
read the reports."
"To some purpose," Stewart said acidly.
"You knew the dead woman for many years?" Pointer
asked.
"I drew up her first marriage settlement. Or rather
Branscombe's. She had nothing to settle. Her father had
a small annuity. Her mother left nothing."
"What about her cousin Oliver?"
Stewart looked an inquiry.
"I understand that he is her only relative."
Stewart smiled faintly.
"I've had the pleasure of being on a case with you before,
Mr. Chief Inspector. You understand a good deal more
than that about Oliver Headly, I'll go bail. I shouldn't be
surprised if you know where that unmitigated scallywag is
at the present moment."
Pointer assured him that as yet he only knew of his ex-
istence, and the most outstanding features of his murky
career.
Stewart added a few more. Among them that as he was
a penniless orphan, his uncle, the Hampshire rector, had prac-
tically adopted him, had lavished a small income and a great
love on the lad, and had died after a very painful interview
with his bank manager. The parson, white and haggard, had
told the only big lie of his life. He accepted as his a sig-
nature on a cheque which the cashier had refused to pay
out to the nephew. The old man had collapsed before he
reached his home. Dying from a literally broken heart.
Greatly to the relief of all who knew Oliver, that young
man had left England about twelve years ago, and since then,
as far as Stewart knew, had not been heard of.
Pointer asked if there had been anything of a love affair
between the cousins.
Stewart did not know. But in the early days the rector
had hoped they would marry. Stewart went on to say that
he doubted if the wish would have come to anything, even


98 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
without Oliver's putting himself outside the pale, for he
understood that Mrs. Tangye had always disliked her cousin
intensely.
Stewart was a man of scrupulous honesty. He would hold
back what facts he could which would tell against his client,
but nothing, not the wealth of Golconda, would have made
him deviate from the truth. He now leant forward and
tapped Pointer's knee with his glasses.
"There never was a more respectable, creditable past than
Mrs. Tangye's, I should say."
He ran over the points of her uneventful life again, and
of her first husband's settlements.
"You never came upon any trace of any one who might
have a claim on her? Who might bear a grudge against
her?"
Stewart made a gesture of definite negation.
Pointer looked at his boot-tips.
"She didn't also write about withdrawing her money from
her husband's firm? She is bound to give him six months
notice of any such action."
Stewart looked at the clock.
"Sorry to cut you short, Chief Inspector, but I have a client
waiting."
"I should like that letter too, please," Pointer said placidly.
Stewart smiled.
"There is none such in existence."
Pointer felt fairly certain that in that case, it was Tangye
who had destroyed it. Your family solicitor never destroys
a paper, which may yet be wanted.
"Would you be prepared to swear that it had never reached
you?"
"My time is up, Chief Inspector," Stewart said firmly,
rising, and opening the door politely.
Pointer drove on to see Miss Eden, the next name on his
mental list, with plenty to occupy his mind.
So Mrs. Tangye had asked for her will back. After that
—presumed—quarrel on Monday afternoon. If it had taken


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 99
place at all, it must have been a serious one. And she had
apparently either given notice, or been about to give notice
of withdrawing her money, ten thousand, from Tangye's
firm.
Mrs. Tangye seemed to have done some quick work on her
return from Tunbridge Wells. Monday must have been a
full day. Items:
Trunk packed, and sent off.
Husband quarrelled with, and apparently sent off too.
Temporarily at least.
Will sent for.
There was a precipitancy, an urgency, about her actions
which had struck him from the first.
He found Mary Eden, the friend with whom Mrs. Tangye'
seemed to have spent this last Sunday afternoon which the
Chief Inspector thought so important, to be a quiet young
woman of around thirty. She looked very self-possessed.
He also thought that she looked as though she were steeling
herself for an ordeal, as she turned towards him when he
was shown into the drawing-room of her flat.
As for Miss Eden, the Chief Inspector was a surprise to
her. In his quiet manner. In the kind of good looks which
nature had given him. He did not resemble in the least the
Scotland Yard detectives of fiction, she thought. He re-
minded her a little of her brother, the finest amateur crick-
eter in England. Such splendid physical fitness generally
meant a brain to match in her opinion, and always meant
tireless energy.
Something in her glance made Pointer think—and rightly
•—that she regretted having given him the interview at all.
"I hope you won't think me troublesome when I ask—
in Mr. Wilmot's stead—to see the letter that Mrs. Tangye
wrote you after her return from Tunbridge," was Point-
er's opening.
The hazel eyes fixed on his did not waver. Rather they
steadied. .
"Letter?" Pointer had an impression that Miss Eden


1oo THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
would have liked to tell a lie, but either dared not, or would
not.
"Just so. We know she sent you one," bluffed Pointer.
There was a pause. Miss Eden turned her face still more
away from him.
"I'm afraid I didn't keep it. But I'll look for it after-
wards, if you like, and send it on to Mr. Wilmot. I see his
address is here"
Pointer had used Wilmot's card with a pencilled line in-
troducing himself only by name.
"Why does he wish to see it?"
"I believe the Insurance Company want to be sure of the
hour when it was posted." He explained vaguely. "When
did you receive it?"
"By the first post Monday morning," she said, after a slight
pause.
That was what Pointer would have expected had any such
shock taken place at Tunbridge as would adequately explain
Mrs. Tangye's action of Monday and Tuesday. Judging by
her appearance, she was not a woman to take counsel about
her actions, he thought. He would expect her to make up
her mind as to what she would do on the way back from
Kent, write about it to her friend—for Miss Eden was a very
close friend, all the reports showed—and then act on her
own initiative.
He looked at Miss Eden with that quiet, pleasant glance
of his that seemed to see so little, and saw so much.
She was on the alert now for question's about that letter.
He knew as well as though he could read her mind that every
defence was up, plenty of rounds ready, and no possibility
of getting past her unnoticed. She had been taken by sur-
prise when he had opened with the letter. But she was ready
now. So that, throughout the rest of the interview he learnt
nothing but the barest of facts. That Mrs. Tangye had ar-
rived for lunch. That the two had gone to the orchid-show
about three and left at five.
"Did you meet any one you knew down there?"


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 101
"Mrs. Tangye has no friends down there, and I know very
few people in Tunbridge," was the evasive reply.
"But Mrs. Tangye was seen with "Pointer spoke hes-
itatingly. "Perhaps she wasn't with you all the time," he
added as a bright afterthought.
"All the time," Miss Eden said in a low voice. She was
an exceedingly poor liar.
There was a short silence.
"Did she enjoy the show?"
"Not very much," Miss Eden spoke slowly, "it gave her
a headache. Glasshouses are stuffy things at best, aren't
they? Perhaps she got overtired." Her lip quivered as
she finished.
"Oh? Wilmot thought you walked to the station after-
wards?"
Again there came a little pause, then, "Mrs. Tangye fancied
the air would do her headache good. So I told the car to
go on to the station and wait for me there."
"Enclosed car?"
Miss Eden nodded.
"Partition between the driver and the other seats?"
Miss Eden's eyes darkened. After a second she said
briefly, "No. But really these questions seem to me rather
wide of the mark. . . ."
"Just part of the regular routine. Mr. Wilmot wants me
to cover as large an amount of obvious ground as possible,"
Pointer reassured her. Asked about Oliver Headly, she re-
laxed for the first time. She grew natural. She had never
liked Oliver, she said at once. His was one of those rare
natures which, even when quite young, showed no trace of
softness, of any thing but self-seeking.
She thought that his cousin had not heard from him since
he left England years ago. She agreed, however, that, in
spite of everything, a certain amount of family feeling for
her only relative might have remained in Mrs. Tangye's
heart.
Pointer seemed very interested in getting a description


102 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
of Oliver. He listened closely though apparently casually.
"Striking appearance? Easy to recognise again if one
met him suddenly?"
"Oh, unmistakable. But we think he must have died
abroad—after all these years without a sign of life."
Miss Eden looked at the clock.
"What would you say was the most outstanding char-
acteristic of Mrs. Tangye? Of her attitude to life I mean?"
Pointer asked thoughtfully.
Miss Eden pondered.
"She had so many all about equal qualities," she murmured.
"There was pride—the right kind of pride which one might
call self-respect. And there was directness—she was a very
direct woman. There was a way she had of dwelling on
the past. . . . Once she had lost a thing, she valued it higher
than anything she owned; but, otherwise her's was a strong
character."
And on that the interview ended.
Pointer had a most useful, though bulky, stud on one of
the gloves which he never wore. Properly handled, it
yielded a roll of tiny films the size of a pea, which could be
enlarged into very useful portraits. Armed with these
one of his detective-inspectors would be able to comb the
show early to-morrow, and also the town. On Tuesday af-
ternoon Mrs. Bligh was supposed to have been at her club.
A woman detective was sent to try that out, by means of
a bribe, and a substituted waitress.
Pointer drove off, feeling that to-morrow should bring
some useful facts to light. But facts alone never solved any
puzzle.
He ran over the events chronologically as he made for his
rooms.
Friday night, Mr. and Mrs. Tangye had been at a dinner
and a dance. Both apparently on the best of terms with
the world and each other. Saturday morning all went as
usual. In the afternoon Mrs. Tangye had attended a mat-
inee with friends and gone on to a cheerful tea. Tangye had


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 1o3
left about ten in the morning for his Norfolk week-end.
Pointer had called up his host over the telephone, and had
been told that the stockbroker had spent all the time shooting
wildfowl, until he left after lunch on Monday. Yet Tangye
only owned two suitable guns, and neither of them had been
taken down from their rack in his den. The dust on them
had told Pointer as much, and the answers by the maids to
a casually put question of his had proved it.
The Chief Inspector considered the visit to Norfolk as
very hypothetical. Yet Tangye's friends were standing be-
hind him solidly. And they were all men of good position.
Here was no criminal clique. Pointer thought that if they
backed his story up as they had done, it was because they
knew quite well that he had spent the week-end, or at least,
some of it, in company with a lady. With Mrs. Bligh prob-
ably. With the writer of that note—possibly—that Olive
had seen Mrs. Tangye reading.
And Mrs. Tangye's interest in orchid-shows at Tunbridge,
which had arisen so suddenly, was very likely connected with
that letter too, as Haviland had thought.
Last Sunday! What had occurred, presumably down in
Kent, that had so altered all Mrs. Tangye's quiet, well-
ordered existence? That had—so Pointer expected to find
.—led to her death two days later?
He did not think that here was a crime dropped accidentally
into events which were already stirring before it happened.
The flight of Mrs. Tangye from her home, which he believed
had been pending, and the death of Mrs. Tangye, were, he
thought, linked. Though whether closely or loosely, time
alone could show. Time and routine-work.
That night an undetected burglary was committed in Lon-
don. The victim of the crime never knew of it. Tangye's
offices in the city were entered by a tall, quick-moving figure,
wearing rubber soles, and with the arm torch and adjustable
keys of his craft. The burglar seemed to be an original.
Everything that was not in the safe—a burglar-proof safe—
was looked at, but the only things taken were oddments such


1o4 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
as blotting paper, and the contents of the waste-paper baskets.
Pointer, for it was he, paused longingly on his way home,
outside the flat over a shop where Miss Saunders lived with
her sister, but the yapping of a small Pom sent him reluctantly
off. Back in his own rooms he examined his haul, which
did not include the keys as he had hoped. An hour's work
piecing, reading, deciphering, made him certain that he had
drawn a blank. And on that he turned in, and slept the sleep
of the hard worker.
Next morning Pointer sent in his card to the particular
Sladen who had acted for Mrs. Tangye in all estate matters.
The solicitor was a cheery young man who looked on life
as a great joke. He substantiated Tangye's story of the
purchase of Clerkhill farm for three thousand pounds by a
Mr. Philpotts, a farmer living near Rugby.
The money when paid over had been left in his safe by
Mrs. Tangye who had discussed the merits of various Fund-
ing loans without deciding which appealed to her most.
Sladen, too, had heard from his late client herself about
the bank that had failed, and knew of her unconquerable
aversion to cheques.
"Pleasant lady, I understand?" Pointer asked.
"Very. Terrible shock to hear of such a death having
come to her." Sladen actually looked grave for a moment.
"Of course, we're only concerned with tracing this money,
but the Insurance Company is trying to decide whether ac-
cident or suicide was the more likely explanation." Pointer
seemed in doubt himself.
"Not suicide," Sladen said positively. "Oh, dear .no!
Not suicide! Very shrewd eye for a bargain. Very keen on
having a quid for her quo."
"That's a help," Pointer looked grateful for any assistance.
It was his most useful mask when he had to go in his own
person to make inquiries.
"Now, this Mr. Philpotts.—he might be able to confirm
that too?"
"Rather!" Sladen laughed again. "Not much doubt but


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 105
that he'll agree with me. Would you like his address in
town? He's staying for over the funeral. He used to know
Mrs. Tangye years ago in her father's parish, when she was
quite a little girl, so he told me."
"Keen amateur photographer, isn't he? I seem to recol-
lect his name as exhibiting now and then. I go in for a bit
of that sort of thing myself."
"Ah? Dare say. I know nothing of him personally."
"Then how did you come to suggest him as a purchaser?"
Pointer seemed bewildered. Sladen decided that the low
amount of serious crime in London compared with that in
other capitals is due to the natural goodness of the Londoner,
rather than to any fear of detection.
"I didn't suggest him," he explained, "we advertised the
farm in the usual way. Mr. Philpotts answered, and as his
money was there in the bank, and Mrs. Tangye very much
favoured him as a purchaser after she'd learnt that he used
to be one of her father's church-wardens, why the deal went
through."
"Had they met since those early days?"
"Not as far as I know. Mr. Philpotts liked everything
in writing. So did Mrs. Tangye. We forwarded the papers
to her and put the thing through for her."
Pointer had asked last night at Riverview whether Phil-
potts had ever been to the house. As far as was known he
had not.
Next, the Chief Inspector wanted a detailed list of the pa-
pers sent by Sladen to Tangye. He read it through—once,
and, then-asked about a green cash book, and a brown account
book of Mrs. Tangye's. Sladen had never had either in his
care. Yet Pointer had found them in a locked drawer in
Tangye's desk at his office, together with various other papers
of Mrs. Tangye's which the Chief Inspector had duly listed,
and which also, he now saw, were not on Sladen's list.
How had they got into Tangye's possession? When Havi-
land had seized on the absence of all personal papers from
his wife's desk as a proof of suicide, Tangye, though indig-


1o6 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
nant, had had to fall back on the explanation that his wife
had destroyed them as a preliminary to her tour abroad with
him. All the papers which he had seen in Tangye's drawer
had been folded into trim slips, neatly and very fully docketed
in the dead woman's writing. They looked as though they
had been compressed into the smallest possible space. They
looked, in fact, to Pointer, as though Mrs. Tangye had se-
lected them as essential and sufficient for her purposes before
destroying the others. Pointer had spent some time last night
with them spread around him, and had noticed that every ne-
cessary item and note and receipt was included. But no
more.
Yet he had found them in Tangye's drawer. Though the
presence of them in his wife's desk would have taken away
one of the two main props of the suicide theory which he
fought so persistently, and which it was so much to his in-
terest to disprove.
There had been nothing in the papers kept which gave any
reason for his objecting to their being found and read.
Pointer questioned Sladen about the withdrawal of the
money yesterday.
He was told that the whole transaction occupied a bare
five minutes. A cab had driven up just after two; Sladen
was busy with a client. His head clerk had taken the sum in
question, three thousand pounds, from the safe, and obtained
the usual receipt. He had ventured to expostulate on the
danger of carrying large sums in handbags. Mrs. Tangye
had assured him that it was to be immediately invested. She
declined his offer of sending an escort; that was all Sladen
knew.
Pointer learnt nothing more from his head clerk except his
opinion of such unorthodox proceedings, and his belief that
in some dim way they were connected with the entry of
women into the law courts. When it came to facts, Johnston
could not even say whether Mrs. Tangye had walked away
from the offices, or taken a taxi, or whether she had a friend
with her waiting outside. Pointer gathered that the old head


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 107
clerk had been thrown into a state bordering on coma by the
speed, and irregularity of Mrs. Tangye's actions. Neither
the clerk, nor Sladen had ever heard her mention her will,
or will-making. Nor had she ever referred to the money
invested in her husband's firm.
Pointer asked for a specimen of Philpotts's writing and
the number of every note paid for Clerkhill farm. He knew
already that Tangye had not drawn out nor paid in, any
large sums to his, or his wife's banking accounts during
the past month.
The stockbroker had only given him the numbers of the
missing notes, but since the dead woman had removed them
all from the solcitor's care only a few hours before her end,
the Chief Inspector felt a keen interest in each.
Accordingly he next had a brief interview with a young
Jew of his acquaintance. Hyam was a rising financier, and
his moments were precious. But, for the sake of a time
when Pointer had saved him from a very nasty position, he
could always spare a few for the Chief Inspector. Pointer
only needed one. He wished to trace any possible activities
of Tangye on the cotton market and learn what had become
of the notes which the stockbroker had taken over on his
wife's death. Would Hyam use any private means of find-
ing out both points? The investigation would be greatly
hampered, and incidentally a quite possibly blameless man
harmed by inquiries, however discreet, undertaken officially.
Hyam said "Trust him!" And Pointer hurried off to the
largest orchid importer in the world, Jaffinsky, near the China
Docks.
Jaffinsky was asked whether any well-known orchid-
hunters were in England, just now. Pointer thought that
these intrepid men, few in number, who face deaths tragic
and solitary, as part of their daily work, would be sure to
know one another, and might keep touch in that loose, yet
sufficient way common to men whose task needs very special
training and special gifts.
"There's Smith; he's looking after our plants at the Tun-


108 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
bridge show. His beat's Burma and the Himalayas. Then
there's van Dam—we could get hold of him for you, I dare
say. Sumatra's the same to him as his back garden. Or
what about Filon, the Frenchman? What he can't tell you
of Madagascar, or North Africa—but I forgot, he went back
last week. And if you're interested in the Congo, Bielefeld's
a marvel. He"
"I'll try Smith," Pointer said. "It's only a toss-up. I
want to inquire about a man, a one-time orchid-hunter too, so
I was told."
Smith and the Chief Inspector were soon seated in a quiet
little back room littered with moss and bamboo. Smith was
a strange-looking fellow. The colour of mahogany, with a
face apparently carved out of red stone, wide-apart eyes, gray
in colour, very still and rarely blinking, a mouth like a slit,
a chin like a grocer's scoop, and a body like a whip-thong.
Pointer explained in a few words what he wanted. Had
Smith ever chanced to come across a man called in England,
Oliver Headly? An Oxford undergraduate?
He was about to give a description, but Smith did not need
more than the name.
"Headly? Oh yes, I knew him. About ten years ago.
Afghan border. But he was no good."
"Why not?"
"Oh-h, many reasons. A good hunter of any kind of
game—your kind, Chief Inspector, or my kind—is born, not
made. Well, Headly wasn't born. Also he had too many
irons in the fire. That border is rather tempting to a cer-
tain kind of man. Gun-running, opium smuggling, doped
whisky, are all lucrative by-paths."
"And the kind of by-paths to appeal to Headly?"
"Anything with money in it would appeal to Headly.
Especially if it was off the true. And if it had a spice of
cruelty in it, so much the better. But why this interest in a
chap who's dead?"
"Sure he's dead?"
"Filon told me a year ago that he saw him shot in Fez.


THE FpOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED iog
Been gun-running for the Riffs. Shot under another name.
Called himself Olivier, and refused to state his nationality.
I'll give him that credit."
Pointer expressed a doubt as to Filon's information.
"I think you can depend on it. Our eyes are our bread-
winners, you know. You learn to see accurately, if you're
hunting orchids. Don't want to 'risk your neck to bring
home something that grows on Wandsworth common. Be-
sides, Headly wasn't a man to forget in a hurry. Filon told
me he recognised him, waved to him, and that Headly waved .
back. They were going to blindfold him but he refused,
and faced them smoking a cigarette."
Pointer obtained a few more details which would enable
him to tap the French authorities at Fez, and get into touch
with Mr. Filon, then he asked casually, "Was Oliver Headly a
good shot?"
"Rotten. Luckily he knew it."
And with that the Chief Inspector took his leave.


CHAPTER VI
The pace of an investigation is a variable tempo'. Impos-
sible to foresee. Some little detail, unimportant, never "men-
tioned in despatches," may take days. Some great step be
covered in one stride.
Pointer had hardly finished making a few arrangements
for trailing some of the characters in the little circle con-
cerned so far, however vaguely, with Mrs. Tangye's death,
when Haviland rang up.
"We've located one of the missing bank-notes, sir. It
was paid in as part of a first-class ticket on a Royal Mail
boat going to South America. Paid in by a young man of
the name of Vardon."
"Vardon? Christian name?"
"Philip. Never heard of him before."
Pointer had. He opened a stand in one corner. Ran a
finger over the cards, and presently drew out some papers.
From these he extricated one, and glanced at it. It was a
sort of genealogical tree of the Tangyes, the Branscombes,
and the Headlys, as far as concerned the present generation.
Philip Vardon was marked as the only living relative, bar
the sister, of Mrs. Tangye's first husband, Clive Branscombe.
He was the architect's cousin, and would now be about thirty-
four. Apparently he was unmarried.
"That makes him a sort of cousin to Mrs. Tangye, in
fact," Haviland noted at the other end. "The address the
shipping office gives us is in Fulham."
"You'd better go there at once. I'm due at the Home
Office. There can be no question of telephoning to me there.
You'll have to handle Vardon yourself. Act on your own re-
no


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 1n
sponsibility. Meanwhile, not a word to Tangye. There's
something twisted about that money—and those keys."
Pointer Reached for another telephone, and was connected
at once.
The steamship company repeated what Haviland had just
told him along the private wire from his station, but in more
detail. Before they had closed last Tuesday about a quarter
to seven, a first-class ticket to Puntas Arenas in Patagonia,
had been sold to a Mr. Vardon, on a boat due to sail next
Saturday. Two days off yet. He had crossed with them
before, he said, nearly a year ago, on his coming to England
from the same port.
. "What class had he gone then?"
After some time Pointer got the reply that Vardon had
come home second-class. Did they know his profession?
He was an artist.
The Chief Inspector's further questions drew out the fact
that Vardon had been in only a week ago, talking of going
back steerage. Also that when he had dashed in late on
Tuesday evening, he had seemed tremendously excited. The
clerk at first thought that he had been drinking.
Haviland, with his Inspector, rushed up to the dingy apart-
ments in Fulham. Only to learn that Vardon had left there
late Tuesday night. He had come home about eleven, packed
in a great hurry, and taxied his luggage to an hotel nearer
the docks. The manageress was not surprised at the haste.
Her lodger's month was just up, and as the rooms would
have had to be taken for another four weeks, she had quite
agreed with Vardon that there was no need for that expense,
seeing that he had made up his mind to return to South
America by the next boat.
She gave the young man an excellent character in every
way. He had had two garrets called a suite for nearly a
year now. Evidently his means were narrow, but she had
no complaint about unpaid or dilatory bills.
As Haviland represented himself as a business man who
had an appointment with Vardon, and might be coming in


112 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
with him on a venture, he asked, and got, the name of the
hotel to which the young man had gone.
Here again, Haviland was just too late. A Mr. Vardon
had arrived last Tuesday, or rather early yesterday morning,
it was past midnight—but he had not liked the room assigned
him, and had gone to another hotel.
Which one? The hall porter could not say. As Haviland
learnt that the man had taken his own luggage, and done
without a cab, he tried the nearest. There was a certain brev-
ity and ascerbity in the porter's tone that made Haviland
wonder just what had happened, but he had no time to
waste. In the second hotel he was told that a man of that
name was stopping there till Saturday, when he was leaving
by one of the Royal Mail steamers. Haviland sent up his
card, an unofficial card. Could Mr. Vardon spare him a few
minutes in private?
A slender, dark-eyed young man with a pleasant, rather
gentle face, looking much under his real age, came down
into the empty smoking-room at once.
"It's about Mrs. Tangye "began Haviland.
Vardon stared. "She's not here."
The two police officers in plain clothes stared in their turn.
"Mrs. Tangye's dead. She was buried an hour ago,"
Haviland said after a pause.
"What?" Vardon certainly looked horrified, incredulous,
amazement. "Mrs. Tangye buried?"
"Didn't you read of the case in the papers, sir?" Haviland
asked. He pointed to one lying on the couch beside him.
"Here's the whole story, and a bit more—for about the third
time in The Flashlight."
Vardon snatched at it, and seemed to read it through
breathlessly from beginning to end. It was an account of
the funeral, and a last dishing up of the manner of her death.
"What an awful thing!" he dropped it to the floor and faced
them with his eyes still distended. "I never even glanced
at a sheet yesterday or to-day. Been too busy. And to think


114 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Left alone, the two police officers relaxed their tension.
iVardon had made a good impression. Five minutes went by.
"Better go on up and lend a hand, Brown," Haviland sug-
gested to the Inspector. "He looks to me like a chap who
would need help with his packing."
A moment later a stony-faced Brown slipped in again,
and holding the door shut behind him, gasped: "He's
bolted!"
"Impossible!" Haviland sprinted up beside the other as
though he had some infallible recipe for collecting the absent.
But Vardon had gone. He had walked out of the hotel im-
mediately with his suitcase, nodded rather breathlessly to the
hall porter, turned a corner, and vanished. As all rooms
were pre-paid no one had spoken to him.
The two police officers said little. There are some things
for which speech is too limited.
"He fits everything!" Haviland said tensely, as very•
white about the gills, he reported what had happened to
Pointer later in the afternoon. Haviland had cause to look
pale. Scotland Yard does not tolerate many blunders. But
Pointer knew only one unpardonable offence. That was un-
trustworthiness.
"Yes, sir! He fits in right enough."
Haviland waited miserably for compliments on his brilliant
handling of the case. None came.
"Shall I get out a warrant for his arrest?" he ventured to
ask, very much doubting whether he would be entrusted with
it. "Though he's sure to make for abroad. An artist must
know many a port where he can lie hid. South America,
too!"
There was still another painful point for Haviland to trot
out.
"He owns some sort of a box-camera. So they told me at
his rooms in Fulham. It isn't with the suitcase, nor yet
with the luggage he's sent to the boat."
Pointer sat awhile thinking.
"Got your car below? Good. I'll speak to Wilmot over


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 115
the 'phone," he did so, telling him briefly of what had hap-
pened, and asking him to wait for Haviland who would
bring him back to the Yard in his police "non-stoppable."
When Wilmot arrived, Pointer suggested a line of action
on the part of the newspaper man, to which Wilmot con-
sented after a little pressing.
Then Pointer turned to Haviland, and sketched to that
slowly-reviving officer, how and where, the next step shbuld
be taken.
Pointer himself was just back not only from the "break-
fast" but from Mrs. Tangye's funeral. It had been a more
than usually melancholy affair. The knowledge that Scot-
land Yard was in some way concerning itself with her death
made the wildest rumours run.
While there, however he had met a lady who had trav-
elled up with Mrs. Tangye on her return from Tunbridge
Wells. By chance getting into the same compartment at Ash-
ford. She had found Mrs. Tangye suffering from a bad
headache. Mrs. Tangye had referred to the orchids, and
said that the heat had been too much for her. She had
sat with closed eyes apparently suffering very much, till they
reached town, where she had refused her companion's offer
of a lift in her car, and bad taken a taxi.
So Pointer's doubts were solved as to whether whatever
it was that had caused what he called the cleavage in Mrs.
Tangye's life, had taken place at or after Tunbridge.
If it had taken place on Sunday at all, it had apparently
been while with Miss Eden.
Pointer's eyes were on that young woman a good deal dur-
ing the funeral. She avoided Tangye. He avoided her.
At the funeral too, Pointer had met Philpotts the Rugby
farmer. He looked an honest, elderly man. Philpotts
scoffed at the idea of Mrs. Tangye having had any intention
of going where pounds, shillings, or even pence, mean nothing.
"She gave way on the fences, but she stuck to her point
about the timber," he repeated several times, half admiringly,
half grudgingly. Pointer had brought the talk around again
s


I16 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
to Mrs. Tangye. The farmer's knowledge of her early days
added nothing new, any more than did his few recollections of
her cousin. Philpotts's own alibi of Sunday, Monday and
Tuesday, which Pointer obtained by many indirect turns of
the talk, was unverifiable.
Sunday afternoon he claimed to have spent with his wife
in Westminster Abbey. The same time on Monday had been
earmarked for the National Gallery, and Tuesday, after four,
had seen them either gazing at the shops, or in one of the
large tea-rooms where identification is impossible.
"It's queer," Pointer said now, when talking him over with
Haviland and Wilmot, after he had finished detailing his plan
about Vardon, "how few of the people connected with Mrs.
Tangye can be located last Tuesday between four and six.
Mrs. Bligh, is so far, the sole person who is definitely vouched
for by several, unbiased, witnesses. She really did play
bridge at her club from before four until after six."
"What would you have?" Wilmot asked raising an eye-
brow. "How many more points do you want to prove that
there's no crime here? By the way, how about the man
you sent down to Tunbridge with the family portrait-
album?"
"Which unfortunately did not contain a picture of Oliver
Headly. There seems to be none extant of him. But
Watts has just reported. No one in the show itself can
identify any of the faces. There was a huge crowd on Sun-
day. Some minor royalty present. But outside, just by the
gates, he found a tobacconist who recognised Tangye as
having bought a box of vestas from him in the early after-
noon last Sunday. That's our only haul."
"Vardon fits everything," Haviland repeated sombrely.
He refused to be either comforted, or diverted. "When he
said he had an agreement in writing, I ought to've suspected
something. After what you said! But he seemed so
straightforward. Yet, I shouldn't wonder"
And Haviland proceeded gaily to sketch a long-ago flirta-


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 117
tion, a meeting after many years, a planned elopement, the
sale of the farm, and a murder when he found that the
woman insisted on accompanying her funds.
Wilmot listened. Now blowing hot, now cold, as was his
way. He called it the impartial poise.
"You may be right all along the line, Haviland," Pointer
said finally when appealed to as umpire, "but—so far—there's
no reason known to us why Vardon shouldn't have come
to the front door. In other words, he fits the preparations,
but Oliver fits the French window."
"Front door! Back door!" Wilmot suppressed a yawn;
"wouldn't any murderer have come to the French window?"
"My point is that Mrs. Tangye wouldn't have expected
him to come that way," Pointer said rather dryly. "It's
not a case of a house-breaker's murder, but of a carefully
prepared plan, and of some one whom Mrs. Tangye invites
—expects—that way."
"There's a door into and out of the smoking-room, we've
just learnt. Wouldn't that be a more usual way of un-
noticed entry than by a window? Your whole theory hangs
on those windows, which were found closed remember."
"That Miss Saunders said she found closed. The smoking-
room cupboard door has a Yale lock. Tangye has the only
known key. Any one using it would have have had to cross
the central hall to get at Mrs. Tangye. And Florence was
on the alert."
There was a pause.
"The fact is, I've had another thought," Haviland said so
impressively that his two hearers smiled, "of the man who
bought the farm. Philpotts. He's an old acquaintance.
He would know about the money. What about Philpotts as
the gent of the footsteps the two girls heard? The farmer's
sure to walk stiff with rheumatism."
"Why should he go to the French window rather than to
the front door?"
"My dear chap, don't let a little thing like that stump you,"


n8 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Wilmot begged. "I repeat that obviously a man, or woman,
with a criminal intent, would prefer to come, and above all
to go, as unobtrusively as possible."
"Yes, but I repeat my question. The answer to which is
the answer, I believe, to our whole riddle. Why should Mrs.
Tangye aid him by lending herself to that entrance? It's not
the coming of in the murderer by the window, but Mrs.
Tangye's apparent preference for that way, that strikes such
an odd note. On the other hand, if it could have been her
cousin. ... If Filon was mistaken. . . ."
Late that same afternoon a young man was in the act of
following his luggage on to the Harwich boat, when a hand
touched his shoulder.
"Mr. Vardon? Don't go on. There's an officer from
Scotland Yard waiting to arrest you by the gangway. Come
with me. I'm a friend."
The man to whom these words were hurriedly whispered,
jumped, and swung round on his heel.
"Let your gear go, and follow me. I've a taxi. Been
waiting for you before they should nab you," Wilmot urged.
Vardon followed the other to a cab. Once they were in,
he loosened his muffler which hid the lower part of his face.
"Who on earth are you?"
Wilmot gave his name. To his surprise, it apparently con-
veyed nothing to Vardon.
"Newspaper man, you say? But how are you mixed up
in this?"
"I travelled down in the same,compartment with a C.I.D.
man, and he talked a bit," Wilmot said. Truthfully enough.
Pointer had talked—to him. "I learnt that you had been
shadowed when you bought your ticket. Your passport gave
you away. You had to have it renewed, didn't you? Hard
luck! Well, I determined to get in first and whisk you off."
"But—why?"
"I'm acting as claims' investigator for the company in
which Mrs. Tangye was insured. The policies excluded
suicides. We believe her death to have been self-inflicted."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 119
"Mrs. Tangye's death? But what on earth has that to do
;with me?" Vardon asked in seeming stupefaction. "I thought
it was the notes that were in question."
Wilmot looked at him for a moment in silence.
"The police believe that death to have been a murder. Or
at least they're trying to believe it," he said finally.
"What hour did she die?" Vardon asked feverishly. He
certainly was either innocent, or a good actor.
"Between four and six on Tuesday afternoon at her house
in Twickenham." There was absolute silence in the cab.
"Stop!" the artist suddenly rose. "Drive to the police
station. I must face this thing. It's worse even than I
thought. Infinitely worse. And that was bad enough!"
"I shouldn't go to the police, if I were you," Wilmot sug-
gested, "better let me take you to a house I know of where
you can have time to think things over."
"I'm innocent!" Vardon declared almost defiantly.
"My dear fellow, there is no criminal here in my belief.
No fact has been laid before me—as yet—of a nature to
change my opinion that Mrs. Tangye's death was a suicide, if
not an accident. Apart altogether from acting for the In-
surance Company, I—so far—believe that she shot herself be-
cause of domestic trouble."
"So do I!" came from the man beside him. "I'm absolutely
certain that she killed herself. That was why she let me
have that money. She wanted to make a gift of it. I've un-
derstood the whole strange episode since reading of her
end."
Wilmot turned to him eagerly.
"Good. You can prove that?"
"Prove nothing. It's only my firm belief. Looking back
on what she said, and how she said it."
There was another silence.
"Look here," Wilmot said, "I'm a newspaper man, as I
told you, Special Correspondent to the Daily Courier, but not
a syllable gets into the press of what you tell me. My word
on that."
r


120 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"Where are you taking me?" was Vardon's reply. He
seemed wrestling with his own thoughts.
"To the rooms of a friend of a friend of mine." Again
Wilmot spoke the literal truth. The rooms belonged to a
friend of Pointer's. "You can stay quietly there till we can
think of the best thing to do. How about changing your
name?"
"I'd rather not. The police can't have anything worth
while against me."
"Then, why did you run away?" Wilmot's glance asked.
Vardon flushed.
"It's awfully good of you to take me on trust, this way,"
he said awkwardly, as they drew up in a quiet street of Sloane
Square.
The door was opened by a man who, though Vardon could
not know it, was of the greatest service to the Yard. He,
and his neatly kept house in which Pointer had installed him.
Going upstairs—the rooms were on the first floor, Bates
never had any rooms on the ground floor "empty." It was
too easy to get into and out of them—Vardon tripped. He
recovered himself instantly.
"My leg gives out at times. Broke my knee-cap when I
first got to Patagonia."
Wilmot was very thoughtful for some time after that little
mishap.
The rooms were all that could be asked. The terms amaz-
ingly moderate.
But Wilmot explained that they belonged to an "explorer"
who sub-let them during his long absences. He did not add
that the gentleman was now exploring Dartmoor prison.
Vardon heaved a quick sigh, as he heard the door close.
"Ever hunted?" he asked Wilmot.
"Rather! Why?"
"I used to love it. Used to think November marked the
beginning of the real year. But never again! By Jove, no 1
Now that I know what it feels like to have the hounds after
you."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 1a1
There was a silence. Wilmot was patiently waiting.
Vardon leant on the mantelpiece.
"I wonder if you'll think me a fraud? After all your
trouble and risk to get me here. But I must talk things over
with my solicitor first. D'you mind coming in later on?
Say, after dinner? About nine?"
Wilmot said he quite understood, and would come again
at about ten.
Vardon held out his hand.
"I'm more grateful than I can say. Just at present I'm a
bit stunned. You must make allowances."
They shook hands and Wilmot went back to Pointer.
The Chief Inspector sat thinking for a moment after Wil-
mot left him. A bell rang. He had a telephone extension
which connected with Bates's instrument. Picking up that
receiver, the Chief Inspector heard a voice asking for a num-
ber. A glance at the Yard's telephone directory gave him the
name that fitted it as Dorset Steele, Solicitor, Bedford Row.
"Mr. Dorset Steele wanted on the telephone at once, please.
No name," the voice went on. There was a pause. Then
Pointer heard a gruff: "Well? Well? What is it? What
is it?"
"Can you come and see me? You recognise the voice,
don't you?"
"I do. Well? Well?" snapped the solicitor.
"I'm in a quandary. I can't come myself, but I'd like to
see you as soon as possible," Vardon gave his address.
"Coming at once," barked Dorset Steele, and hung up.
Apparently Vardon was not the apple of the legal man's eye,
yet in a very few minutes, Bates showed Dorset Steele up.
A tall, thin, rather untidy looking man who carried his head
a foot in advance of his rounded shoulders. The "lost golf-
ball" look, Barbara Ash called it.
"Now, what's wrong?" he snapped by way of greeting,
looking at the young man under his eyebrows like an old
poodle of uncertain temper.
"I'm in a nasty hole. So much so that I didn't venture to


122 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
clamber out by myself, until I had talked things over with
you. The police all but arrested me to-day for the murder,
or a share in the murder, of Mrs. Tangye."
"Ah!" Dorset Steele tossed his soft hat into a chair as
though it were the ring. Then he promptly sat down on it.
He stretched out his muddy boots—his boots seemed to find
mud as a water diviner does springs—subconsciously. Then
he nodded to himself, as though this were what he had long
expected, and on the whole, hoped would happen.
"Your story?" he asked curtly, squinting at the other
around a collar that suggested a liking for comfort.
"I haven't much of a one. Mrs. Tangye came to my rooms
last Tuesday about—well shortly before three as nearly as I
can now recollect. She said she knew that I had some sort of
a land proposition in the Argentine in which I was trying to
interest people over here. And that she had decided that as
I was Clive's only relative, and he had left everything to her
—Clive Branscombe was her first husband, you know—she
wanted to take an interest in it with me. She pulled out one
thousand five hundred pounds from an envelope in her bag as
casually as though they had been a pair of gloves. She
handed me the roll and said that another fifteen hundred
should follow at the end of a twelvemonth. Would that do?
I told her two thousand in all would be ample. I wanted to
go into the question of percentages, and into the affair itself
—which isn't in the Argentine really—but she wouldn't wait.
Told me to write it all very fully, and send it to her at her
bank. Obviously, in the light of what has happened that was
just an excuse. She didn't even trouble to pretend an interest
in what I was going to do with the money. I suggested three
per cent for the first year, five the second, ten the third, and
twenty-five after that. I don't mind telling you in confidence j
that it's an untouched quinine grove, and there's a fortune in
it. The difficulty is to keep its location from being guessed
at."
"Have you this promise of Mrs. Tangye's in writing?"


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 123
"That's the trouble. I insisted on her sitting down and
[writing a line to say that the fifteen hundred now, and the
same amount to come after twelve months, was a loan. She
scribbled off a few words to that effect while I wrote out a
duplicate. We signed both. I wanted witnesses but though
I nearly broke the bell, no one came. I rushed downstairs but
there wasn't a soul in the office. There never is; I asked her
to wait, but she wouldn't. Finally I had to let her go. She
didn't even let me finish telling her that at Puntas Arenas,
Maunde would have a proper agreement drawn up, signed,
and witnessed, if she would do the same in town. She was
out, and down the stairs before I had got the words out."
"Taxi waiting?"
"I don't think so. The Tube is next door."
"Well? Well? What about the line you say she did
write?"
"I packed up and went to a hotel in the city, you know.
Smith's hotel near the docks. And there my bag was lost or
stolen. Her note about the money was in it as well as some
other things that I need, too. I kicked up a row, but the
bag was gone. They insisted that I had left it in the cab.
I know better. I moved my remaining suitcase to a hotel
opposite and there, this morning, two men, police officers from
Twickenham, came to interview me. When they asked me to
show them the paper I was in a tight place. They had just
told me of Mrs. Tangye's suicide. I hadn't opened a paper
for days. The news stunned me. And then this question
about the money! I had cabled Maunde to go ahead. To
sign the necessary papers. But I hadn't sent the money. I
thought I'd take that out myself. I intended to sail Satur-
day, you know. It was on me. The positon was ghastly.
That paper of Mrs. Tangye's was gone. She had tossed mine
on the fire when I handed it to her. I decided that I must at
least get the money off to Maunde at once. So I skipped.
Whatever happens I'm glad I did. He's got the money by
now. I cabled it over. As for me, I thought I could get


124 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
aboard unnoticed if I went at once. But no such luck! And
the end would have been the same if I'd told those two chaps
that I couldn't find the bag."
"The effect on the jury wouldn't have been the same,"
snapped Dorset Steele.
, "No. I'm afraid not. But it won't come to that. Of
course, I've lost this chukker, I quite understand that. But
give them time, and the police are sure to find out that she
killed herself."
"Why didn't you come to the funeral? Barbara couldn't
understand it."
"I hadn't an idea Mrs. Tangye was anything but in the
best of health. Not an idea!"
"And why didn't you write to Barbara to tell her the
news?"
"Mrs. Tangye asked me to say nothing about the loan."
"Eh?" Dorset Steele shot the young man a sharp glance.
"Yes. She told me to say nothing about her coming with
me into the venture. I said, 'Certainly not, if you don't wislr
it,' and she nodded as though to imply that she most certainly
did not wish it. But naturally that promise doesn't hold good
under these circumstances."
"And now, where are you? Whose rooms are these?"
Vardon told him of what had happened down at the docks.
"You don't know your landlord then?"
"You mean the man downstairs? Not in the least.
Why?"
"He was in Scotland Yard. If you're here, you're under
observation." Pointer gave a laugh at the other solicitor's
acumen, when, next morning, he heard this part of the con-
versation wound off the microphone in the "clock" on the
mantelpiece which was recording every word the two men
spoke. "The case is in the hands of Chief Inspector Pointer,
I've learnt. They're keeping it dark about the death. They
claim to be investigating only the loss of the money. But
that's not the sort of a job he takes on. He's as unscrupulous
in getting his evidence as any criminal in the land," Dorset


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 125
Steele said savagely. There was a by no means forgotten in-
cident in which one of his most carefully coached witnesses,
and a bottle of whisky, and Pointer had all played a part, that
still rankled. "He'll leave no stone unturned to hang you if
you're guilty. But he's fair. He's as straight as that poker
and about as easy to bend."
Vardon turned red. "So, I'm under observation! And I
thanked that chap who stopped me going on the boat. . . .
He'll get something other than thanks when I see him again!"
"Wilmot! A moment." Dorset Steele went to the tele-
phone. He was soon in touch with a man he knew on the
Courier. He laid down the tube with a grunt.
"That part is true. He is acting as claims' investigator for
the moment to the Insurance Company. In place of Cheale.
..." Steele sat down again and fell into deep thought.
"He's on our side, therefore."
"Are you taking my case?" Vardon asked suddenly and
bluntly.
Dorset Steele hesitated. He shot the young man a sour
glance.
"Yes," he said at last. "But it's going to be stifFer than
you think. Pointer's name in it means that. Suppose this
turns into a murder case. Do you know the facts against
you? There's the money traced to you which was last paid
Mrs. Tangye. There's your slipping away. Where were
you Tuesday afternoon around five?"
"I was strolling through the Army and Navy stores pricing
things and making out a rough list."
"Speak to any salesmen?"
"Not one."
"Meet any one you knew?"
"By Jove, I did! Lift man who took me up to the bun
floor used to be a chap "his face fell. "Perhaps I'd
better leave him out."
"Who is he?"
"He was one of the under-stewards on the boat I went
out on. Got into trouble."


126 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"What kind of trouble?"
"Some ass dropped his pocket-book literally at the chap's
feet one night without noticing it. Poor Pike has a family
who seem to specialise in expensive illnesses, so he picked it
up, and I'm sorry to say, kept it. That was bad enough. But
the worst of it was the Head steward saw him. End of Pike.
He'd have been jailed only the passenger refused to prose-
cute."
"Were you the passenger?"
Vardon gave an awkward laugh.
"Holed it in one," he acknowledged.
"Help him afterwards?"
"Well—yes, I had to. The chap turned up by chance at a
ranch where I was painting the barns. He was half starv-
ing. Winter was coming on. Winter on a Patagonian plain!
He'd have died with those lungs of his. I got the R.M. to
give him another chance on one of their fruiters. He's done
quite well since then."
Dorset Steele looked at him.
"And that's the best you can do as an alibi? Nice witness
for the jury to hear pulled to pieces. Nice motive to put
him in your debt, so that he'd swear to anything to help you.
That's what they'd say."
"I know the outlook's pretty poor." Vardon thrust his
hands deeper into his trouser pockets, "but I didn't kill my
one time cousin-in-law, Mr. Dorset Steele, even supposing
she was killed. Anc that's something to go on, isn't it?"
Grudgingly the solicitor admitted that it might be. But
apparently he would have vastly preferred guilt and a solid
alibi.
There was another silence.
"Have you any explanation," Dorset Steele said suddenly,
"any that we can make the jury, if it comes to that, I mean,
as to why Mrs. Tangye suddenly paid you that money? I
leave your story of an additional fifteen hundred out of it."
Vardon did not answer for a minute. "I can't explain it
either," he said lamely. "We'd never met before. She said


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 127
she wanted to settle up all her outstanding debts, and she
thought I had a claim on Branscombe's estate. A moral
claim. She talked a lot about wiping the slate clean before
another start elsewhere, and so on. Oh, she meant to kill
herself. Not a doubt about it! At the time I was too flus-
tered to have my wits about me. She said that money could
be a fetter under some circumstances, or at least of no use.
And as I had written to her several times for a loan from her
first husband's estate"
"Tut! Tut!" barked Dorset Steele, "you had not! but go
on in your own way for the moment."
"That was all there was. I thought I was in a dream, I
assure you. I've lived in a dream till that man Wilmot
touched me on the arm and, as I thought, saved me. By Jove,
when he calls around later he'll hear what I think of him.
I'm a quiet chap as a rule, but I won't answer for what I shall
say to him."
Dorset Steele pursed his lips. Obviously he was consider-
ing the effect of a possible black eye on the jury as a con-
sequence of the interview.
"Better not see him." He got up. "I must be off. I'll
have a talk with the police and see if they're keeping any-
thing important up their sleeves." He shot a glance at Var-
don. There was no answer.
"You've nothing more to tell me?" ,
"I've told you all I know."
Dorset Steele looked savagely at him.
"And you expect a jury to swallow it?"
"Why not? It's the truth," there was a flash in Vardon's
eyes.
"They'll certainly call it stranger than fiction," the solicitor
promised grimly.
He got up off his hat, tossed it on his head, thrust his arms
into his top-coat which he had taken into the room with him,
and made for the door.
"See no one—if you can avoid it. Say as little as possible.
And—keep cheerful."


128 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
He finished with an unexpected smile.
While Dorset Steele was talking to Vardon, Pointer was go-
ing through the artist's luggage. He found no camera, box
or otherwise, but he came on a ring of keys beneath every-
thing else in the suitcase which looked like household keys.
The number of the Yale key tallied with that on the Riverview
front door. So did the number of the safe key. Clearly
these were the missing keys of Mrs. Tangye. The keys
which Tangye refused to have connected with the missing
notes. Which he said he had seen at Riverview on Tuesday,
after the police had left.


CHAPTER VII
Hav1land was greatly cheered by the news of the keys.
"A clue at last!" he chortled.
"To what?" was Pointer's question. "To whom?"
Haviland stared.
"Why, to the whole affair. It's a direct link with Mrs.
Tangye. In fact, it's a direct link with her murder, I should
say."
Still Pointer did not reply.
"Well, it's a fact anyway!" Haviland said desperately,
"just as his having two of those notes in his possession was
a fact."
"Yes, but the sole importance of a fact lies in the way we
look at it."
"A most true remark, oh, worthy sir!" chimed in Wilmot
who had driven down with Pointer, and was now breakfast-
ing at the Twickenham police station. "And let me also re-
mind you two bloodhounds on the trail, that Vardon may
have a perfectly satisfactory explanation of those keys being
found in his possession."
"He's sure to have! In fact, when you see him, Mr. Wil-
mot, you'll find he'll explain everything so nicely that you'll
think what a pleasure it is to meet such a candid young gentle-
man." Haviland was still sore.
"Insurance Company's dropping behind, I fear," Wilmot
murmured. "I wonder, if after all, it was a crime? I won-
der! This case certainly has unexpected light and dark
places."
"The fact is, they always have," Haviland announced
despondently.
"It's the charm of the word, of course," mused Wilmot,
129


130 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"that's why people read detective stories. For that and—the
love of the chase."
"The love of justice," Pointer spoke for once with real
warmth, "it's because they satisfy that—I suppose the deep-
est passion of every one's heart, but a criminal's—that people
read, and write, detective novels."
"I read 'em for facts, helpful facts," Haviland volunteered.
"Really, some of the dodges these writers get hold of"
"You're wrong. Both of you." Wilmot, as usual, spoke
with certainty. "The same thing makes people read, that
makes you, Haviland, a policeman, and you, Pointer, a detec-
tive. And that is for the sake of the thrill. Of the man-
hunt. There's nothing else in the world quite like it. Why,
even I begin to get the whiff of it in my nostrils."
Pointer was silent. Only his friends knew the Chief In-
spector's dislike of that common phrase, and point of view.
To himself, Pointer was but a keen, impartial keeper of the
open road, the path of law and order. The only path by
which civilisation, to his mind, could march on.
"I suppose Vardon'll be allowed to give his explanation?"
Wilmot asked a little curiously.
"In due time." It was Pointer speaking. "But as
Tangye's leaving town for a week-end, we'll go to Riverview
first. He's kept in the house with a cold, so he told me. Are
you coming with us, Haviland?"
But a dull affair of a burgled boot-shop deprived the
Superintendent of that pleasure.
"As a matter of fact, perhaps Vardon was the person
Tangye suspected all along," he said, hopefully, trying to
cheer himself by the suggestion that he was not about to
miss much.
Pointer and Wilmot walked to the house. The sun was
shining. A rather apologetic sun, as though begging spec-
tators not to ask too much. To remember that this was
November—and England. His rays, faint and pale, seemed
to cool rather than warm. Yet their touch spelled beauty.
They brought out the thrushes' song. They lifted the lark.
■


132 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
the business man now, weighing both sides. "In that case
he's sure to have that paper he spoke of. It wouldn't be like
her not to have the agreement in writing—nor like any
woman "a sudden passion rang in the grudging tone,
"perhaps he merely rushed away to find it. Remembered
he'd left it behind him in his lodgings. Hasty thing to do,
but I think you'll find everything's all right when you get
into touch with him again." Tangye strode over to his
tantalus. Things were unlocked, tumblers clinked. As be-
fore, Pointer, and this time Wilmot, declined a drink.
Tangye stood eyeing his cocktail with a bitterly disappointed
air, as though his favourite recipe had gone back on him.
As though the mixture were anything but what he had ex-
pected to see.
"But that would hardly explain how he came to have
her keys packed away in his suitcase," Pointer continued.
Tangye's glass gave a postman's knock against the table.
"Let me see. . . ." Pointer seemed to ruminate, "isn!t he
a crack shot? Bisley prize-winner, or something of that
kind?"
"I never heard so. He's quite fair with a gun. Can be
trusted out with a keeper, at any rate."
"Has he ever spoken to you about this proposition of his?"
"Once. But I don't go in for that sort of thing. Never
touch a speculation. Apparently my wife decided after all
to have a try with him."
"I suppose he called here frequently on the subject," Poin-
ter suggested.
"He's never been to the house."
"But a friend of your wife's, I suppose?"
"They had never met."
"Of yours, then?"
"Not especially. I've known him off and on since we
were boys. He, too, was at Haileybury, though after my
time. Of course you'll stop all proceedings. Naturally he'll
have a perfectly understandable explanation of both keys
and money."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 133
Pointer said nothing.
Tangye looked at him sharply. "I lodged the complaint,
or information, or whatever the official name is, and now I
withdraw it—until we hear from Vardon."
"Very good," Pointer was unperturbed. "Personally I'm
only interested in the missing money, and the keys, in so
far as they may concern a theory regarding Mrs. Tangye's
death."
"Regarding it as what?" Tangye stopped his glass midway
to his lips.
Pointer looked very official. Wilmot's face showed noth-
ing. He had been listening and watching with equal keen-
ness.
"It looks as though Vardon's capture might end the inquiry
that we've been making—as a matter of routine—into Mrs.
Tangye's death. In other words, sir, I fancy the charge
against Mr. Vardon may have to be murder. I'm sorry to
use the word about your wife's death, but that's what it looks'
like at present. You understand that this is entirely confi-
dential. Is not to go any further."
"What—on—earth—do—you—mean, Chief Inspector?"
Tangye seemed unable to believe his ears. His hand shook
so that he replaced the glass hastily on the table. "Wilmot
here claims that Mrs. Tangye's death was a suicide. I have
maintained, and the Coroner has maintained, that it was due
to an accident."
"But we at Scotland Yard are wondering if it mayn't be
due to a crime," Pointer said concisely.
"Things look very black against Mr. Vardon," the Chief
Inspector went on in his level, unemotional tones, "other
things than I am at liberty to speak of."
"How black?" burst from Tangye. It was an odd ques-
tion.
"Black enough to dangle him at a rope's end," was Pointer's
reply. Made with calculated brutality. "Those notes to-
gether with those keys in his luggage will do the trick alone."
"You forget I saw the keys here at the house long after


i34 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Mrs. Tangye was dead," Tangye said instantly. He evi-
dently was not too rattled to think swiftly.
"So if Mr. Vardon says Mrs. Tangye handed them to him,
or dropped them in his room by accident, as she gave him the
money, he's lying?" pounced the Chief Inspector.
Tangye splashed the soda water that he was pouring out,
in a fine fireman's spray over himself. He set the tumbler
down hastily, and mopped. Then he picked up the glass
again. He hesitated. Finally he almost threw it on a side-
table and poked the fire. Very much to its detriment.
"I must have mistaken some other bunch of keys for my
wife's. Obviously that's what I did. Miss Saunders' prob-
ably. But in any case there's no question of murder, nor ol
foul play of any kind here. As a matter of fact, solid fact,"
he glanced at Wilmot and flushed, "Mrs. Tangye shot her-
self. That's the honest truth. She did commit suicide. I
meant to keep it to myself. But of course I can't let a man
be arrested for what never happened. And that's why I
believe she let him have the money. It would be all of one
piece."
"You're sure Mrs. Tangye's death was suicide?" Pointer
asked.
"Haven't I just said so? I might as well be hung for a
sheep as a lamb. She told me she was going to do it. Told
me on Monday afternoon. I didn't believe her—then!"
Wilmot had hard work not to show how great was his
triumph at this news. Even as it was, a good deal leaked
through.
"And about those keys of Mrs. Tangye's found among
Mr. Vardon's things. Have you any idea how they got in
his possession?" Pointer asked thoughtfully.
"I? How should I have?"
"Just so." Pointer spoke regretfully. "I was afraid of
that. Doubtless there's no explanation possible that lets him
out. Well, of course, they're pretty damning, and plain,
evidence."
"Evidence of what? Why the devil do you harp on those


136 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"And exactly why did you say her death was due to an
accident?" Pointer asked eyeing the repairs done to the lever
with an apparently absent-minded gaze. They were quite
up to the standard of the work necessary to arrange that
camera.
"Why brand myself as a suicide's husband? Why broad-
cast our domestic unhappiness? No one guessed it. There
was nothing overt. We got on each other's nerves from the
first, that was all."
"The firm of Deakin and O'Malley was hammered on the
Dublin Stock Exchange this morning. I am to understand
then that your firm is not involved in its difficulties?" Pointer
asked.
"You've been listening to idle rumours," Tangye said
suavely. "My firm is in no difficulties. I can't say that the
hammer may not be heard to-day over there "he glanced
from his windows toward where the city lay, "but not for
me.
He spoke with conviction. His only mistake was to let
a note of triumph creep into his voice. There was a village
blacksmith's ring of "something accomplished, something
done," about that, and his gaze, that told of strenuous effort
and hard-won success.
"And you think that after a quarrel with her husband,
of the kind you suggest on Monday, a wife would kill her-
self Tuesday, leaving everything to that husband?" Pointer
asked again.
"It's what happened here. Mrs. Tangye was a very fair-
minded woman, when there was no question of her temper
leading her wrong. She was a splendid character at bottom.
Possibly on the other hand, she may not have remembered her
will, any more than I did at first." He spoke the last words
very clearly.
"Naturally," Wilmot assured him pleasantly. Pointer shot
him an amused look. He was sure that Wilmot would find
anything "natural" which backed up Tangye's confession that
his wife had killed herself.


138 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
the same attitude when Tangye opened the door again, this
time for Miss Saunders to precede him. She was self-
possessed as always. Very sure of herself, in her prim way.
"I think Miss Saunders should hear what I am obliged
to say," Tangye said briskly. Shutting the door resolutely
behind him. His manner was positively business-like.
"You asked me now, Chief Inspector, what my late wife
and I quarrelled over on Monday when I returned from
my week-end. I'm sorry to say it was over her having
unexpectedly found out that Miss Saunders and I had gone
for a spin in my car Sunday afternoon. We met at Tun-
bridge Wells. Lunched together at an hotel there, and drove
around to the orchid-show. By bad luck my wife happened
to be there, too, and caught sight of us. After all, there was
nothing wrong in what we did. Injudicious, of course. We
both see that now?" he finished.
"Quite so. Injudicious, but not wrong," Miss Saunders
echoed letting her eyes for a second dart from face to face.
"If you would like to question Miss Saunders, I think
she would be kind enough to answer you," Tangye went on.
"I don't think there's any need of anything so painful,"
Pointer said stolidly but with his eyes on the other man.
They were large eyes. Very quiet eyes. Very clear eyes.
"Well, then," Tangye went on, almost as though dictating
a letter, "as I said, Mrs. Tangye saw us."
"And you didn't see her?"
"I didn't. Did you, Miss Saunders?" Tangye turned
to her. She shook her head.
"Please say whether you did or not?" Tangye ordered,
still with that indefinable tone of brisk command of the
situation in his voice. He might have been sailing a yacht,
with a breeze blowing that just suited him and his boat.
"No, I didn't see her," Miss Saunders spoke up briskly
too.
"Yet we stayed in the show some time. How long would
you think?" he went on.
"About two hours, I fancy."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 139
"I put it about that too," he nodded. "I thought it better
not to see Miss Saunders off in the train, so we said good-bye
outside the station."
There was a pause. Tangye looked around on his hearers
almost as though expecting applause. Obviously Pointer and
Wilmot were being treated to a benefit performance. But
whose benefit? Tangye's, or Miss Saunders', or the absent
Vardon's. Miss Saunders rose and slipped quietly from the
room.
"And now perhaps you'll be able to tell us some of the
things your wife said to you on this Monday afternoon?"
Pointer asked.
Tangye shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't remember
much. She was absolutely unlike herself. We've had quar-
rels before, of course. But never one like that. I quite
misunderstood the position. You see, I thought—I fancied
she was bluffing. Mrs, Tangye, I mean. I had an idea—
totally wrong as it turned out—that she was not nearly so
angry as she chose to seem. I thought she was overdoing it.
I see now that it was hysteria, and dangerous hysteria at
that. But I give you my word that I only thought then she
had decided to give me a bit of a scare so as to teach me not
to do that sort of thing again."
"That's very interesting," Pointer said slowly. "She
struck you as really not angry? You thought it acting?"
"I swear I did. Overdone acting at that. I thought she
was forcing the note all the way along. More fool I!"
Tangye sighed heavily. His brief air of triumph had en-
tirely left him.
"Did she ask you to leave the house?" Pointer put in.
Tangye seemed to feel a sudden check. He hesitated for
a second. "Possibly. I think she did say that among the
flood of other things."
"You weren't discussing money affairs then?"
Tangye stiffened. "I don't understand."
Pointer gave him no explanation, as rising, he made his way
to the drawing-room where Miss Saunders sat reading.


140 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"I suppose you know about Mr. Vardon," he began chattily.
She stared at him.
"Know what?"
"Well, strictly in confidence, it looks very much as though
we might have to arrest him in connection with Mrs. Tangye's
death."
Miss Saunders' face flamed a brick red. Her lips parted
in a curious tense look, drawn away from her rather long
teeth.
"Mr. Vardon? Mrs. Tangye's death? What are you
talking about?" There was a spark in the depths of her
bright, rat-like eyes.
Pointer repeated that certain facts had come to their knowl-
edge which unless explained, looked very bad for Mr. Var-
don. The presence of her keys in his luggage, for one thing.
Miss Saunders sat tapping the end of her thumb nail
against her clenched teeth. It was the gesture of one uncer-
tain what to do. What to say. "And of course, Mr.
Tangye let you think it!" she said under her breath.
Pointer looked at her meaningly and nodded.
Miss Saunders gave a little sound as though she were
choking.
"Why do you think Mrs. Tangye's death was a murder?"
she asked. There was no hesitation about her use of that
terrible word. No look of shrinking in her face. Yet she
had lived three years with the woman about whom she was
putting that grisly question. She might have been a col-
lector inquiring, why an expert thought his Goya drawing
to be a Mengs. There was intense, burning interest in the
coming answer, but no personal emotion.
"Well, we do. The outlook for every one in the house is
quite altered by the mere supposition. To come to the point
of this interview, your own alibi is unsatisfactory."
That got home. She bit her lip.
"It's not genuine. Miss Martins, as I believe the man-
ageress of the tea-room is called, mistook you evidently for
another customer. In any case the fact that she is your


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 141
sister would discount her evidence. There's no use your
denying what we know, Miss Saunders," as she opened her
lips, "the matter is too serious for that. Where were you
really between four and six Tuesday?" His voice came
sharp and stern. She licked her thin lips with a tongue that
shot out like a snake's, swift and furtive.
"At the library and then in the tea-room. My alibi is quite
good. As to its having been substantiated by my sister—
why not? She's in charge at the tea-room. Others may
have seen me there if you've frightened her into some mis-
take. I won't pretend to misunderstand you, you know.
But what possible cause should I have had for harming Mrs.
Tangye?"
Pointer bent forward and stared hard at her. She blinked.
"Why, you yourself have been trying to force the note of
your—understanding—with Mr. Tangye."
This time she turned a genuine and ghastly gray.
"It's a lie!" she rose to her feet and her eyes widened.
"Blundering idiots! If I had killed her, wouldn't I be the
first to snatch at the chance of accusing Mr. Vardon? But
I tell you he didn't do it! Oh, you fool! You damned
fool!" She shivered with fury. Pointer thought for a sec-
ond that she would actually fly at him. Her small eyes, set
close together like those of a bird, seemed to snap fire, so
fierce was their glare.
The door opened. But why had Tangye paused once
again outside to listen?
Miss Saunders passed him with one contemptuous, yet
menacing glance.
"What in the world "Tangye began. "I stepped in
to ask if you would be a witness to my statement, which
Wilmot is taking down. My formal renouncement of the
Insurance claim on my wife."
Pointer followed him back into his den.
"Bit previous," Pointer glanced down at the paper. "It
may not be Vardon, but it may not be suicide, either."
Wilmot looked put out. The case was as good as over as


142 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
far as he was concerned. He was mentally drafting a cable
to his little Galician village, at the same time as this letter
of Tangye's.
"You mean you will make a murder out of it?"
Tangye's last whisky had been nearly neat.
"I assure you," Pointer said gently, as he had to say so
often, "that Scotland Yard is not Moloch, to be fed with
human sacrifices, innocent or guilty, no matter which, so
long as the supply doesn't run short. If Mrs. Tangye's
death was a suicide, you may be sure that that will end the
inquiry, and we shall turn our attention elsewhere. But
we must get the thing clearly worked out. That's part of
the routine."
Pointer left the two alone at that, and took a turn in
the garden. The robin, whose preserve this was, eyed him
hopefully. Pointer looked energetic. He might be going
to use a spade. But the Chief Inspector was oblivious of
fluting call or confident bright eyes. He was thinking. So
jt was to be suicide. According to Tangye. But according
to Pointer? That was what really mattered.
It was a very sudden right-about-turn, this of Tangye's.
Neatly executed, but very sudden. Was it the peril in which
Tangye learnt for the first time that a man stood whom he
considered innocent? Or was it something else, deeper?
Was what seemed disinterestedness self-interest? Did
Tangye suddenly realise that the question of murder was in
the air? Did he want to scotch, not so much a present, un-
founded accusation, as a possibly well-founded one in the
future? Did he see himself as Vardon's successor in the list
of suspects, and decided to block that eventuality? Or was
the widower merely a belatedly honest man? Was Wilmot
right? Had Haviland been right in the beginning? Was
Mrs. Tangye's death, after all, self-inflicted, in spite of
smoky room and scratched revolver? Or were Tangye and
Vardon in collusion? Those keys. . . .
Returning to the house he and Wilmot took their leave.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 143
"My field day, I think!" the newspaper man stepped out
cheerily; "we've got the motive. You were right about it
having been that Sunday down at Tunbridge that practically
fired the shot. The husband throws up his claim"
"The investigator packs his trunks, sends in his bill, and
flits to sunnier climes," Pointer finished the picture.
Wilmot chortled.
"Of course you, as the representative of the law, tried to
spoil it all. But nothing will undo the fact that Tangye con-
fesses he was only trying it on with the Insurance society.
He's obviously however, not the man to hang an innocent
chap. I think Tangye's genuinely shocked to find that by
trying to swindle the Company out of that insurance pay-
ment, he's tying the noose around the neck of another. He
comes forward and says very honestly that his wife told him
in so many words that she intended to kill herself."
"But she didn't!"
"Didn't kill herself? I think—in spite of many difficulties,
perplexities—that she did."
"Of course you do. No offence, Wilmot, but that's what
the Company expects you to do until actually convinced.
That's your brief."
Wilmot looked at him with surprise on his face. "Do you
mean to say that you suspect this double confession or con-
fidence, of just now? In Heaven's name, why?"
"Why should I believe it? That's more to the point."
"'Pon my word, it's too bad!" Wilmot's voice was frankly
peevish. Here was the case, his case, settled, and here was
this obstinate policeman still holding up the traffic.
"There are two sides to every question," Pointer reminded
him.
"Not to a circle. A never-ending circle, which this case
seems to be in your eyes," was Wilmot's tart rejoinder.
"Indeed? What about inside and outside?"
Wilmot laughed, almost against his will. "What makes you
doubt what we've just heard?" he asked finally.
-


144 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"My dear fellow! If Tangye had carried a banner in-
scribed, 'I'm doing a neat bit of acting. What price a brain-
wave?' It couldn't have been clearer. Miss Saunders too,
was very pleased with her star-turn. In the beginning."
They reached the station. Haviland had returned. He
now listened eagerly.
"Ah, I thought Tangye wouldn't be able to explain away
the fact of those keys!" Haviland said gleefully. "Funny
he should try to. I wonder what really did happen to them?"
"I wonder too," Pointer said. "Certain it is that Tangye
could tell us if he wished to."
"Looks as though Vardon and Tangye have an under-
standing of some sort, in fact," Haviland thought. "And
that's why Miss Saunders wanted to help him as well as
Tangye—at least, I suppose that's why. . . ."
"She's the owner of a 'one-good-turn-a-day' nature, you
think? You two chaps make me tired. Forgive my frank-
ness," Wilmot stifled a yawn, "but why cudgel your brains
for some recondite solution? Miss Saunders and Tangye
went off on Sunday. She's quite willing to snatch at any
alleviation on the sly. Like most of her sex. Tangye's
right; there's no murder here. There's suicide. And there's
possibly, but only possibly, a theft."
"Suicide? Because Mrs. Tangye saw her husband and her
companion looking at orchids together? Her sense of pro-
portion must have been out of action. Come, Wilmot, you
don't believe that yourself!"
"I believe," Wilmot said earnestly, "that Mrs. Tangye had
far more ground than that. Far more reason. That she
had fought a losing battle well and long. That finding she
was steadily being driven back, in spite of all her efforts, she
got tired of the useless struggle, and ended it. That has, up
to now, been my theory, unless it really was an accident.
Failing either of those, my own mind turns more and more
to that missing cousin of hers. The man with the love of
money and the streak of cruelty in his character. I suppose
you're getting into touch with the Frenchman, Filon?"


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 145
“Trying to. Also with Fez. There, of course, we shall
have no difficulty. They will doubtless be able to furnish
us with photographs and finger-prints of the man they shot.
The man who called himself Olivier."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 147
"A gentleman from New Scotland Yard to see you, sir,"
Bates announced immediately after the interview with
Tangye, laying Pointer's card down beside the young man
who sat reading the Araucana. In spirit back in the New
World, listening to a war-chief's song.
Fiery and fresh, the lines still hummed in his head.
"No—I—eh "Before he could collect his thoughts
sufficiently to finish his protest, Pointer was bowing to him.
Vardon did not ask what the Chief Inspector wanted. He
waited. Pointer explained himself at once.
"I'm in charge of the investigations about that missing
money. Would you mind telling me how the note which
has been traced to you, came into your possession? I ought
to tell you that a criminal charge may follow, and that, if so,
what you say may be used against you. You are quite at
liberty to refuse to answer—if you think it wise."
Vardon looked as though greatly tempted to avail himself
of the freedom. But after a moment, he told Pointer the
same story as he had the solicitor.
"And how do you explain the fact that her keys have been
found in your luggage?" the Chief Inspector asked when
the artist was silent.
"Her keys? Impossible! Mrs. Tangye's keys!" Vardon
sat open-mouthed.
Pointer said that it was true, nevertheless.
Vardon, after staring at him, as though he might be
joking, finally suggested that Mrs. Tangye must have dropped
them unnoticed on his table when she was in his room. The
artist went on to say that he had started his packing, by
shaking the tablecloth into his valise, and then throwing in
other things on top. The valise bore out this simple method.
"What hour did Mrs. Tangye come to your room?"
"About three."
"And what hour did you start packing?"
Vardon thought that he had begun about a quarter past
eleven, when he came in from a musical play to which he
had gone.


148 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"Did you have any other visitors in your rooms on Tues-
day?"
Vardon said that, as far as he knew, nobody had come to
see him.
"And now, why did you—well—decamp, when Superin-
tendent Haviland and an inspector of his called on you yester-
day morning?"
Vardon flushed hotly. Up and up, the crimson surged,
until his very ears burned a brick red against his fair hair.
"I lost my head," he said bitterly. "I wanted time to think
things over."
"And to get rid of the remainder of the notes," Pointer
finished to himself.
"Few people care to be caught in a tight corner by the
police," Vardon went on. "That note I got Mrs. Tangye to
write was in my bag. My bag had gone. Not that it's of
any value except for that precious bit of paper. You must
confess the outlook was pretty bad for me."
Naturally, since a man cannot be both hare and hound,
Pointer never considered any outlook so bad that jockey-
ing the police would better it.
"May I ask—by the way, we're verifying the whereabouts
of every one, of course—merely a matter of routine—where
you were this last Sunday?"
"Sunday?" Vardon seemed puzzled. "At a concert in
the Albert Hall."
"Meet any friends?"
"No."
"Did you go alone?"
"Yes."
"And Monday afternoon?"
"Writing letters in my diggings."
"And Tuesday afternoon, from four to six?"
Vardon waited a moment as though to be quite sure.
"I did a lot of strolling through shops generally," he said
vaguely.
"You were seen near Twickenham on a motor-bicycle


ISO THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
head on one hand. "Have you written to Mrs. Tangye
lately?" Pointer asked next.
Vardon hesitated. Palpably.
"I think I've said all on the subject that I care to say, for
the present," he said finally.
"So you did write? You did ask her for money? You
see, I've no intention of being unnecessarily prying, but we
know that you came home from South America some ten
months ago now, and approached various people in the city
with a view to interesting them in some proposition of yours.
Now it seems likely that you would have mentioned the mat-
ter to the woman who had inherited all your cousin's money.
Was the proposition a gold mine, as they say?"
"In a way. I'm afraid I can't discuss it with you." There
was a silence. "Don't think I'm keeping anything back that
can help you." Vardon went on quickly, "to my mind, what
will help you best, would be to make you realise Mrs. Tangye's
whole manner on Tuesday. She struck me as being in a
most extraordinary—I don't know what to call it—mood—
state of mind? She was paying me one thousand five hun-
dred pounds in ready money. Not being a rich woman, that
must have meant something to her. It did to me, by Jove.
Yet she gave me a feeling that she wanted to get it over, and
be at something else. I doubt if ever such a large sum was
given to a totally unexpecting person with such casual speed."
For the first time Vardon smiled a little. "She tugged the
envelope out of her handbag and handed it to me. . . ."
"One moment! Was it already in an envelope? I mean
didn't she have to separate it from any other notes?"
"No. She had two envelopes. The other looked about
the same size. She handed me the one without looking at it.
She asked me to count the money. I could hardly see. I
had to count it four times, and each time it added up to some-
thing different. So I let it go at that, and pretended to find
it correct. I had to almost hold on to her to get her to sit
down and write that note saying that it was a loan, before
she was out of the room in a sort of whirl of hurry and


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 151
flurry. / felt that way, of course. / had a hundred things
to do. But I should have expected Mrs. Tangye, or any
woman, to talk a lot. Give me some good advice. Ask
questions as to how it would be first applied. But no. All
the business part of the interview I had to force on her.
She acted as though she had handed me a ticket for Peter
Pan. I can't explain it except by her intending to kill her-
self."
"What makes you so sure?"
"This gift of the money, for one thing. I didn't see it 4
at the time in that light, naturally, but above all, her man-
ner, her air of being done with things. Finished with them.
I can't express clearly what made me think that. For, after
that loan of the money, the rest was a confused jumble, but
the impression was made very clearly.
"One thing I'm certain of. If it wasn't suicide, then it
was accident. Mrs. Tangye struck me as just the kind of
woman to have an accident with a weapon. She was very
hasty in her movements. Very impatient. I can imagine
her snatching at something that caught in her laces, and giv-
ing a pull. Thank God, if the shot had to be fatal, at least,
it was instantaneous." And at that Varden walked to the
window to raise it.
As he did so, he all but tripped. It was but a second's
catch in his step, but Pointer, like Wilmot, thought of those
words of the maid.
"And what exactly was it that made you change your
mind on Tuesday about going on to see her? When you
were so near Riverview."
"I thought it seemed rather ridiculous. Like an inter-
change of state visits. She had been to see me at three. I
to run in to see her at five. I didn't want her to think that I
was going to sit in her pocket."
"You didn't pass the house?"
"No."
"Do you know the companion at Riverview?"
Vardon started. Whether because of the question, or be-


152 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
cause his mind was on something else, it was impossible to
tell.
"No."
"My I ask the name of the friend who lives out Twicken-
ham way?"
"You may not. Sorry."
Pointer was fairly certain that it was Barbara Ash.
"Mr. Vardon, we want nothing in the world, nothing,"
Pointer spoke very convincingly, "but to get at the truth
about the death of Mrs. Tangye. That's the only reason, I
assure you, why I ask unpleasant questions, dig up uncom-
fortable things, and generally make myself a confounded
nuisance. The only things I'm interested in, the only things
I remember, are what help on the search. A search for truth,
remember. Truth and justice. Nothing else.
"You say you think Mrs. Tangye's death was a suicide.
I don't. But if you could convince yourself that we don't
want you, or any man, unless he's guilty, we might be able
to help each other.
"If you're guilty, of course you must do the best for
yourself you can. I think I should get you in the end,"
Pointer gave the other a knife-like look. "But if you're
innocent, I assure you that no one—not even the girl you
were going to see Tuesday 'out Twickenham way,' can
want more earnestly to prove you so. For that means a
step nearer to the right man, the guilty man."
It was a long speech for Pointer. But it had done its
work—apparently. Vardon seemed in a more friendly mood.
"You mean I'm as suspect as all that?"
"Frankly, things look very black against you."
"But how could there be a murder here? Why? Mrs.
Tangye wasn't the kind of a woman to stir people to violent
emotion either way, I should have thought. She seemed a
nice, warm-hearted, hot-tempered, high-spirited woman."
Why hot-tempered and high-spirited, Pointer wondered.
"You say, she wasn't the kind of woman to stir people
deeply," the Chief Inspector repeated. "I'm afraid the fact


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 153
that she very likely had some fifteen hundred pounds, on, or
near her, last Tuesday afternoon, and that they may have
thought she had three thousand with her, would stir some
hearts to their very foundations."
Vardon showed an aghast face. He asked about the
money. Pointer told him the outlines of the land sale, and
then questioned him about his work.
Vardon spoke interestingly of it. He had started out
as a painter of portraits in Buenos Aires. Come down to
barns, fences, and signposts in Argentina, then, so he told
Pointer—drifted to Patagonia, taken up photography when
he had a frozen right wrist that refused to limber up—and
now was working as a film photographer of wild animals.
Of the creatures that live lives so like, yet so unlike our
own.
Pointer asked him whether he could change his own film
camera into one that would carry plates, and the two dis-
cussed mechanical means. Vardon showed an expert's skill
in taking a kodak to pieces that he drew out of his pocket,
and re-assembling it.
Finally Pointer questioned him about the lost bag. Var-
don did not seem in a hurry to let him have the details.
"I'm afraid it's gone for good. Left in the taxi probably.
Fortunately, except for that paper of Mrs. Tangye's, there
was nothing of value in it."
"Rather an important exception," Pointer said dryly. He
had ascertained that the young man had not acted as though
there was nothing of any value in the bag when he first
learned of its disappearance.
"Very much so," Vardon agreed. "I thought I gave it to
the page-boy when I drove up. But they deny that. I was
paying the cabby at the time, who was slow about making
the right change. Then in the lounge, after a room had been
given me, I stayed down looking up time-tables and compar-
ing routes. It must have been nearly half an hour later that
I finally went upstairs. Even then I didn't miss the bag at
once. When I did, I ran downstairs but the hotel denied all


154 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
knowledge of it. We got a bit warm, and I went off to an-
other hotel."
"Did you go back to the firsts one afterwards to inquire?"
"I did, naturally. I asked for the manager. And the band
played the same tune as before. Hall porter, lift-boy,
chamber-maid, and reception-clerk. I think on the whole,
now I'm cooler, that they're doubtless right. I must have
left it in the cab or at my old diggings. Or on the pave-
ment outside while I waited for the taxi to come up."
Pointer knew that on Wednesday morning, Vardon had
made every effort to get the bag traced. He had telephoned
Scotland Yard about its loss, describing its contents as chiefly
papers of no value except to the owner but offering a reward
of five pounds for its return. He had sent a similar an-
nouncement to be inserted in the personals of the Morning
Post. His message to the "Lost" department had been very
urgent. He had spoken as though greatly concerned to
recover the bag. Now he professed himself quite prepared
to accept its loss as a definite fact. Yet, in it, so he claimed,
was this important paper. Pointer thought that Vardon on
the whole, would prefer the bag not to be found. And the
Chief Inspector wondered why. Was the paper, the import-
ant half-sheet, with Mrs. Tangye's words on it, really in the
bag? If so, was it accompanied by other papers of which he
wished the police to remain in ignorance?"
Had there been a bag at all, or had there not?
Pointer's last questions were about Tangye. Vardon said
he knew him fairly weU. Had he approached him about this
"gold mine" of his in South America? Vardon at once
said that he had written to ask if the subject would interest
him, and had received a pleasant but definite letter saying
that Tangye never speculated or went in for possibly risky
investments. As to Riverview itself, Vardon had spent
many a week there as a lad. It had belonged to his grand-
parents. —
Pointer spoke of Oliver Headly. Vardon had met him
once by chance on a boat crossing to South America about


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 155
eight years ago, and taken a great dislike to the man whom
he spoke of as a disgrace to his race.
Did he know what had become of him? Vardon said that
save for'the fact that he had made Latin America too hot
to hold him, he had heard nothing of him.
Pointer found Haviland waiting for him at the Yard. Os-
tensibly with some housebreaker's finger-prints to be verified,
but in reality to hear how the interview had gone. He had
no doubt as to the guilty man. Vardon's flight, he thought,,
meant just that. And his explanations, he considered very
poor.
"In fact, I never saw a poorer case," he repeated now for
the third time. "The money traced to him. He confesses to
having the whole of the missing sum, and he takes good care
to get it into the hands of a confederate. Keys of her safe
and doors found in his possession. Proof that he knows the
dead woman's companion. Proof that he was seen hanging
around the house at the time of the death. Why, it's a cert,
for a fact!"
"Dorset Steele's a good man," Pointer murmured, "no
better criminal solictor in town." The wording was ambigu-
ous, but Haviland agreed.
"Still, not all the lawyers' brains in the Kingdom can talk
away facts. But it's odd he doesn't seem to give a damn
for the bag now. It should be all important to him, and
that's a fact. But with, or without it, his solicitor'll have
his work cut out to get him off, if you choose to have him
arrested."
"That's just it." Pointer seemed finally convinced that
his boot tips had nothing more to tell him. "That's just it,
Haviland. Send Vardon up for trial, and accuse him of Mrs.
Tangye's murder, and I doubt if he'd have a dog's chance
of getting off without at least penal servitude for life."
"You don't think he's guilty, sir? Not after those keys?"
It was not so much a question as an exclamation.
"I don't know yet."
"Well, I can't see what answer he could make to such a


156 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
charge, in fact," Haviland said in a distinctly disappointed
tone. Visions of returning with Vardon handcuffed fading
from his mind. He bore the young man a grudge. He had
all but cost Henry Haviland his official life.
Dorset Steele was thinking very much what Haviland was
saying as he ordered his lunch. He sat staring at his meat
with such a suspicious air, that the waiter hovered near
anxiously.
"Tough job!" muttered the solicitor, stabbing at the plate
with his fork.
"Tough chop?" repeated Smithers horrified. "Indeed,
sir?" and whisking it off, he retired in person to the grill.
Dorset Steele gulped down a glass of port, followed it with
boiled potatoes, and rising, under the impression that he had
had his usual meal, passed out.
"Miss Barbara waiting to see you, sir," he was told at his
office. A young girl who looked about twenty—she was six
years older—light of foot as Atalanta ran up to him.
"I couldn't get to you before, grandfather, how did it go?
Will he be all right?"
"Nice muddle you've got the firm into," he said testily.
"The young man is guilty."
"Guilty of stealing that money? Oh, no! No!"
"If he can't find the bag, supposing he's definitely arrested,
that's what the jury will say, and that's all that matters!"
Barbara pulled a chair up, stood on it, and laid her cheek
against his wild, gray hair.
"How you frightened me till I remembered it was only
you! Now tell me all—everything."
He told her, peering at her every now and then over his
glasses. She was a pleasant sight. A pretty girl, if the
term be not taken too strictly. She was tall, slender, erect;
with bright brown eyes, bright brown hair, a bright pink and
white complexion, bright rose-red lips, a bright smile, and
one beauty. A laugh of rare charm. Like silver bells ring-
ing in the sunlight. But she was not laughing now. Dorset
Steele had been to see Pointer. The Chief Inspector had


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 157
been frank as to the larger charge that hovered as yet dimly
in the background, but which was to move slowly, inexor-
ably, to the foreground of its own weight as it were. Bar-
bara listened in silence. She was breathing fast and tense
when the solicitor had finished.
"You think his having been seen near Riverview at that
hour so bad? Grandfather? We live near there, you
know," her voice quivered, "wouldn't it explain matters if
people knew that Phil and I had just got engaged—secretly?
Suppose Mrs. Tangye had guessed that, and for that
reason wanted to help him—and me. Philip only asked fot
the money so as to marry me, you know."
"Eh?" Dorset Steele wheeled, and stood looking at her
like a rook inspecting a Jenny Wren. Then he took a turn
up and down, his hands under his coat-tails that flapped in
time to his tread.
"You'll break down when you're cross-questioned. For
this case may yet go before a jury. You'll break down, and
then where will we be? Worse off than ever! The
jury"
"I shan't break down. Phil asked me to marry him many
times. And I—I "she hung her head. Two bright
drops rolled slowly over her soft young cheeks. "I don't
want to tell a lie, but I must, oh, I must save him! In my
heart I said yes. Surely I can truthfully say I accepted him.
I did in my heart. Where's my bag, my hanky's in it"
"M-m," mumbled the solicitor gruffly, but wiping the tears
off with a very tender touch. "Yes—that might be a help.
He was hovering around Twickenham on Tuesday to see
you? I guessed as much."
"Oh, yes! That's quite true."
"It's all quite true, or it's of no use," snapped Dorset
Steele. "And that about Mrs. Tangye—yes—yes—that might
help. But what about yourself ?" he shot the question at her
savagely. "What about yourself, heigh? All the notoriety?
All the ordeal? Though you've grit in you. What about
yourself, child?"


158 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"Oh, grandfather," the girl, quite undismayed by his glare,
caught hold of his coat with both hands and buried her face
between them, "if you save him you save all of me. I was
such a pig to him! I thought he was too easy-going, too
contented. I thought he needed waking up. I only talked
to him about money—money—money, every time he asked
me to marry him. The last time I jeered at him because he
was poor."
"Are you going to tell that to any jury?" stormed Dorset
Steele, apparently beside himself with indignation, but pat-
ting the back of one brown little hand. "Because, if you
are, it's all up with him. There's the motive. Don't you
see?" This time he released himself resolutely. "Barbara,
my dear, are you sure he's innocent?"
She did not raise her head. "Grandfather, you know he's
innocent!" And even the keen old lawyer did not notice
that she had not answered his question.
"M-m, well, perhaps I think so—but you see his father and
I were old friends—" then the solicitor shook off his momen-
tary weakness, "but the only question that concerns us, is
what will the jury think? Now put your bonnet on, and 11l
take you to see him. If you've thought it over. Weighed
the consequences. Heaven knows what your mother will
say when she hears of it!"
"Put my what on? What do you suppose this is 7" Bar-
bara touched the velvet tarn o'shanter she wore. "I'm ready.
As to mother—she's still in Yorkshire."
According to all novelists, Barbara ought to have stopped
to use her powder-puff before starting off. She did
not own that apparently inevitable adjunct to every woman.
Certainly Philip Vardon noticed nothing amiss as the
door swung open and Dorset Steele barking: "I've brought
some one to see you," shut it, and walked the landing out-
side.
Vardon started up. Pointer had only just left him. He
leapt forward; then he took a step back.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 159
"You oughtn't to've come, Barby. But, how like you!
How like you!"
"Phil, dear Phil!" It was she who ran to him and put
both arms around his neck. "Ybu poor dear boy! You
poor darling!"
And after that Vardon took the goods the gods provide
but once in a life, and the two were tragically happy. Sens-
ing danger, yet content for the moment, till a harsh, irascible,
cough sounded outside.
"It's my grandfather. I must go. Now, remember, we
got engaged last Saturday on the links. I asked you not to
tell any one."
"It was to see you I biked down to Kew, Tuesday after-
noon. I wanted to tell you what had happened!" He stood
looking into the face he thought so lovely.
"I wish you had come to the house," she sighed.
"Unfortunately I remembered that you had said that on
Tuesday you were going to your aunt's at Hampton Court,
so I didn't ring. I didn't want to meet your mother. Not
after the last interview I had with her."
"Mother's a darling. But she knows so little of life.
She doesn't know how to judge," explained her aged daughter.
There fell a dead silence. Barbara wished that she had not
used that last word. The door opened with considerable dif-
ficulty.
"Ready?" growled Dorset Steele, and started ahead down
the passage.
Barbara took a 'bus back to her home. With every turn
of the wheels her heart grew heavier. She had told her
grandfather that Vardon was innocent, but she felt a sicken-
ing doubt as she thought over the whole position. Now that
she was alone by herself. Away from that atmosphere of
suspense, and pity, and dread. The doubt came first when
her thoughts again ran over their talk last Saturday. It
had been on the Richmond links.
Vardon had asked her to marry him. There was another,


162 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
than I do for you, but at least he can ask a girl to marry
without being ridiculous. And you can't. Not as things
stand. Sorry not to finish the round, but I'm tired."
She meant that she was cross.
"Look here!" he said hotly. "You quote your father. I
wonder what he would say to giving up the round in a fit
of sulks?"
Privately Barbara wondered too. But she had an answer
ready. What woman ever runs completely out of that am-
munition?
"After your language when you sliced into those briars,
I think he would advise it," she said primly. The very hedge
itself fell back a foot.
Suddenly she laughed. After all youth is youth. Var-
don joined in, and they finished the round in at least neutral-
ity. When it was over he held a gate shut that led to the
high road.
"If I had money, Barby, should I be in the running? If
I were prosperous, and all that, would you marry me?"
"It isn't the money, though it does take that to live nowa-
days. It's all that not having money stands for."
"There's that pamphlet of mine on South American liz-
ards . . ."he began.
"Finished?" She turned on him with an eager light in her
dark eyes. At the look on his face Barbara flushed in vexa-
tion. She would have liked to shake him. Shake him till
the cloak of take-things-as-they-came should drop off him.
"I see," she said in a low tone. "Not finished, still!"
"Hang it all, writing isn't like hurdy-gurdy, that you
turn the handle."
"I think a hurdy-gurdy more to be respected. It would
mean effort. You don't make any. You never have! If
we married, people would say that it was / who married you!"
Barbara thought again of her last glimpse of him. His face
had not looked easy-going at that moment. Vaguely even
then, the girl had felt that instead of doing good she had done
harm.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 163
She had meant to prod Philip's better nature awake. Had
she prodded the other side of him instead? It was Barbara's
first qualm on that score. Her first lesson gainst improving
her fellow-mortals. But she had felt so sure that deep within
careless, easy-going Philip Vardon lay a man, generally fast
asleep, who sometimes, at rare intervals, had walked and
talked with her. It was that seldom seen, other Vardon,
who had captured her. He was not in the least like the lazy
casual fellow with whom she generally had to be content.
She began to realise that there are at least three sides to
everybody. The best, the worst, and that serviceable mix-
ture of both, the everyday. In striving to rouse the best
had she stirred up the worst? Even last Saturday she had
been vaguely uneasy.
Barbara trembled as she stared out of the 'bus window.
Did she love Vardon? She was not sure. Not at this
moment. A little while ago, talking to her grandfather of
his peril, in the room with him, seeing his worn face, an
overwhelming rush of feeling, such as she had never dreamt
of, had swept her away, in spite of herself as it were. But
now? Now that she could lose sight of his danger, her
thoughts swung around to herself. Had she been quite
honest on Saturday with her talk of money as the test of
character? She sat thinking awhile. Barbara had a shrewd
inner vision. There was good stuff in her. Her mother
wanted her to marry Edgar Spiers. Edgar was well off.
She had thought that she wanted to follow her heart, and
marry Vardon, provided she could wake him up to work
harder. What she had really wanted, she saw it now, was to
marry both a man with money, and the man she—if not loved
—was attracted to. It was not him whom she had tried to
help, but herself. Yes, herself. She wanted to marry him,
and at the same time marry well. She did not spare her
feelings. And what was the result of her efforts? With
cold terror she realised that Philip Vardon, who, if left to
himself would never have hurt a fellow creature, would
possibly, probably, be shortly accused of murder. Accused


164 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
of it. Could he be guilty? She did not think so. But in
this sudden white honesty that flamed through her, she knew
that whatever she might appear before man, before God she
felt a doubt. A doubt which would prevent her marrying
him. She would fight for him till he got out from under this
awful cloud, but then she would have to take stock of where
she stood. All the passionate side of her nature he touched.
All that side, that has to do with self-sacrifice, with pity, he
now called towards him. But Barbara knew she would need
more than this. She would not marry Philip until she was
absolutely certain that he was innocent. But no one should
know that.


CHAPTER IX
Po1nter too, was making for Kew, also for the home of
Sir Richard Ash, in his quality as one-time partner of Var-
don's cousin.
The house inside showed the unmistakable signs of a large
family, and small means. But the comfortable, untidy,
drawing-room struck a pleasanter note than many a prettier
one.
It rang of happy hours.
Sir Richard was a small, dapper man, with eyes alert and
bright.
"I suppose your call has to do with my late partner's un-
fortunate cousin," he began without preamble, once the greet-
ings were over and Pointer seated, "Mr. Dorset Steele tele-
phoned us of his trouble."
The door opened, and Barbara came in. She had just
got back.
She was about to leave the two alone with a murmured
word of apology, when her eyes fell on the stranger's card
that Sir Richard Ash had laid on a table near the door.
"Oh!" she came closer, "are you—is that"
"I'm from New Scotland Yard," Pointer said with a bow.
He thought that she had one' of the most taking faces that
he had ever seen. Her eyes, at once fearless and penetrat-
ing, rested on his in a mute question.
"Oh, Mr. Chief Inspector, have you found out yet if it
was—an accident?"
"My dear!" her father said gently, but she kept her eyes
on the detective officer.
Pointer was moved by that look.
165


166 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"Perhaps I could tell you something "she began,
"something about Mr. Vardon. You know, we're engaged?"
"My dear!" her father said again gently.
Pointer looked at her very kindly. Nothing short of
absolute necessity would have made him question her. He,
who knew so well what snares his questions often held!
Not willingly would he lay the burden on her young heart
of wondering afterwards if it had been something that she
had said, or failed to say, which had led her lover to his death.
For, it might yet come to that.
"I think I shan't need to trouble you," Pointer said easily,
"but thank you for the offer."
Her father looked relieved. She only watched the more
intently, trying to read what lay behind the words. A little
of the truth she guessed, and went very white.
"There's nothing like routine-work in a case of this kind,"
Pointer assured her. "And perhaps if I might speak to
Sir Richard"
"Alone," chirped Sir Richard in great relief, "my dear—
the Chief Inspector's time"
"But daddy, you can't tell him as much as I can."
Pointer saw that there was nothing for it but the truth.
"It's this way. Suppose you wished afterwards you'd
put things differently, mightn't it worry you? I don't think
it would be quite fair to you, just because you and Mr.
Vardon are engaged."
She said no more, and left them. It might seem a dread-
ful thing of which to suspect a nice girl, but the Chief
Inspector would have been unwilling to bet on the point,
so certain did it seem to him, that outside, with her ear
against the door jamb, Miss Ash would have been found.
"How long has Miss Ash been engaged?"
Now that was just the question at issue between Barbara
and her parents. Sir Richard always attributed it to the
wonderful intuition of woman that Barbara hugged him
quite especially that night. He replied:
"She tells us that they became engaged about a week ago.


168 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
sure to make another. Yet in her case, it seems to've done
no harm."
Pointer hoped that the architect's saw would come true in
this case. He certainly intended to do his best to see that
Mrs. Tangye's funeral should be followed by another—that of
her murderer.
The Chief Inspector found Wilmot at the police station,
chatting to Haviland.
"Vardon's alibi is rotten." Haviland spoke cheerfully.
"As for his box-camera he says he sold it to a man he met in
the train a month ago for a fiver. Hard up for an excuse!
In fact, he fits the theory we now have of the murder to a T,
sir."
"All but the preparations on Mrs. Tangye's part for his
unseen arrival," Pointer said in his unmoved way. "A most
important 'but,' Haviland. Otherwise, I agree that he fits,
supposing his story to be false. For obviously Mrs. Tangye
wouldn't have gone openly to the man's room who, a couple
of hours' later, was to come so secretly to Riverview, in order
to hand him a sum of money she could just as easily have
given him at her own house."
"Hence the yarn, you think?" Haviland asked.
"Possibly. But on the other hand, if Vardon's telling the
truth, and she did go to Fulham, did give him the money to
use for them both, the account he gives of her fits in with
what we know of the rest of Mrs. Tangye's actions last Tues-
day. Her rush would be not to be too late for that most
important appointment in the Riverview morning-room. An
appointment for which she had prepared so well. The dis-
trait manner which Vardon mentions would be due to it. So
on the whole, until we learn of something that shakes his
story, or that would explain why he should be expected to
come by the French windows, and not by the front door, I
accept it."
"What he told you fits in most of all with suicide," Wil-
mot reminded him.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 169
Pointer shot him an ironic glance.
"I don't see the Insurance Company's advocate seeing it,
if it didn't."
"Any more than I can see a crime here—yet," Wilmot
said seriously. "That little point he told you about Mrs.
Tangye picking up her pen with her left hand shows what
happened. She fired that shot too with her left hand. Or
she had an accident while holding it in her left hand. Var-
don's no criminal. Apart from every moral consideration,
he hasn't the brains for such a crime as you're postulating."
And here Pointer rather agreed. Though with reserva-
tions. Criminals have odd pockets of cunning, which even
a trained eye may overlook in a first summing up of their
character.
Haviland glanced up from his papers.
"I tried that speech of yours on the tea-room manageress.
She crumpled."
"What rune was this?" Wilmot asked. "Does Pointer go
in for incantations? Pray lend it to me. I'm off to see
my tailor."
But Pointer, it seemed, had only told Haviland to ask if it
were true, as Miss Saunders maintained, that she had been
wearing a purple cloak on Tuesday. The manageress had
fallen into the trap, and said that she had been.
"The more I seemed to doubt Miss Saunders having really
worn that cloak—she hasn't such a thing in her wardrobe,
of course—the more the woman remembered it. Well, of
course, that does for the alibi. Once a liar always a liar.
And that's a fact. The two women have put their heads
together, and concocted it. That's what happened. As a
matter of fact, I don't believe now that Miss Saunders was
either at the tea-rooms or in the library last Tuesday after-
noon between four and six."
Haviland looked half-uneasy at the boldness of his own
thoughts, but Wilmot and Pointer only nodded, as though
each had already reached that point some time ago.


170 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Barbara meanwhile was discussing the man in charge of
the case with her grandfather. i
"Looks to be a bit off-colour," Dorset Steele said moodily.
He was sitting with his latest stamp between his fingers.
The solicitor collected.
"Does he?" in tones of horror.
"Don't you think so?" He held out a Sandwich Island
gem. Barbara covered it promptly with the ash tray. A
present from herself, which the solicitor regularly produced
during her visits, and which he as regularly forgot to use.
"I'm speaking of the Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard.
He seems so tied by what he calls routine."
"Huh!" snorted Dorset Steele, almost blowing the stamp
off the table. "Routine, indeed! that's what he called his
work in that Mailing affair last year. Would Mailing have
come out with the truth and ruined our whole defence if
Pointer hadn't "Dorset Steele broke off too indignant to
continue, though Barbara heard a muttered "Bottle of ginger-
beer indeed! Our best witness!" Snatching up a lens, the
solicitor examined a purchase viciously.
"He's a good man," he admitted finally, grudgingly. "His
evidence always carries tremendous weight with any judge
and jury."
"I'm going to go to the hotel in the city where Phil went,
and I'm going to hunt there for that bag of his," Barbara
said suddenly. "Of course it's there. He says he saw it
taken in by one of the lift-boys. I'm sure I can find it. He
pretends now that he doesn't want me to bother. That it's
not worth finding, but that's only to save me worrying."
Dorset Steele was sure she could not find it. Pointer had
telephoned to him only a little while ago, that two of Scot-
land Yard's men had failed to trace it. He knew, though
Pointer had rung off, that the Yard were searching taxis
and left-luggage places. But he thought any diversion good
for Barbara.
"I never heard of a madder idea!" he said crossly, and
Barbara only smiled. She sped down to the hotel. To the


172 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
gage insurance company from whom Vardon was claiming
the value of the bag.
Nothing was to be seen that even distantly resembled the
article in question. The lift-boy who had taken over after
the first one went off duty was next summoned. His an-
swer to Pointer's question, as to what he would do if he
found any overlooked luggage left on the top floor landing,
was that he would bring it down.
"I'd place it in the lift, like I always do if it's there, and
either come down with it if I'd the time, or the night porter
'd haul it down when the lift was next wanted. Either way,
nothing couldn't get lost. You can't lose luggage in this
hotel, sir, not if you tried!"
"There's no light by the lift on the top floor."
"The lamp in the corridor is enough. You don't need light
to get in or take out luggage. All you want is to see the num-
ber on 'em. And the corridor lamp is good enough for that."
Pointer nodded. He had done with the boy. He now
asked for the lift's mechanician, and a ladder. Together
the two mounted on top of the cage. The workman flashed
a repairer's lamp around. There, hidden from view by
a deep ornamental border, lay a brown kit-bag, marked
P. V.
"That's what I'm after!" Pointer picked it up, and gave
a receipt—on a luggage insurance company's paper—to the
hall porter.
What had happened must have been that the first boy left
the bag on the top landing by an oversight. The second boy,
seeing the number of a room on a lower floor chalked on it,
had heaved it into the lift as he thought, but on to the lift as it
turned out, which had already been sent down. The dim
light, and dark shaft had at once suggested this to Pointer.
No man but an absolutely fearless one rises high, either at
Scotland Yard, or in the Force. Yet Pointer held his very
breath as he tiptoed past the coffee-room door, at which Bar-
bara was casting constant glances.
His footsteps would not have disturbed a tigress with a


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 173
wounded cub. But Barbara heard them. She darted out
into the hall just as he was arranging a message to be de-
livered to her later—much later.
"You've got the bag? Phil's bag? Oh, well done."
Pointer made the best of what he considered a very bad
job, and let her accompany him back to his car. Nothing but
actual violence would have torn her from his find. He span
out the tale of his discovery to the utmost as they drove along.
"You're taking it to Mr. Vardon, of course?"
"Of course!" Pointer echoed loftily as though nothing
in the world could ever induce him to trifle with, or detain,
another's property. "But I think we'll just call in and tell
Mr. Dorset Steele its found. He's on our way."
"I want to be there when it's opened." Barbara's fine little
nostrils were quivering like a filly's with eagerness.
Pointer was very official.
"I'm afraid this kind of thing—routine work—must be
done as routine," he said stiffly. "I think you can trust
Mr. Dorset Steele to state the case accurately to you after-
wards."
Barbara seemed duly crushed as he had hoped.
"Where would you like me to put you down?" he asked as
they came in sight of the solicitor's office.
"My bank is quite close," she suggested pleasantly. It
was next door. Pointer glanced sharply at her, but Bar-
bara was counting some change in her purse with the look of
incredulous and pained surprise which that operation gener-
ally calls forth on a woman's face. Her whole air was
business-like. Absorbed.
She shook hands with him and tripped into the lobby. To
run swiftly through a passage, out the other side, up a back
stair and into the office of Dorset Steele. She tried the knob
of his private office. It was locked.
"No one can come in!" snapped Dorset Steele's voice.
"It's me, grandfather," she said meekly. He made no
reply.
The head clerk who had witnessed her mad swoop upon


174 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
the inner room, proffered a paper. Barbara wrapt herself
in it haughtily, blinking to keep back the tears.
"Phil's bag! I know they're opening it without waiting
for him!" So, she was not to be there. To see his vindica-
tion. She wanted to read that piece of paper more than any
of them could. It would be balm to her quivering, doubt-
tormented spirit.
The door was finally unbolted. Barbara was in like a
wind-driven bird.
"Well?" she asked, "well?" For there stood the bag in
the centre of the table. "Have you opened it? Without
Philip?"
"A pretty state of things!" fumed Dorset Steele, putting an
arm around her. "My private door practically forced open
like"
"Did you find it?" she asked in quivering suspense.
"A paper signed Mable Tangye giving Mr. Vardon the
money to invest for her, is here all right, Miss Ash," Pointer
reassured her.
"Then, what's wrong?" she asked her grandfather, looking
searchingly into his face, "what's wrong?"
"Nothing!" he snapped, dropping his arm, and turning
away.
Barbara's gaze grew more agonised.
"I think you'd better explain, sir," Pointer said quietly.
He opened the bag again; he lifted out an envelope.
"There's the paper giving him the use of the money. But
would you say that was written by Mrs. Tangye?" he asked
Barbara reluctantly.
Barbara stared at it. Her eyes blurred.
"I—I don't know her writing well enough to say."
"It's not like any specimens which Mr. Dorset Steele and
I have," Pointer explained. "And it's written with Mr.
Vardon's stylograph. And on his paper. The last is natural
of course. So is the pen, perhaps, but that writing?"
He eyed it very hard.
"I know you'll take his word "she began. It was a


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 175
silly sentence. But she was speaking as much to her own
heart as to Pointer. She turned to him, confident of being
met half-way. Then she stared. He had altered. She had
thought his eyes kind; they were steel. For the first time
Barbara sensed that the man beside her was by nature a
close-in fighter. The cut of his nostrils, the set of his lips,
the very bone formation of his good-looking face, would have
told a skilled observer as much at a glance. But for the
first time in her knowledge of him, the invincible, fiery, es-
sence of the spirit was flaming through the calm exterior of
the man.
Instinct told her that nothing would move the Chief In-
spector to alter the course which he thought the true one, by
the breadth of an atom. She was right, nothing would.
He seemed to her suddenly very awful. Very terrible.
She would not be the first who had had cause to think
him so.
She looked dumbly at her grandfather.
"The Chief Inspector believes it's a forgery," he said
curtly.
Pointer did not go as far as that, he only considered a
forgery as possible.
Barbara sat down. She felt faint. What was this law
that never seemed satisfied? She thought of the gulls that
she had fed only this morning on the Embankment. Their
stretched necks and greedy eyes intent on more, always more.
Cruel and insatiable by some law of their very being. Re-
morseless.
"Philip's clever with his pen," she said swiftly, "if he had
wanted to copy Mrs. Tangye's writing, he'd have done it
better than that."
Her grandfather's eyes stopped her. Dorset Steele looked
as though he were going to bite.
"We maintain that it was written with Mrs. Tangye's left
hand, and as such would naturally show great differences,"
the solicitor said at once.
"Leaving that on one side for the moment. As we three


.176 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
are together, and since Mr. Vardon hasn't got here yet—.
we telephoned to him to come on," Pointer explained to
Barbara—"there's another point I'd like to ask you about,
Miss Ash."
"You don't need to answer, mind!" Dorset Steele threw in.
"A man came to Twickenham police station this morn-
ing. To see the Superintendent. He spends his free after-
noons going over the fields close to Richmond golf links
with his dog picking lost balls. It seems he heard you and
Mr. Vardon together last Saturday afternoon. He was out
of sight, he says, behind a thicket at the time. According to
him, Mr. Vardon was speaking as though he hadn't any
certainty that you would marry him. Yet you told us that
you had become engaged some days before then."
Pointer stopped Barbara with a gesture as cautionary as
her grandfather's might have been.
"I don't want you to answer without thinking very care-
fully over your reply. According to this man, Mr. Vardon
spoke unwillingly of a screw that he could turn—if need be—
which would let him make a good deal of money. According
to this man, you called over your shoulder as you moved
away, out of earshot, that if so, he had better turn it, and turn
it hard. Now, if you care to explain this conversation when
you've thought over your answers—they are very important,
Miss Ash—I would like to hear what you have to say.
You're not bound in any way to reply, as Mr. Dorset Steele,
here says, but if you should care to clear the points up—that
about the date of your engagement, as to whether Mr. Var-
don did make any such remark, and you such a re-
joinder"
"The man misunderstood the whole thing," Barbara said
quickly. "Mr. Vardon and I had—well—had a quarrel.
I was in a horrid temper. Things had been rubbing it in to
me what marrying a poor man meant"
'Lady Ash would not have cared to hear herself alluded to
as "things." "Philip has the sweetest, kindest temper in
the world. I was a perfect little beast to him. Oh, a perfect


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 177
toad. Simply too loathsome for words. I goaded him into
saying those words. Of course, he didn't mean anything.
And, of course, I knew he didn't mean anything!"
"The man heard incorrectly. No such words in fact,
were spoken," interrupted Dorset Steele in such stentorian
tones that his clerk in the next room jumped. "Will you
hold your tongue, Barbara!"
Barbara shook her head.
"If this story is going about, it had better be faced. It's
just luck that the only time such a phrase was ever used,
was when there was an eavesdroppr. It was Banks, wasn't
it?" she asked. "Father of Bobby Banks, whom we had to
discharge. He was one of the caddies." Barbara was
honorary secretary of the golf club run by the G.F.S.
"Exactly. The man had a grudge, and magnified some
trifle," Dorset Steele nodded energetically.
"Mr. Vardon refused to see me this morning," Pointer
said after a pause.
"On my instructions," snapped the solicitor.
"Pity. He might be able to straighten this little tangle out
by one word."
"My experience is that one word only ties tangles tighter."
In his irritation Dorset Steele' was getting as alliterative as
a Skald.
"You still think it's safer not to let him talk to me?"
Pointer asked.
"Safer? You mean wiser. Certainly. Look at this
whole conversation "the solicitor evidently considered it
a sorry sight. "The case is going to the dogs."
Pointer, without glancing at Barbara, rose.
"If you'll excuse me, I'll smoke a pipe outside."
He thought that the girl needed a respite.
In silence Barbara stretched a hand up to her grandfather's
shoulder and side by side the two stood looking into the
fire.
She saw a dark enough picture. He saw a worse one
still.


.178 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"Did I—did I bungle things?" she asked at last, under
her breath. "The truth seemed best."
"Truth!" the solicitor snorted. "This conversation on
the links"
"If only it hadn't happened," she said sadly.
"If only it hadn't been overheard, it could have been kept
from the jury!" he muttered. "Well, when you see your
Philip next, try to din a few elementary facts into his head.
Truth is what it's best for the other side to believe," he re-
peated forcefully.
"You'll never din that into his head. Nor into mine either,
I'm afraid."
Pointer came in again. He still had the bag with him.
Now he placed it on a table behind the door.
"Nothing is to be said about that, until the door is closed."
He took up a place at the window, Steps were heard out-
side. Coming up the stairs. They were on the first floor.
Suddenly there came a little halt in them. A sort of catch.
Then they went on again. The door opened. Vardon came
in. He looked older, leaner. Barbara felt with a sudden
pang that she would give all that she possessed to see again
that sunny, all's-well-with-the-world look on his face. She
watched him with misty eyes. Had she turned an innocent
man into a criminal? Was it possible that she had egged
him on, talked him on, nagged him on to She hated
herself for the terrible doubt but it was there. Not of the
man as he would have been had she let him alone, but of the
man whose nerves she might have worn down with her con-
stant reproachings, exhortations for many months now. Had
he—the stranger—done this thing?
Vardon's eyebrows lifted as he shook hands with the two
of them.
"We've found the bag that went astray," Pointer said
cheerfully. "Just look through it, and see if everything's
there. It's unlocked, as you said."
Vardon started. He looked swiftly, not at the bag, but
first at Pointer and then at the solicitor. The bag came


182 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
new one when he left. He must have forgotten this. It's
his, all right. I mended those pockets for him once myself."
Pointer laid it over his arm and thanked her. Then he
stayed on chatting. He learnt nothing about the artist from
the woman. Vardon's had been a quiet, unobtrusive figure
in the house, liked, but hardly noticed.
He switched the talk to Mrs. Tangye's accidental death.
The manageress remembered reading the case in the papers.
She had had no idea that her late lodger knew the lady.
"He more than knew her. He was a relation. There's a
regular family row raging just now because he says he wasn't
told of her death till he saw it in the papers. The family say
that one of 'em came here that same evening—last Tuesday
—and left a message for him."
Pointer wanted to find out whether the keys found in Var-
don's luggage might have been left on his table, as he al-
leged, though not necessarily by Mrs. Tangye. Florence
was still as certain as ever that she had noticed them on the
desk at Riverview at four—after Mrs. Tangye's last outing.
"I didn't hear of any message. But, of course, in a
house like this. . . ."
"Under a management like this," Pointer amended mentally.
"Still, if any one at all called last Tuesday evening, it
would likely have been about the death. I expect it was a
lady," he hazarded.
"A lady did call here last Tuesday for Vardon"—a young
man lounged in for some change for the telephone. "She
waited in a car outside for him. As I came up the steps she
bent forward and asked me, if by chance, I knew whether
Mr. Vardon were in. I glanced up at his windows, saw a
light, and told her he was. She sat back with a grunt—but
without a thankee."
"Pretty woman? Young? Fair-haired?"
"Look here! I'm off!" the stranger backed out laughing.
"No, no! It's all right. She's a rising cinema star. Is
she as pretty as they say?"


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 183
"If she's a star, she belongs to the Milky Way. The face
I had a glimpse of wasn't one to fill the stalls."
"About twenty?" persisted Pointer.
"Times two!"
The Chief Inspector looked disappointed.
"Oh, you mean his cousin! Thin, hatched-faced type,
with small dark eyes?" Pointer went on to describe Miss
Saunders very accurately though apparently casually.
"That's her!"
"Well, of course then he's right. And he wasn't told.
She—his cousin,—wouldn't know either. Not at that hour.
I take it it was about eight?"
"About."
"I wonder she waited for him. I wouldn't. Vardon's
such a careless chap. I dare say she had to sit on for an-
other hour."
"No. I heard him come running down only a few minutes
later and the car buzz off. My rooms are below his."
"I'll bet he was still wrestling with his tie as they drove
away," laughed Pointer. But the other had not looked out
of his window.
The manageress knew nothing more. No one in the house
knew more. Pointer shook the patently expectant hand,
raised his hat, pressed the starter, and let in the clutch in
one co-ordinated action. There was a paper in the inner
pocket of the coat. It felt like a letter.
In a quiet square he examined his find. It was a long,
official-looking envelope addressed to, "The Registrar of
. W'NS, Somerset House, London."
With his penkife he raised the flap which was stuck down
but not sealed. He drew out a will. By it Mable Tangye
left everything of which she should die possessed, to Philip
Vardon, cousin of the late Clive Branscombe, and appointed
him sole executor.
The will was on a form obtainable at any stationer's. Be-
low the printed matter was written in Mable Tangye's writ-


184 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
ing, but a singularly uneven writing—that she requested Philip
Vardon, if possible, not to withdraw the ten thousand pounds
invested in Harold Tangye's firm for at least two years, un-
less the stockbroker had pre-deceased him.
Pointer tapped the paper thoughtfully.
It was witnessed by one, Edmund Stone, stationer, of 10
River Road, Twickenham, and Robert Murray, assistant, at
the same address.
The date was last Monday. Monday! The day before
the one on which Mrs. Tangye had a fatal accident, said the
coroner. Committed suicide, said Tangye and Wilmot. Been
murdered, said Pointer.
The Chief Inspector replaced the envelope, and sat on,
staring at his patent tips that winked back at him as though
they could tell him a great joke if they would. But what
Pointer already knew was sufficient to keep his thoughts
occupied.
No wonder the artist was nervous lest this paper should
fall into the hands of the police. Here was motive, and
motive sufficient some might say. Vardon, the sole legatee
—fitted every step of the way now, if his story of Mrs.
Tangye's visit were false—except the entrance by the French
windows.
There, like some cabalistic Sign of Protection, stood the
big question mark, raised by Pointer's own theory of the
crime.
So long as he could not be linked with that, so long
as no reason showed itself why Mrs. Tangye should have
arranged for him to come secretly, Vardon could not be
considered more suspect than Miss Saunders, nor than
Tangye, supposing the husband to have used another man as
his tool.
It was possible, quite- possible, that Haviland was right,
that Mrs. Tangye had been preparing to go to Patagonia
with Philip Vardon, but if so, if Vardon were the criminal,
then some strange reason lay behind the murder which had not


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 185
been even guessed at yet. Of that the Chief Inspector felt as-
sured. Before arresting the artist, Pointer intended to be
absolutely certain of his guilt. The odds were too enor-
mously against Vardon to permit of any other course. Here
was no case of a man refusing to explain. Whether true
ones, or false ones, he had a reply to every question.
Pointer gave his head an impatient shake. He wanted
something that could connect up with those footsteps heard
in the garden, walking stealthily behind Mrs. Tangye, stopped
by, fearful of, the light.
Those footsteps still belonged to no one. Disembodied,
Pointer heard them day and night. Whose were they? Var-
don's? The husband's? Oliver Headly's? Or those of
some still unknown, unsuspected person, some tremendously
important person in Mrs. Tangye's life? They might still
be anybody's. They still lay in the no-man's land between
all the events.
Pointer's thoughts turned back to the will itself. The
absolute deletion of her husband's name as a beneficiary, and
yet the request at the foot about not withdrawing the money
from his firm immediately. That little note was stranger
than the will itself, Pointer thought. Supposing the latter
to be genuine. He could imagine a woman leaving her for-
tune away from a husband with whom she had cause
to be angry, with whom she was about to have a furious
quarrel, but in that case, why the apparent unwillingness to
inconvenience him unduly? That did not look like blind
rage.
A new thought stirred in the great detective's mind. He
put it on one side for the moment, and concentrated on
Vardon, and Vardon's rooms last Tuesday evening.
What of him and Miss Saunders? Supposing that the
evidence Pointer had just gleaned had been accurate, she had
been at Fulham about eight last Tuesday evening. In other
words, as soon as she could get there after the police had
left Riverview. She had apparently not gone upstairs,


CHAPTER X
Po1nter stopped his car at the stationer's in Victoria Road.
He produced his official card. Mr. Stone showed him into
a little back parlour with outward calm and some inward
trepidation.
He was thinking of sundry half-crowns on "certs" that
came and went—chiefly went, on most days of the racing
year. But Pointer was affability itself. Did Stone remem-
ber any one calling at his shop last Monday, and buying a
•will-form?
Stone heaved a sigh of relief. He remembered the lady
perfectly. Mrs. Tangye it was, "as shot herself by accident
the day afterwards." She had come in to ask where the
nearest agent for Carter Patterson's could be found. He had
pointed out the shop further down.
Looking around her, with the patently amiable intention
of buying something, she had picked up a will-form from a
pile by the door.
"Will-forms! . . ." The idea had seemed to go home.
She had read the printed paper through, and stood a moment,
as though thinking. Stone had been called to another part
of the shop to help his assistant hold his own in a wordy dis-
pute about some weekly payment, and forgot the lady. The
argument was a long one, necessitating much searching of
ledgers. When it was over, he saw the lady seated on a
chair writing on the bottom of one of the forms. She
covered what she had written with a sheet of blotting-
paper and asked him and his assistant, now alone in the
shop, to witness her signature, saying that what she was
signing was her last will and testament. They witnessed
for her, and received what Mr. Stone considered a very
187


188 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
handsome payment for the trouble. He saw her slip the
will into an envelope which she bought from him, and,
after a moment's hesitation, address it to the Registrar
of Wills, Somerset House, before folding it up unfastened,
and putting it into her hand-bag.
His identification of the lady as Mrs. Tangye was fairly
satisfactory. He had only seen her in a dusky shop, in
her hat, but he remembered her name perfectly. He had
remembered it when he read of her death in the paper.
"Some people say it's all nonsense about being bad luck
to make your will. I dunno. My brother made his will
and died the same year. And look at this case! Still of
course if you mess about with loaded firearms—will or no
will—you're likely to end up sudden."
Pointer saw that the man was under the honest impres-
sion, as was his assistant, that it was this will which had
been referred to at the inquest. The Chief Inspector drove
on his way again with another little brick added to his pile.
"'Unless Charles Tangye should pre-decease Philip Var-
don,'" Wilmot read aloud again. "M-m."
"Just so," Pointer agreed, "not so much look of suicide
about that proviso as there might be, eh?"
Wilmot re-fixed his eye-glass.
"Why so? My Company claims that Mrs. Tangye was
staging an accident effect. This was part of the pasteboard
scenery. To make a will, and then shoot herself, would
look a bit obvious. That proviso is merely a stage-direction.
Nothing more. And there's another thing," Wilmot went
on in a thoughtful tone, "this paper knocks your idea of a
romantic visitor on the head. Where's any mention in it
of the chap with whom you thought she was about to de-
camp? Of the 'footsteps that stopped,' in other words?**
"Why, he's the only one mentioned!" Haviland struck in,
"Vardon, in fact. He's deluded her into leaving him all
her money, and he gets rid of her before she can spoil his
plan of marrying Miss Ash."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 189
Wilmot had to allow that this was possible.
"I wonder where Tangye comes into this." Wilmot
screwed up his eyes, thinking hard. "If a crime, if, mark
you both! mark you both! I have a strong inward feeling
that in some way he and that woman "he broke off
and finished his cigarette in silence. "I should think this
will may be a blow to him," he began again. "Cheale writes
me that Tangye's hard hit by the Irish failure. That there
were large commitments left on his hands."
"Tangye—Vardon. Vardon—Tangye," Haviland mur-
mured. "And just a bit of Oliver Headly thrown in.
They sort of swing to and fro. And Miss Saunders now
with one, now with the other." Haviland had been puffing
finger-print powder over the will. He shook it off, and
then compared the result with his photographs of prints
belonging to the "circle."
"Lot's of men's prints. Vague ones we haven't got.
Shop fingers, I take it. Several smallish ones in gloves.
Mrs. Tangye's, in fact. But here are Vardon's clear
enough. Here at the corners. Though you found the flap
of the envelope gummed down, he must have opened it and
read it through before he shut it up again."
"Do you still go by finger-prints?" Wilmot spoke as
though to a user of bows and arrows, but Haviland re-
fused to be drawn. He knew the most modern suspicion
of that form of proof, but he himself swore by it.
"Obviously Vardon knew the contents of the will or he
wouldn't have worried about it's possibly being in his bag,"
Pointer spoke a little dryly. "If Mrs. Tangye had left
her money to the hospitals, Vardon would have told us of it,
you may be sure."
Pointer's constable-clerk brought in a set of papers, and
his two visitors left. They had been talking in his room
at the Yard. In the plainly furnished but airy inner den
where the Chief Inspector worked alone with his many
knee-hole tables. One to every case, in which he was con-
cerned. The reports brought him were from Hyam, and


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 19:
speak clearer as to the thief's possible identity, all looked
to Pointer as though Tangye had linked Miss Saunders
with that loss with a promptness and a certainty that seemed
difficult to understand unless Miss Saunders had been the
provider of the one half, and was therefore suspected of
being the thief of the other half. But if so, what had she
received in exchange? She was not a woman to give up
as much as a bent sixpence without some equivalent. What
would she accept in return? Not money, for she was hand-
ing that over. Then, if not money, what would tempt her?
Pointer knew of one thing that would. A promise of mar-
riage. And, if he knew anything of Regina Saunders, it
would have been a promise in writing. Had Tangye given
her this? It would explain that air of having secretly, not
as yet to be openly shown, the upper hand, the whip-hand,
which had struck all three men interested in the investiga-
tion.
It would explain, too, Tangye's tone, as he had ground
out between his teeth that if Mrs. Tangye had given Vardon
the money, as was claimed, there would be something in
writing to show for it.
Pointer pushed in the little pigeon-hole in his brain where
this new item was now laid, and turned to the task im-
mediately before him. An interview with Miss Eden, which
he thought might be rather difficult. He had asked for it
over the telephone, and learnt that she was down at her
settlement in Bethnal Green.
He found her in a tiny private room looking very tired.
"Is there anything wrong?" she asked. A poor opening
move.
"Mr. Tangye now states that his wife committed suicide
and withdraws all claim to the insurance money.
"We have learnt that while at the orchid-show with
you, Mrs. Tangye saw her husband and—and "Pointer
looked mysterious, "jumping to conclusions—doubtless wrong
ones, she first told him on Monday o{ her intention to kill
herself, and on Tuesday carried it out."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 193
-with her. Walking up and down the platform, waiting
for the train to come in, she told me about a letter, which
had brought her down to the show. I had not heard of
it before, or I should not have gone with her."
"Can you recall the exact words in which she spoke of
the letter?" Pointer asked.
Miss Eden thought for a moment.
"As nearly as I can recollect her words, they were, 'To
think that I only came down because of that woman's silly
letter.' Then she was silent until the train came in."
"Was Mrs. Tangye angry?"
"I think she was too stunned to be angry. She seemed
really quite dazed. I think "Miss Eden showed her
perplexity in her face, "I think Mrs. Tangye must have
been brooding over her troubles until she lost her mental
balance. What was there in all this to give such a terrible
shock as she had had? I think there must be more behind,
than we shall ever know. Some family tendency to suicide.
Some morbid strain."
"And the letter she wrote you?"
"I kept it." She flushed scarlet. "But I couldn't bear—
when there was no need—for you to see that last note of
hers. But now that there's a question of some innocent
person being implicated in quite a wrong idea of Mrs.
Tangye's death, you ought to read it. Here it is." She
held it out to him.
"Dear Mary,—I know you will be shocked by what I am
about to do. But it is too late to enter into all that leads me to
take the step you will soon learn of. I know your kind heart
will not judge me harshly. I cannot think of yesterday calmly.
Suppose I had not gone! I am taking the only possible way
out of the trouble for all of us. I am not thinking only of
myself, believe me.
"And so, till we meet again dear, dear friend, in some future
where all will be understood—good-bye.
"Your affectionate,
"Mable."


194 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Pointer handed the letter back to Miss Eden.
"I do not think it will be needed. But please keep it
carefully."
Mary hastened to slip it into a locked drawer as though
she could not bear to look at it. There was a pause.
"Was Mrs. Tangye an impulsive woman?" Pointer
asked.
"Very. To me she was always kindness itself. But
there's no use saying she was an easy woman to live with.
She wasn't."
"Would she be likely to take a strained view of any-
thing not in itself wrong?"
Miss Eden looked surprised.
"It's odd your saying that. For Mrs. Tangye was most
sensitive about what she considered deception. If she
thought that things were being kept from her, she could be
utterly deaf to reason, or even justice."
"Was she a frank woman herself?"
Mary Eden considered.
"She was a truthful woman," she said finally. "I don't
know that I should call her a frank woman. She was too
reserved for that."
Pointer asked a number of questions as to the person seen
with Tangye at the flower-show.
Miss Eden could only repeat that she had barely glimpsed
the sleeve of a very smart squirrel coat. Now Miss
Saunders had a squirrel coat. Pointer had noticed her
wearing it. Miss Eden went on to say that she seemed
tallish. That, too, fitted the companion, as well as Mrs.
Bligh.
Miss Eden felt quite sure that Tangye had not seen his
wife. He and his companion had turned off at right
angles, or rather, were already turning, when Mrs. Tangye
had given her start and backward step.
Pointer left time for a little pause, then he said:
"You heard from Mr. Tangye, I see, about our visit?"
"No."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 195
"Then how did you know that an innocent person was
'implicated in quite a wrong idea of Mrs. Tangye's death'?"
Miss Eden made a little motion with her hand.
"That slipped out. I heard from Miss Ash about Philip
Vardon. She often works down here. She's here now.
And I've something to tell you about Mr. Vardon—and
Mrs. Tangye"—she hesitated, evidently with little liking for
the task.
"In a way, it seems like betraying the confidence of the
dead. But she had a very keen sense of justice. I think
it would grieve her now—where she is—if I kept silence.
I heard what I'm going to tell you from Mrs. Tangye her-
self. I haven't spoken of it to Miss Ash. I thought of
writing to Mr. Vardon, but I've decided that the quick-
est way, in the interests of justice would be to tell
you.
"The day before Mr. Branscombe died, Mr. Vardon
dropped in to see his cousin. From what followed, Mrs.
Branscombe—as she was then, of course—thought that his
call had been artfully planned. I don't see why it wasn't
mere chance. She herself was out, getting a breath of air.
She nursed her husband splendidly. He died of pneumonia,
you know. Well, in the night she came in and found him
working away on a new will. A will leaving the money
to her, but the land and houses to Philip Vardon. When
she asked her husband what it meant—the paper had slipped
from under his pillow—he told her of Philip's call. Mr.
Branscombe was too ill to be questioned much and towards
morning he grew worse and died.
Mable imagined a sort of conspiracy between her husband
and his cousin. She thought they were trying to do some-
thing behind her back which should have been done openly.
I understand that she flung the paper into the fire—it
was only a draft, not even finished—and wrote Mr. Vardon
a letter. It must have been a terrible one if it was anything
like what she told me she said. I believe Mr. Vardon con-
sulted a solicitor with a view to taking action. But he


196 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
decided to do nothing. Mrs. Tangye kept the story to her-
self except for telling me, and Philip Vardon has a very
forgiving nature. A very sweet temper. But, though
Barbara doesn't know it, I feel sure that the screw he
threatened to turn—she told me how important you think
that speech—was that burnt paper. It was Mr. Brans-
combe's intention to alter his will. And in common justice,
Mable should have carried out his wishes.
"Please don't misunderstand her," Mary Eden bent for-
ward earnestly, "she was anything but a mean woman, but
she thought poor Philip had tried by underhand scheming
to trick her husband when he was too ill to be quite sure
what he was doing. Philip Vardon! Who never had a
scheming thought in his life? You can quite see now why
she would give him that money, that fifteen hundred, can't
you, and promise him the remainder of what the house
fetched?"
Wilmot at any rate would be able to, Pointer thought a
little ruefully.
"I quite expected she would have mentioned him in her
will," Miss Eden went on, "I think she would have done
so, if it hadn't been made at the time of her second mar-
riage. While she still felt resentful."
"I've heard a rumour that another will's been found,
leaving everything lock, stock, and barrel, to Mr. Vardon."
"Oh, no! That's quite out of the question. She never
would have done that. It wouldn't have been fair to her
husband. We were talking of wills only a little while
ago—two or three months at most—and she said that she
looked on the money invested in Mr. Tangye's firm as his
absolutely. That she had told him so when they were
married. But that she felt free to do what she liked with
the rest."
The Chief Inspector left Mary Eden without telling her
that she had done just as much harm as good to Vardon's
case. Some might say she had given the prosecution a


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 197
splendid motive; evidence of resentment or vengeance on
Vardon's part.
Pointer imagined that the artist saw it in that light too.
Hence his silence. Though Mrs. Tangye might have made
it a condition of the handing over to him of the money.
Might have accompanied it by some speech such as: "If
I give you this, will you let bygones be bygones?"
Pointer did not drive himself this time. He sat back,
lost in thought. He was trying to keep the whole series of
loose facts in his grasp. Miss Eden's account had disap-
pointed the Chief Inspector greatly. It had been of no
help whatever as far as the incidents of the orchid-show
were concerned. That letter did not sound like a meeting
with Oliver Headly. Even Tangye and Miss Saunders,
or Tangye and Mrs. Bligh could not account for it, he
thought, could not have changed Mrs. Tangye's whole out-
look on life. What had really happened down there?
Whom had she seen, whom met when she had slipped away
for those few minutes from her friend? Pointer felt that
there must be far more here than he had yet learnt. Must
be. Was Miss Eden's story true? Was that letter genu-
inely written after Mrs. Tangye's return Sunday night?
The envelope was. And the letter matched its writing.
Jerky, dashed off with quivering fingers.
The idea, born in Pointer's mind when he read that will
—the will leaving everything to Vardon, and nothing to
Tangye—was stirring now.
He found, on his return to Scotland Yard, that two
cables had come from Fez with a portrait—also cabled—
of Olivier, gun-runner to the Riffs. Pointer had the por-
trait at once sent out to Oliver Headly's college at Oxford.
No one was able to definitely recognise in the ragged, gaunt,
man with the week's growth of beard, and the hard lines
around his mouth and eyes, the young man who had had to
leave sooner than he had intended. All agreed that it
could very possibly be Oliver Headly after the sort of life


198 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
he seemed to have led. Smith, the orchid-hunter, had also
a copy shown him. He, too, could not be sure. He
thought it was a picture of Headly, but he was not certain.
It was the best that Pointer could do on that score, so he
put it aside.
Mrs. Tangye might have kept more watch on her cousin's
career than was thought. She might have believed him
dead, and have met him suddenly in the flesh. More, she
might well have known that for some law-breaking ex-
ploit of his, his life, or at least, his liberty, was forfeit if
he were recognised. Yes, that might explain some, but not
all the actions of the next days.
His thoughts passed on to Vardon. Hastily his mind
ran over the reports gathered about the artist.
As a boy, at Haileybury he had not been distinguished
for games, nor yet for study, but in that most important
field on which only the English public school sets its proper
value, in character, he was a favourite with men and boys.
"A thoroughly good chap," was the verdict.
At the Royal Academy, where he had studied, the tribute
was necessarily of a vague character, but there, too, he had
made an excellent impression.
Pointer placed no belief in faces. Your really clever
criminal, if not born with an honest expression, cultivates
one with all the ardour of a botanist with a new plant.
But he believed greatly in the early reputation of boy or
girl. Then too, Philip Vardon was an artist. He had
chosen that career for himself. Not stepped into his
father's shoes, nor sat in a relative's seat. Yet neither was
his the burning genius that flames its way through all
obstacles. No. Vardon was quite good at his work, but
nothing more. He knew that. He must know that. Yet
he had kept to a life that could only promise mediocrity,
and the pay of mediocrity. Here could be no love of money,
ane would think, or he would have chosen differently. i
And yet . . . there was that will, and what it stood for 1


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 199
in Pointer's mind. The tiny idea of growing, feeding,
moving to and fro.
Pointer's thoughts went off to the camera which he be-
lieved had figured in that last act. The expert at the Yard
had been intrigued, too, with those scratches on Mrs.
Tangye's Webley. Pointer and he had coated a similar
revolver with wax, and experimented with it, until scratches
had been produced that tallied very exactly. They had
found that only one ordinary accessible camera was large
enough for the purpose, and had the screw in the right
position. This was a box type, of the Lux stocked by most
dealers, but not often sold on account of its high price.
Pointer had given orders for the necessary checking up
of the sales to be done. By to-morrow he hoped to have a
list of past purchasers. It might or might not help. For-
tunately the camera in question was a comparatively modern
make.


CHAPTER XI
The Chief Inspector went on to see Vardon again. As he
climbed the stairs to the first floor a very sweet tenor reached
him. Vardon could sing.
The Chief Inspector opened skilfully, but Vardon either
was, or professed to be, in ignorance, as to any callers at
his flat last Tuesday evening, or of any object which could
have attracted them during his absence.
True, Pointer learned that about a fortnight ago Tangye
had been met by chance in the street, and had come on up
to see a Patagonian iguana, since presented to the Zoo.
But he had stayed a bare fifteen minutes, and had not been
alone in the room.
"Did any one telephone to you last Tuesday close on
eight?"
"Yes," Vardon said, some one had. So, at least, one of
the chambermaids had told him, but, on hearing that he was
out, the voice, a man's voice, had said that another time
would do as well, and had left no message.
That, at any rate, fitted. Tangye, if not an invited guest,
would have wanted to know that Vardon was out, before run-
ning up stairs. Even if the artist's rooms had been locked,
the key, as Pointer himself had found just now, had doubtless
hung below his number on the indicator board, and, in that ill-
kept house, any stray passer-by could have taken it.
And if those keys were not taken by Philip Vardon, if
they really had been left in his rooms unknown to him,
then, since Regina Saunders was below, Pointer believed
that the only other person worried by any mention of them,
Tangye—was connected with their puzzling re-appearance
among the artist's effects.
200


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 201
Pointer, after learning the exact date of Tangye's call at
the rooms, which told him nothing, passed on immediately
to another important point.
"Why did Mrs. Tangye make a will in your favour?"
The question came in exactly the same tones as the pre-
ceding ones.
Vardon paled. He said nothing. Pointer repeated the
question. Vardon fingered the Spanish book which he
had been reading when the Chief Inspector had first come to
see him. Pointer was wont to say that as a rule, the less
mind a man possessed, the greater difficuty he had in know-
ing it, but the Chief Inspector did not think that that was
the trouble here. Vardon, like Tangye when he had heard
of the discovery of the keys, was rather weighing alterna-
tives, neither of which he liked.
"I don't know," he said undecidedly.
"Equally unaware of why you didn't mention the fact
to us?"
"Naturally I didn't volunteer information which has no
bearing on the case. Things look black enough, in all
conscience, without my touching 'em up."
"You know," Pointer said after a second, "if you're
innocent, I really think you would do best for yourself to
tell us everything. Short of an actual confession on your
part, I don't see how the case could look worse"
Vardon went to his telephone, and tried to reach Dorset
Steele, but the solicitor was out of town.
He came back, and again his foot gave a sort of queer
little jerk as he crossed the carpet.
"Very well," he said finally, "I'll trust to your being
honest. And not trying to trap me into some talk that
can be twisted afterwards. You asked me why Mrs.
Tangye made that will. I told you I don't know, and
you've as good as called me a liar. I don't know, but I
can guess. She had evidently, patently, had a definite
rupture with Tangye. Hence the gift of the money, and
the change in her will. She told me, I've forgotten to men-


202 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
tion that, to send the properly drawn-up contract to her
bank, not to Riverview."
Pointer nodded.
"She handed you the will fastened up, I suppose?"
"Any one would suppose so. But it wasn't even gummed
down. Just as she was rushing out of the room she picked
it up from the table, where she had laid it on entering, and
said, 'Glance this through and then post it for me, please."
With that she was gone. I took it for granted it was to do
with the money lent me, until I read it. And that was
really why I nearly went in to see her later in the afternoon.
"That, and to ask her if I mightn't speak, to one particu-
lar friend, of her backing our venture. But the will was
most in my mind. It didn't seem playing the game. There
was no reason for her to swing from one extreme to
another." Vardon looked as though he would have taken
back that last sentence if he could; "That is—er—it seemed
unfair to Tangye. At any rate, I decided not to post the
will until I had talked the matter over with her, or written
about it to her."
Pointer stared at his boots. Then he looked "up.
"Was there any question of a silence as to something
that had happened in the past—implied or not—on your
part, in return for the loan, or for the will?"
Vardon ran his finger along some of the Castilian words
as though spelling them out.
"I consider such a question rather an insult," he said
finally, in a low voice.
"It isn't meant in that way." Pointer spoke very earnestly.
"You surely don't wish Mrs. Tangye's murderer to escape
justice?"
"But she wasn't murdered!" Vardon said shortly.
"She was," Pointer was quite frank now. "To the best
of my belief, she was. And a peculiarly cruel, dastardly,
murder, too. Surely you're not against me in my hunt
for the criminal?"
Vardon seemed stirred by the ring in the other's voice.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 203
"You're one of the brass-hats at Scotland Yard, they
tell me," he spoke uneasily, "you chaps take crimes rather
for granted. Crimes and criminals.”
“Not in this case. Unless I miss my guess, we've here
as clever a criminal as I've yet encountered. I need
every particle of help that can be given me. If I waste
my time over innocent people the real culprit may get away.
Now I read-well-many things into that will. And I
ask you again, was there nothing known to you in her past
which Mrs. Tangye wished kept a secret?"
Vardon hesitated.
Pointer went on, “I never met her alive, but if I know
anything of faces, the last thing Mrs. Tangye would have
wanted would be for her murderer to get off.”
“And the last thing I or any one would want. But you
must be mistaken for once, Chief Inspector. You must
be! Who would murder Mrs. Tangye? Tangye has been
hereas you, of course, know. He tells me there's nothing
missing. With the fifteen hundred pounds loaned me,
every farthing's accounted for. Then why on earth should
any one kill' her ?”
“We have our own ideas on that.” At least Pointer was
beginning to have the glimmering of one since reading that
will. “Then at most, Mrs. Tangye only referred to that
draft of a will made by her former husband, -by Brans-
combe,-in his last night? The draft which she burnt?"
Vardon's look of bewilderment was almost comic.
"Flow the dickens-how the dickens did you learn of
that?”
"Routine work. But, frankly, was that the screw you
intended to turn-on Mrs. Tangye?"
Vardon's face flamed.
"Ghastly expression to've used. But-well, it was. You
see, my grandmother-Clive Branscombe's grandmother,
too-was a Vardon. She used to always say that the
land she had brought the Branscombes was to come back to
us Vardons ultimately. Sir Richard Ash, Branscombe's


204 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
partner, nearly got my cousin to make a will to that
effect once. But Clive put it off—until he tried to draft
it again, too late. As you've learnt in some miraculous
way. I thought there was no one alive now who knew of
that incident."
"And didn't she ask you on Tuesday not to speak of it?"
"Yes. She asked me to forgive and forget what had
happened after Give's death, and she said something which
is rather terrible. In the light of what happened. 'You'll
find it'll all come right—and very speedily.'"
That last was one to Wilmot, Pointer thought as he
hurried off. His next interview was with Tangye. He
wondered how the stockbroker would take the news of a
later, altered will.
Tangye almost leaped to his feet when Pointer told him
briefly that in the course of some routine work, a will of
Mrs. Tangye's had been found, dated last Tuesday, leaving
everything of which she should die possessed to Vardon.
"Vardon! Impossible!" he said again, as he had said
before, but with a very different intonation. "Prepos-
terous! I shall fight it! I deny its genuiness. Mrs.
Tangye repeatedly told me that the money invested in the
firm was to be mine on her death."
But the surprise he tried to put into his voice did not
carry conviction to Pointer.
Pointer had only handed him a photographic copy.
The photograph itself had been carefully locked up at
Scotland Yard.
Tangye flung it on the table.
"I don't take back a word of what I said. Truth is
truth. My wife told me she intended to commit suicide.
You find her shot, with the revolver beneath her hand that
fired the bullet. No struggle. No hint of foul play. . . ."
"There are hints of it," Pointer put in quietly, "only
hints, it's true."
"Because I don't think he killed my wife, doesn't mean
that I intend to sit still and see Vardon sweep the board


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 205
clean. Right's right. But one man's wrong is no man's
right." Tangye was getting incoherent. "The land yes. If
my wife sold a farm, and chose to let him have the money,
that's nothing to me, once I know where the money was, but
it was agreed, when we married, that her ten thousand" he was off again.
Pointer had to interrupt the tenth rendering of the same
motive to take his leave.
He slipped into the morning-room where Miss Saunders
was generally to be found. Just now she was standing
looking up at a large portrait of Mrs. Tangye on the wall.
A very recent addition to the room.
"I had the enlargement done in Bond Street. Rather
good, don't you think?" she asked Pointer. Without wait-
ing for a reply she went on, "I think her picture should be
about the house. I like to see it."
Anything smugger than her tone could not be imagined.
Finally she took her eyes away with an almost visible effort.
"Has anything fresh turned up, Mr. Chief Inspector?"
"Yes. We've found another will of Mrs. Tangye's.
Later than the one read at the inquest. Leaving every-
thing to Mr. Vardon."
She stared at him a moment in silence. Then, com-
pressing her lips, she swept the mantelpiece with the edge
of her cupped hand.
"Leaving everything?" she finally asked.
He nodded.
"Genuine?"
"Mr. Tangye thinks not."
"But you?" she gave him a piercing look.
"We see no reason to doubt it, so far."
She made no comment. Turning, she left the room, ap-
parently lost in thought.
Pointer went for a walk in the old Deer Park. It was
a sunny afternoon; the elms and larches showing gold
under a cloudless sky. There was a buoyant pulse in the
wind and sun. The air on his face brought with it


2o6 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
smells of frost, of oak leaves, of wet soil under some
southern wall, of a belt of spruce to windward.
Blue was the sky overhead, blue the wet ruts underfoot,
against -the yellow litter of leaves on the ground. Pointer
smoked and meditated. His thoughts on Tangye and
Vardon first of all.
Miss Saunders, judging from her question to the stran-
ger entering the chambers, had seemed to think that the
stockbroker was having a talk with Vardon, but Tangye
and Miss Saunders were by no means in each other's
complete confidence.
But supposing that Mrs. Tangye's husband had been
in the artist's rooms last Tuesday, what would have taken
him there? Within an hour or two of his wife's terrible
death.
Did Tangye know of that gift of the money—or of the will?
Had he come to search the artist's rooms for them? A
few discreet questions had told Pointer that Vardon was
quite unaware of any search among his effects, and nothing
is harder, to an amateur, than to hunt through another per-
son's belongings and leave them as they were.
Still it was possible that the motive which had brought
Tangye to the rooms, supposing him to have come, was
connected with his wife's visit only a few hours before.
But he had apparently taken Miss Saunders there. It
might be therefore, that what he had wanted was a neces-
sity, was a step, in somethng which he and she were to pro-
ceed to do together.
It was, of course, quite easy to disbelieve Vardon's story,
and see in him the man who had joined the waiting woman
and driven off. But though Pointer did not distrust simple
explanations, he generally tried to make sure that no other
ones were possible, before accepting them.
One thing was certain. If. Tangye had left the keys on
Vardon's table, he had done so unintentionally. His quick
confession, or at any rate, his effort to exculpate Vardon
as soon as he heard that one of the notes had been traced


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 207
to the artist, showed that he was not trying to fasten any
guilt on the other man. That, too, was evidently the last
thing desired by Miss Saunders, but in her case, if she had
made a bargain with Tangye, naturally she would not want
her purchased help to seem unneeded.
Vardon's room—Mrs. Tangye's keys—Tangye
Pointer's thoughts passed on to the will. And to the new
and startling idea_ it had given him.
Suddenly he came upon Barbara, a couple of irons under
her arm, on her way home from the links. She looked
careworn, he thought. 1
"Suppose we exchange news." He fell into step beside
her in obedience to a gesture.
"Do you give a fair exchange-rate?" She spoke a little
wistfully.
He acknowledged the hit with a laugh. A laugh of
sympathy; he was very sorry for Barbara.
"I'll give you full value. Speaking plainly, Miss Ash,
I want to find out something definite from Mrs. Tangye's
past. Nothing in the least to her discredit, but I want to
reconstruct her life. Before she married Branscombe."
Barbara's eyes widened. But she was one of the very
few people who, when they have nothing to say, say noth-
ing.
"You see," he was not looking at her, but at a fine old
stag who paced towards them with ideas of apples, "some
people might think there was a good, sound, probable mo-
tive for a murder already to hand. But I want to make
sure that there isn't a better, sounder, more probable one
still, to be got. It's tremendously true that the strongest
motive wins, you know."
There was a long silence. The stag walked huffily off.
Pointer felt that something was stirring in Barbara, was
welling up within her. But after a moment she said
quietly, "Surely you know everything there is to know about
Mrs. Tangye's past. I've just been talking to my grand-
father. He says that the worst thing against Mr. Vardon
-


2o8 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
is that he was seen near Riverview late on Tuesday after-
noon. Is that the case? I mean, is that a very important
thing against him?"
"Very," Pointer admitted, still not looking at her.
"Of course, if any one else had been seen on Tuesday
near Riverview between four and six, it would make a
great deal of difference. But as it is Mr. Vardon seems the
only one. That—taken into consideration with other things
—does look very serious."
They were across Richmond Bridge by now. Barbara
said good-bye abruptly. The short winter day was almost
over when Pointer turned back. Stray leaves touched his
cheek with cold little fingers as they fell. The lights of a
barge drawn up to be mended shone red like the eyes of
the Great Sea Serpent, who had found a refuge at last.
\ Pale winter moths floated past. The moths that some old
folk say are the spirits of the dead. They vanished, or
were palely seen, as they drifted now through darkness,
now through the rays of a lamp. They were too much like
the underlying facts of Mrs. Tangye's death, he thought,
to be pleasant company for a detective officer.
Pointer had purposely given himself plenty of time be-
fore turning in at Twickenham police court. He was not
surprised to find Barbara Ash being politely entertained by
Haviland. The Superintendent was showing her his stamp
collection, knowing that her grandfather owned a notable
one.
"There's something very fascinating about stamps,"
Haviland was saying as Pointer hung up his hat. "Noth-
ing uncertain about them. I always liked geography at
school. History no. There's no proving half of what
they tell you in history. But in geography, if they say a
town or river is in a certain place, you can go and find out
for yourself. You can prove it, as a matter of fact. Even
if you don't do it, you know you could go and look. Or
dig . .


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 209
Pointer seemed just sufficiently surprised to see Barbara
again so soon. She flinched a little, as she looked up at
him. Then she took a seat further from the light.
"I've something very important to say," Barbara was
pale beneath her tan, "I suppose I should have told you
before, but I didn't realise—things—until our talk just
now. My grandfather doesn't know I'm here," she added,
with a quaintly reassuring voice.
"And that's a good thing, too," Haviland thought. Bar-
bara paused for a moment.
"I—I was afraid he might think it unwise—what I am
going to say."
Pointer thought this highly likely. Only tell the police
what they already know, was Dorset Steele's motto.
Barbara drew a deep breath. She went paler yet.
"Mr. Tangye is supposed to've been in town until after
six. At least so my grandfather tells me"
The two officials nodded.
"Yet I saw him coming out of Riverview's side gater
the tradesman's gate, just a few minutes after the churches
around struck half past five."
"Where exactly were you?"
"I was at the corner before you get to the house, coming
up from the river. It's a place where some hollies hang
far over the road."
"What did Mr. Tangye do?"
"He opened the gate very carefully, and very slowly, and
closed it, after standing as though listening for a second,
very quickly behind him. Then he jumped into his car,
and was off. I don't think he saw me."
"Was the engine running?"
"I think so."
"Had he anything in his hand?"
"Yes; a package of some sort."
Pointer nodded towards some shelves.
"Could you pick out a book of about the size of the
package you saw in his hand?"


210 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Barbara picked up an A.B.C. and a Continental Brad-
shaw. She thought that the box in Tangye's hand was
about the thickness of the latter and the general size of
the former. Could it have been a camera? Pointer asked.
Barbara thought that it looked not unlike a large box-
camera.
"He came out so oddly. So noiselessly," she repeated,
"He opened the gate without making a sound. And he
looked up and down the garden path before closing it."
"He looked towards the house?"
Barbara nodded. There was a short silence.
"And you yourself, Miss Ash, how did you come to be
so close to Riverview?"
"Oh, I merely happened to be passing," she said awk-
wardly. "You can go to our house from the Richmond
links either around by Riverview or through the Deer
Park."
Pointer sat quite still. His eyes on his pen point for
once. He had not expected this. He really had thought
this girl a fine, honest, creature. Was she too to come
within the circle of those tainted suspects of his? Oh, the
pity of it!
Barbara spoke again. Impulsively, in a rush. This
time in her natural voice. A voice that suggested all things
young, and frank, and fair. "I—I take that back. I mean,
that wasn't truthful," she broke off in great distress.
Pointer came to her aid.
"You're trying to tell us, aren't you," he said very kindly,
"that you were the visitor whom the maid mistook for
Mrs. Cranburn? At least that's what we've thought for
some time."
Pointer had at least suspected as much since his visit
to her father. Barbara fitted in with so many points of
the case. Florence might easily have mistaken a bundled-
up figure for that of a stout woman. And the voice of a
girl with a cold for a wheezy voice. Barbara looked both
relieved, and a little appalled.


212 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
another appointment, but I was out, and the maid forgot
to give me her message; so I went on Tuesday, expecting to
see her."
"Do you remember just what she told the maid Monday
evening over the 'phone?"
"Norton says that Mrs. Tangye said, 'Ask Miss Barbara
not to come to-morrow as we arranged. I have a most
urgent engagement that I can't put off. Tell her I'm so
sorry. I'll write and explain.' But, as I say, the message
wasn't given me until Tuesday night when Norton read of
Mrs. Tangye's death in the evening papers. Meantime
I started rather late for Riverview from Hampton Court
Palace, where a relative lives." She gave the name. "I was
driving our car myself; something went wrong. It's
always leaving you in the lurch when you want to bustle
along. There's a good garage not far from Riverview, you
have to pass the house coming from Hampton Court."
She gave its address. "That's when I saw Mr. Tangye
leaving by the side gate. I went on to the garage and had
a long wait there until some one came to whom I cared to
hand over the car. Then I hurried on to Riverview,
though it was nearly six. As I came to the tradesmen's
gate I found Mr. Tangye had left it open. It cuts off a
corner of the little drive, so I took it too. I walked around
the clump of laurels this side of the morning-room to look
in. I wondered if Mrs. Tangye had given me up. But
through the curtains I saw that the light was on, and hur-
ried back around to the front door. As I stepped away the
•curtain was pulled aside for a second, and some one—a
woman—peered out between them. Perhaps she heard
me on the path."
Barbara paused for half a second.
"It was Miss Saunders—I suppose," she added slowly.
"Why suppose?" Wilmot asked.
"It was the most dreadful face I've ever seen," the girl
said in a low voice. "The face of a ghoul. Malignant.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 213
Horrible. Gloating." She shuddered as it seemed to rise
again before her.
"Did she see you?"
Barbara shook her head.
"She was looking in the opposite direction, after one
glance around. As though after Mr. Tangye. I only savr
her for a second. I hurried to the front door and rang
the bell. You know what happened then."
"What made you choose the morning-room?" Pointer
asked. He wanted to give her time, and began with the
least important question.
"Mrs. Tangye had said over the 'phone, 'five will suit me
perfectly. You won't mind having tea with me in the
morning-room, I know.'"
"You knew the house?"
"Oh, yes. In dear old Mrs. Branscombe's days I used to
be there a lot."
"And now, tell us what happened after you rang the bell.
Just as though we knew nothing."
Barbara recounted the story with which they were all so
familiar by now. She had nothing new to add to the scene
in the morning-room.
"Did you see the revolver?"
She nodded. "Underneath her left hand. The next
thing I remember was hearing a man's voice saying, outside
the room, 'I don't think I can do much harm if you and the
maid have both been in.' And I thought I should only be
in the doctor's way. I took it for granted it was a doctor.
I thought a caller was certainly not wanted in the house at
such a moment. There were plenty of women to help. I
crossed the hall into what used to be the housekeeper's
room in the old days. It's evidently a smoking-room now.
A moment later I heard people in the hall, and the same
voice, it was the reporter's I learnt at the inquest, asking if
that was the room. I let myself out by the tradesmen's
door."


CHAPTER XII
Po1nter got through to the stockbroker over the telephone.
He told the answering clerk that he—Mr. Wright, the name
had been agreed on with Tangye, wanted to speak to Tangye
at once. Tangye promptly suggested that Wright should
come on to see him in about two hours' time. Until then,
every minute was already engaged.
Pointer agreed, and put in some hours, hard work at his
own rooms in the Yard, wading through the papers waiting
for him. Among them were reports on the purchasers of
Lux cameras. In all England, only three of them had been
sold from any known photographic dealers during the last
six months. And all to men. One had been in the Hay-
market to a man identified from his portrait at once by man-
ager and salesman as Tangye. That had been close on a
fortnight before his wife's death. One had been in Exmouth,
and had been bought by a deeply bronzed, very big, youngish
man, who looked as though he had lived an uncommonly
hard life. One had been sold in Folkestone, only last Mon-
day morning as soon as the shop opened. In this case the
buyer had, by chance, been recognized by the salesman as
Professor Orison, guest of honour of the local P.S.A. the
evening before.
Like the other two, Professor Orison had carried the
camera away with him.
So it was a Lux that Tangye had bought. What had
become of it? Pointer had already sent a man down with
careful instructions to Norfolk, to the house where Tangye
had week-ended. He had learnt that the stockbroker had
only been absent from the shooting-party from early on Sun-
day till the evening.
216


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 217
He knew too, that Tangye had arrived at North Wal-
singham with a camera, because the railway porter had
identified his portrait as that of one of Mr. Riddell's
guests who had brought one with him on his arrival on
Saturday, and refused to let him, the porter, carry it even
as far as the car. When the same man left for town,
Monday noon, he had no camera with him. A footman
at the house, too, was quite sure that Mr. Tangye had left
on Sunday morning with his camera in the car beside him,
and had not brought it back on his return in the late after-
noon. He said that Tangye had spoken as though he
intended making a present of it to a lady, and was only
testing it first, he supposed that the stockbroker had done
so on the Sunday.
Detective Inspector Watts represented himself as sent
from the photographic dealers to whom Tangye had com-
plained of a faulty lens. They maintained that the camera
must have had a bad fall after it left their hands, and he,
Watts, wanted to trace the camera's movements very care-
fully. Pointer sat a moment gazing across the river running
beneath his windows.
That youngish, sunburnt-looking man at Exmouth—
Vaguely the description would have passed for Oliver Headly
—supposing Oliver to be alive. He took up his pen. It
seemed a hopeless quest, but instructions were sent to
the Exmouth constabulary to do their best. They were
furnished with portraits of the man as he had been twenty
years ago. The photographs from Fez were no good
here, for that man had undoubtedly been stood against a
wall by a firing-party. Then came the last of the three
purchasers—Professor Orison.
Pointer had heard of him as one of the smart lads of
the moment. A lecturer in duchesses' drawing-rooms on
the Power of the Mind. For all that his erudition, like
his degree, was laughed at by scholars.
Pointer had seen him a couple of times. At a royal
garden party. At a ducal wedding. Orison was a strik-


218 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
ing figure. Thin, elderly, bent, with a face like a wrinkled
glove in which burned two dark, keen eyes beneath tufted
white brows. He claimed to be of noble Polish descent
on his mother's side, and wore a long drooping Polish mous-
tache, and a Paderewski-like mop of fine silvery hair. He
even spoke with a Polish accent.
Pointer turned to Who's Who, and learnt that Drummond
Orison, Ph.D. of Palmyra, U. S. A., the son of a physician,
had been born in Brussels some seventy years ago. That
he had travelled a great deal, especially in the East. That
he had. never married. That he now lived in Hampstead,
and that his recreations were "Thinking and butterfly
catching." That his publications included two volumes on
"The Quantum Theory as applied to Mind," and other
books of a like ilk. All of them fairly recent publications.
To any one but Pointer it would have seemed a blame-
less record. Even a Lux camera might have passed as
innocent in such hands, but the Professor had bought it
last Monday, and in Folkstone—Folkestone, the end of the
railway line on which Tunbridge Wells lies!
Pointer marked his report with a sign that meant that
the thinker's home was to be the object of special, but very
discreet attention by the policemen who passed it, and that
the passing of it should be included in their programme as
often as possible.
He added in his neat legible writing that the Folkestone
salesman should be skilfully tapped for possible further
details of last Sunday evening. Then he wrote out some
instructions for his own C.I.D. and wound up by cabling
to his confreres in Brussels for particulars of Orison's
life while there.
Pointer's man had already learnt that the Professor had
apparently spent last Sunday afternoon travelling to Folke-
stone, and Monday and Tuesday in his study at Hampstead.
All seemed quite as it should be, bar that untimely pur-
chase of a camera. But Pointer took no one at his face
value. Or at least very few people.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 219
It was now high time to drive off for Tangye's office.
Pointer was shown in at once. Tangye met him with
some impatience.
"Some important development, I suppose? Since you've
asked me to lose a week-end in town."
"The case is developing," Pointer assured him a little
grimly, "but do you think it's quite fair to your old clerk
to let him in for perjury? For a criminal prosecution?
We have a very reliable witness who saw you during five
to six last Tuesday—not here in your office."
"Impossible!" Tangye said fiercely, "a damned lie!"
"What was in that package, sir, that you were seen
carrying out of the tradesmen's gate at Riverview about
half-past five?"
Tangye seemed to shrink into his clothes. His knuckles
whitened as he gripped the edge of the writing-table.
"I tell you I wasn't near the place," he began to bluster.
"Mistaken identity!"
"Independent witnesses," Pointer bluffed back.
Tangye rose, and Pointer had to take his leave; to find
Haviland waiting for him in his room at the Yard.
The Superintendent had had a chat with Mrs. Bligh's
maid.
Tangye had brought the camera in question with him
when he came to lunch at Tunbridge on Sunday. The
.maid explained that her mistress then expected to be invited
on a certain yachting cruise to Egypt, and since her hostess-
to-be was a keen photographer, she had asked Tangye to
buy her the best camera for temples and indoor work, and
to show her how to use it.
"But she either lost it, or it didn't please her, or something.
Anyway, she didn't have it with her when she came home.
Nor he neither. I know, for I went out to the car. There
wasn't any camera in it," the maid explained.
In the course of further conversation she let it drop
that at the best of times Mrs. Bligh was not a lady who
permitted questions, and that since she had not received the


220 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
invitation in question, it would be as much as the maid's
life was worth to speak of photography in any form.
Pointer had already had a private note issued to all
photographic dealers, second-hand shops, and even to all
dustmen in town, asking them to watch out for a large
box-camera which might have been left for repairs, or been
thrown out, broken up. So far nothing had resulted. He
had not thought that it would.
What had become of Tangye's—or Mrs. Bligh's—
camera? Duly entering its absence in his notes of the
case, he turned to some other work, but within an hour
there came another message over the 'phone from the
stockbroker. Would Pointer make it convenient to see him
again at his office?
It was a very chastened Tangye who was speaking.
Pointer dropped everything and hurried into the city.
Tangye shook hands almost eagerly.
"So glad I could catch you. I wanted to see you again
at once. I want to—er—modify—er In fact, I've
a damned unpleasant statement to make." He spoke as
though it were the fault of the detective-officer, then he got
himself in hand again. "It's about my alibi. There's no
use trying to throw dust in your eyes, I find."
Pointer thought that bricks rather than dust had been
used, but he only bowed.
"As a matter of fact," Tangye avoided Pointer's placid
gaze, "I spent part of those two hours which interest you
so much with Miss Saunders, in the Old Deer Park."
Tangye went on to tell of an appeal to him on Tuesday
from his wife's companion after she had received notice
to leave Riverview at once. They had met in the Park,
talked it over until at half-past five, he had driven back
to his office to see what could be done.
"Miss Saunders, of course, will bear out every word
of this," he finished.
"Of course," Pointer echoed politely.
Tangye shot him a glance, but the Chief Inspector took


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 221
his leave without further comment. He was due in the
Assistant Commissioner's room.
Pointer and his superiors at New Scotland Yard did
not see eye to eye about Mrs. Tangye's death. The Assis-
tant Commissioner agreed with Wilmot that only a very
active fancy could find a crime in it. Barbara Ash's little
story gave Captain Pelham food for thught, however, and
he sat awhile digesting it.
"Looks as though you were going to be right once again,
Pointer, in that it was a murder, but mistaken in your
theory of how it happened."
"I don't think that's possible," Pointer was never con-
ceited, but he spoke very firmly. "In many cases, my
theory might be wrong or right, and yet the case would
stand. But not here. Either Mrs. Tangye was murdered
as I imagine, or she wasn't murdered at all. It's that cousin
of her's, Oliver, that complicates all the reasoning."
"You mean that if he dove-tailed with the murderer
by chance, or intention, your idea of an appointment in
the Riverview morning-room loses all its force? That's
one of the things I want to talk to you about.
"We've had a private report from a man whom, even
to you, I can only call Captain X. He's been doing some
secret service work in Morocco. Personally, from what
he told me, I haven't the shadow of a doubt that the
Olivier whom the French shot was Oliver Headly. In
in any case, Oliver was a doomed man from the time the
French and Spaniards joined forces. He knew too much.
And he knew it too accurately. When they caught him,
he got a note through to Captain X, giving him some very
important information. Unfortunately he had clearly sent a
previous note which never reached its billet. The Riffs
caught the carrier, X thinks. In this second note he winds
up with 'Don't forget the message to my cousin.' He signs
his note, as he always did, merely with a circle. X says he
met Olivier and is absolutely sure that he was an English-
man, a man of education, a bad hat, and a plucky devil.


222 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
His age he puts at the age Headly would be now, and he
once saw a book in his possession with the initials O. H.
inside it. I think all this rules Mrs. Tangye's cousin out.
Of course there's just a chance that he wasn't Olivier, and
therefore, may still be alive, but I think it's hardly worth
considering. Meanwhile, there's another point.
"Vardon's uncle, he's an M.P. for God knows where, has
been writing to us," Pelham went on pensively. He was a
long, loose-limbed, clever-looking man "A nasty note.
Wants to know if we are armed with lettres de cachet, and
threatens to set the press on to asking if Habeas Corpus is
dead or not. We've got to let Vardon go. Or arrest him.
That's an order from on high. Now, what shall it be?"
Pointer had expected this.
"Very good, sir. Vardon shall be told at once that he
can go where he likes. Fortunately where he likes will be
Patagonia."
"I'm glad that's your idea of good fortune. I suppose
you chatter Patagonian too, like a native, and will be off
there before we know where you are?"
Pointer laughed.
"No, sir, I'm not interested in Patagonia—so far. What
I mean is that he'll be practically under observation all the
time. I shall tell him that we have no objection to his leav-
ing, and ask the captain of whatever ship he chooses to keep
an eye on him. If I may, I'll telephone the good news to him
at once."
"So Oliver Headly, the cousin, is out of it. Well, as a
matter of fact, he never was really in it," came from Havi-
land, as he and Wilmot lunched with Pointer.
"I'm not concerned with Oliver. He's beyond our powers
to investigate or locate," Pointer agreed. "At any rate,
Tangye doesn't fulfil the necessary conditions. Even with-
out Miss Saunders' support of his latest alibi. I think he's
merely a frightened man, though frightened for very good
reasons."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 223
"All the facts we've been able to discover, I still con-
sider only accidental, not incidental—from the point of
view of a crime," Wilmot mused, "but had there been a
crime here, I should have thought Tangye"
"Vardon, Mr. Wilmot!" Haviland struck in, "Vardon's
in the very middle of things. The keys in his luggage.
That will"
"Ah, that will!" the newspaper man frowned thoughtfully,
"that will!"
"That will suggests a new thought to me," Pointer said
after a moment's pause.
"A quarrel with her husband?" Wilmot finished.
"I don't call it the will of an angry woman," Pointer con-
tinued. "No, I think—I think—there's but one explanation
that fits that will. Easily. And that is that Mrs. Tangye
felt that Tangye had no right to the money."
"Forfeited it, in fact, by his treatment of her?" Haviland
looked a little doubtful. Wilmot only waited.
"Suppose Mrs. Tangye had been married before she met
Branscombe? Married secretly. Thought her husband
dead. Say he was some one—possibly a criminal—of whom
she was bitterly ashamed as soon as she had married him.
There are three years of her life of which we have no record,
you remember. Suppose she saw down at Tunbridge last
Sunday, not Tangye and anybody, but this first husband,
this only legal husband whom she had thought long dead and
buried'—I think, that would explain everything. And that
alone.
"Tangye is away Sunday. She sees to it that he's away
Monday as well. He may have been speaking the truth
when he tells us that that quarrel had a forced, theatrical air.
She may have snatched at the pretext afforded her by his
having been down at the show, just as she would have jumped
at any other excuse. Her one thought, if my idea is correct,
would be to get the man out of the house who isn't her hus-
band, who never was her husband, and have a reasonable
motive in the eyes of her circle, for leaving him. By the


224 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
same argument, Branscombe's money reverts to his heir.
She halves the sale of the farm, her only loose money, and
calls in the sum invested in Tangye's firm which I think she
intended to halve too."
There was a silence as he finished.
"You think that Vardon was really her husband!" Havi-
land ejaculated under his breath.
"Where does this lead to ?" Wilmot asked slowly,
"I don't see?"
"Vardon. That's where it leads to, Mr. Wilmot, and
that's a fact."
"Vardon?" Pointer spoke meditatively—. "Maybe, but
at any rate it leads, apparently, directly away from Tangye.
At any rate I shall work from along a different line, and we
shall see where we fetch up. Of course, it's a mere guess.
But it's a guess that might account for Mrs. Tangye's wish
not to have her visitor come to the front door. She would
naturally be nervous about any one seeing the man who was
really her husband]—and, if I'm right, her only husband. It
Was a position which would make any woman get rattled."
"But why should he kill her?" asked Wilmot, perplexity
in his voice, "this is all very interesting, very exciting even,
but where does it lead to? Why the deuce should he kill
her? She, him—yes. But there's no sense in his doing
away with her!"
"Suppose he were a convicted felon? A sentence still
hanging over him? Or, married? Has a family? Or on
the eve of another marriage? He, too, may have believed
her dead. Since he seems to've made no effort to come across
her before. There might be reasons, many reasons, which
would fit in here."
"Vardon fits in, right enough in fact," Haviland mur-
mured. "He's in love with that pretty Miss Ash."
"Would fit! Might be reasons!" Wilmot shook his head.
"Pointer, your suspicion is like the sun which only circles,
but never sets."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 225
"Still, it would fit the facts," Haviland said with enthu-
siasm, "and"
"You mean it fits Vardon," Wilmot retorted tartly. "I
think we're only getting more and more at sea. You're go-
ing too far and too fast, Pointer, when you take to inventing
a third husband for that poor lady, or rather only one."
Pointer merely nodded a pleasant good-bye as he hurried
off. Three years of Mrs. Tangye's life were unexplored.
The years from twenty to twenty-three. Her father was
dead by that time. She had gone away with a relative of her
mother's, a highly respectable lady, who had died two years
before Miss Headly reappeared to teach in a high school in
town. She had always been a poor correspondent. Her
friends had believed that she had meanwhile been somewhere
in the north of England. The Headmistress of the school
in London thought that she had gone as governess to some
family connection, but as she knew Mable Headly of old, she
had not looked the matter up.
It was quite possible that those three years would not ex-
plain the mystery, but Pointer could see no other chance of
clearing it up. But how to get on the track of them? He
had been trying in vain all this week to get into touch with
any one who could supply him with a clue, a jumping-off
board. None had been found. Possibly there was no mys-
tery. If so, this last effort, too, would end in vague ripples.
If the guilty man were Vardon, the investigations would come
back to the artist. Slowly possibly, but surely. Those foot-
steps that stopped in the garden last Tuesday. . . .
They still were on the wrong side of the circle which, as
he reminded Wilmot, had two sides. Would they resist his
efforts much longer to trace the person to whom they be-
longed?
It was barely possible, of course, that Mable Headly had
got actively entangled with criminals, not merely by a hy-
pothetical marriage to one. She might have dipped down
into the underworld herself. But a criminal for three years,


226 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
and before, and after, those years never to fall below the
line of highest respectability? Pointer had never come
across such a case, for Mrs. Tangye had not struck any one
as a two-sided woman. All that Pointer could learn of her
was of a piece.
What did fit his theory, was what he had heard about her
throwing a halo over the past. Over what she had lost.
Pointer thought this explained her actions when, or if,
she had met a first husband whom she had supposed dead,
last Sunday. Suppose that husband in need of money?
Suppose he had ingratiated himself with her? Suppose
he had talked of starting life again together? Mrs. Tangye
had shown herself a woman very easily affected by men.
Mrs. Tangye collects her papers bearing on her money
affairs, gives away her clothes which would only remind her
of what must shock her deeply—life with a man to whom
she finds she is not married. That letter to Miss Eden be-
comes intelligible under this light. After receiving this re-
discovered husband on Monday, they arrange that on
Tuesday she shall leave Riverview, either with him, or
more likely far, after him. Pointer thought that she was ob-
viously planning her escape from her old life to look like a
separation from Tangye because of Tangye's flirtations.
Pointer could imagine more than one reason why Mrs. Tangye
.—to give her the name she bore, but which he had begun to
think might not have been hers legally—should decide not
to reveal the truth till later, if ever.
Seeing her husband's infatuation with Mrs. Bligh, Pointer
thought that she was the type to have never told the real
truth, to have never set free the man and woman she thought
had deceived her. She had looked a very jealous woman to
Pointer. He recalled Miss Eden's words about her being
capable under provocation, of acting very unjustly.
Pointer's men had not been able to trace any marriage
earlier than that {o Branscombe. But she might have mar-
ried abroad. Or even under another name. But the
point was, how to get into touch with her past?


228 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
lot, "old-fashioned. Twenty years old, I should say, or
copies of flies twenty years old. That's an Usk Canary.
But whipped to a string of gut! Tut, tut! Home-made
evidently. But neatly done. And neatly used too. You
can always tell if they've been jerked. Hullo. That's one
of Father William's old Parsons. He's given up those
hackles years ago. But that's no copy."'
"Sure? It may be important."
"Certain. If I found the Grand Lama using it in Thibet,
I'd be certain."
"And who is Father William?"
"He's a character, that's what he is, sir. And the best
rod south of the Tweed, amateur or pro. He never leaves
the Usk. Not he! To see him cast a fly—oh, it's a beautiful
sight! He's always out with his rod as soon as they take the
nets off. Began life as a gillie. Used to sell his flies to the
gentlemen who employed him, and so started in the business.
Those Durham Rangers and Jock Scotts over there are his
work. They look a bit light, but Lord, they make the right
ripples. And that's the whole secret, ain't it, sir? It's not
so much the fly you use, though that counts, of course, it's
the way he 'lights. But it takes Father William to get the
right kick out of 'em. He has a way!"
Pointer asked for the address of this pattern.
"William Morgan is his name. His cottage is Ty-
Cerrigllwydian. It's just outside the town of Usk. But
you'll never find him there, sir. He's out fishing all day,
and at the Inn of an evening. He loves to talk, does Father
William. Age? Getting on for seventy, I should say, and
good for another seventy again."
Usk? Now Usk is not far from Cardiff. And Pointer
had just been reading that name in connection with the dead
woman, though not a close connection. Remembering
Tangye's and Sladen's words about Mrs. Tangye having told
each of them that she had once had something to do with
a bank that had failed, Pointer had had a list of all such
failures in the last twenty years sent him. Her name had


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 229
not figured among the depositors, but that meant little.
There had been a big smash fourteen years ago in Cardiff.
And also—oddly enough about that time—he was very
vague as to dates, said he never could be sure within a couple
of years, Vardon claimed to have had his headquarters at
Cardiff for some eighteen months while working partly on
some local stage scenery, partly on sketches of the country
around. His dates were so elastic, and his localities so vague,
that Pointer again wondered whether this were accident or
design. He had wrung a few names out of him finally, and
turned them over to Watts of the C.I.D. to investigate.
Pointer drove first to New Scotland Yard, and arranged
matters with the Assistant Commissioner. Then he dropped
in to see Wilmot.
"I'm leaving the affair in Haviland's hands for a while,"
he explained.
"Who's he to lose this time?" Wilmot asked with great
interest.
Pointer had to laugh.
"He can turn to you for advice if he gets hung up in too
many facts, and the Yard'll throw cold water on any schemes,
which are over-desperate with regard to Vardon. I want to
be free to do a bit of routine work."
"In the wilds of Upper, or Nether Wallop?"
"Neither. I'm off to hobnob by the banks of the swift-
flowing Usk with a gentleman yclept Father William."
"It sounds a pleasant change from the hurly-burly of
town," Wilmot murmured enviously, "a big detectve has a
tremendous pull over a newspaper man. We can't suddenly
feel that our work demands a dash to the forests of Malay,
or a fortnight in the best hotel of a smart winter resort.
You can. You don't have to keep a list of the relations
who've already died; nor check up your attacks of the flu.
What's your excuse?"
Pointer told him. Wilmot was thoroughly interested, but
expressed himself as very sceptical of any good results.
"Seems a blind alley to me."


CHAPTER XIII
Vardon had barely laid down the telephone before he dashed
into a taxi and drove to Dorset Steele's office with news that
he was now a free men. The lawyer hummed, and hawed,
and threw—not so much cold water as vinegar, on the other's
apparent optimism. He refused to see the daylight at the
end of the tunnel.
Oddly enough, Barbara, too, was not so radiant as Vardon
seemed to be. She was more concerned with what Pointer
had said than with the mere fact of Philip being allowed to
go where he pleased.
"Did he say that he thought you innocent?" she asked
more than once. Vardon put her off with pointing out that
deeds spoke louder than words. But Barbara was not
satisfied.
She went to see the Chief Inspector herself.
"Does this mean that you think he's innocent?" she asked
bluntly.
"Do you know what would happen to me if I let him go,
and he were guilty?" Pointer asked with apparent candour.
"We're not allowed to make blunders like that, Miss Ash.
We're expected to go down with the ship."
"Grandfather says he'll be watched in Sweden where he
has to go first—about some timber, and afterwards on the
ship to Patagonia. Closer even than on land. He'll be
watched in every port. He'll be watched between every
port."
Pointer did not reply. Grandfather was a wise old bird.
Barbara left him, but little comforted.
A ring came at the door of the little studio where she
231


232 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
worked at her china painting. Barbara was not pleased.
Visitors meant dust, and dust meant specks.
It was Mary Eden. Barbara liked Mary. Though one
was older than the other, they were both of them Cheltenham
girls. That counted. Mary was looking ill.
"I was passing, and felt that I must drop in and see you.
Do I disturb you?"
Barbara told her that she did not, and by way of proving
the statement, began putting her things away in a cupboard.
"Is it true that Philip Vardon is leaving for Patagonia?"
Mary asked suddenly.
Barbara said that it was true. Mary Eden shivered, and
drew closer to the fire. There was silence for a few minutes.
"I'm glad he's free from suspicion. But oh, Barby!
Barby!" and with that, to her own, and Barbara's, boundless
surprise, Mary Eden began to cry. Terribly. Heart-
brokenly.
It was over in a moment. But it was not forgotten, and
it left its traces on the elder girl's face. These were the kind
of tears that relieve.
"Since you've seen so much, I might as well tell you all,"
Mary said brokenly. "It's Charlie Tangye. He thinks he's
going to be arrested—for his wife's murder. Murder!"
Mary Eden shivered. "It's no use pretending that things
aren't very suspicious. You see, he was in a frightfully tight
place financially, it seems, and—well, of course, it was his
own money—but he seems to've sent off some hundreds that
same evening that she died. I couldn't make out about the
money. Apparently Chief Inspector Pointer thinks it was
taken before the police got to Riverview, and of course, that
looks bad. So do—other things. Some one saw him come
out of the house about five." Barbara winced. "He went
back for some papers to do with his, and her insurance. In-
tending to raise money on them. And, of course, that looks
terrible. His having kept silence, as well as his having been
there, and the reason for his going. It's all terrible. Miss
Saunders is standing by him splendidly. I wouldn't have


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 233
thought she had it in her. But he's desperately afraid that
the police intend to arrest him. He thinks Pointer doesn't
believe her."
Barbara felt appallingly guilty. Had she bought Vardon's
release with the torture of another man? Like Mary Eden,
she felt sure of easy-going Mr. Tangye's innocence.
"I don't suppose you can help," Mary went on forlornly,
"but if you can think of some trifle? I, "she spoke wist-
fully. "I did help to clear Philip, you know, and by some-
thing that told frightfully against Mr. Tangye. He says the
Superintendent spoke as though I might be called as a wit-
ness against him." She bent forward again.
"Barbara, I helped to clear Philip," she repeated, "can't
you help to clear Charlie Tangye? You're so quick-witted.
Can't you think of anything we can do?"
Barbara had no help to give, and Mary kissed her as she
left.
"Forget this scene, Barby," she said, holding her hand.
"Forget it entirely. What I've said, and what I haven't
said."
Barbara let her go with a remorseful heart. How could
she have acted otherwise? Yet what had she done? It
was ridiculous to suppose that Tangye was guilty, but if his
wife's death was a murder, as the police maintained, then
some one had done it. Some one, but surely not, oh surely
not. . . .
She broke the cup on which she was working, and merely
pushed the bits on one side with her foot, as she sat thinking.
Chief Inspector Pointer had said that the best motive
would win. Barbara felt afraid of the detective-officer since
that one glimpse of the inner man. But his words carried
weight. Could she find another motive than the obvious one
of the will, the money. That was what he was trying to do
she knew. He had questioned her about Mrs. Tangye's past,
but the Ashes had only known the dead woman since her
marriage to Branscombe. Barbara had been of no help,
nor had Lady Ash, to whom her daughter had written at


236 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
river, beloved alike by Welshman, and artist, historian,
salmon and trout
.
The Wye may equal it, but nothing in the wide world
can surpass—in its own way—the sweep between two rivers.
Just now the only colours were soft aquamarine and gray, but
in its proper season all would be bright with orchards and
hop fields, drooping willows and golden wheatfields set among
the shimmering green of fragrant meadows belted by
hills, and ringed by distant mountains. And all down the
valley other little rippling streams branch out, each with its
waterfalls, and bending arms of ferns. The Country of
Castles, and of Arthur's Knights this. Of tales that circle
every hillock and sit on every stone. Wealhas Tales; tales
of fairies. Tales of fighting by the score. The very dust
is the dust of bards, of sweet singers to the harp.
The Usk runs between curving banks, and broadens here
and there into dusky pools with gay, one-storeyed home-
steads set at intervals along it; their thatched roofs a joy to
the eye.
Pointer thought of the reams of paper covered by rhap-
sodies about the beauties of other lands, beauties far below
those of this little corner of Britain.
The town of Usk is a charming nook in summer, but it
looked rather forlorn on a wet November day. Fishermen
by trade, or inclination, seemed to be its only male
inhabitants.
Pointer went first to the police station. No one of the
name of Headly was remembered there. No photograph of
the Riverview circle awoke any recollection in Inspector or
constable. Remained Father William.
The day was fine, yet not too fine. A perfect angler's
day. Pointer followed his gillie down to the hurrying river,
where he speedily put his rod together. It had not been used
for over a year now. He tested it, limbering his wrists, and
snapping them to get the right flip, the little flip which would
send the fly dancing up again when almost on the water, to
alight as though by its own volition.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 239
ing the best work possible for the world, and even, in reality,
for them. But to lift this beautiful thing out of its element,
to kill it, gave him no pleasure. He had landed what he
was after, however, and that was Father William's atten-
tion.
"Twenty pounds, you think? He looked the size of a
motor-bus to me awhile back, and pulled like one."
"You've made a wonderful beginning," the man on the
bank went on approvingly, "and if that ain't one of my flies
—I'm William Morgan, Father William, they call me—why,
I'm prepared to eat it."
Pointer assured him that there was no necessity for such
an extreme measure. He added that he would not dream
of beginning his first fishing in Wales with any other cast.
Father William, plump as a ball of butter, smiled, well-
pleased.
"It was a fine fight. Newcomer to these waters, you say,
sir? But done a good bit of salmon fishing, I can see."
Pointer mentioned his name, only his name.
"A woman taught me to cast my first fly. Came from
near here, I believe."
"Came from around here? What name, might I ask, sir I
I know all the rods O Gaergybi i Gaerdydd, as we say.
These years and old years back. Sixty years back."
"She was a Miss Headly when I knew her. I believe she
married afterwards. I don't know what the name of her
husband was."
"Miss Headly? Not a name I've ever heard. No."
Father William shook his head.
"But she used to buy her flies off you, when she could
afford it. Big, tall, handsome woman. Carried herself
well. Used to fish hereabouts fifteen years ago, or a little
less. Left-handed."
"Left-handed! Oh, you mean, Mrs. Hart! Only left-
handed person I've ever known. She was a wonder, she was.
And tall, and handsome, as you say. Dark, too. Dark as
one of us. Yes, Mrs. Hart is who you mean, sir."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 241
"As I was coming here for some fishing, I said I would
ask around. Miss Headly of hereabouts taught me to fish
years ago, before she married. This is a portrait of her
sister. Is this at all like the lady you call Mrs. Hart? The
two sisters as girls were said to resemble each other closely."
Only two men besides Father William had known Mrs.
Hart. They all three thought that the portrait of Mrs.
Xangye—taken only a few months ago—might well have
passed as a picture of Mrs. Hart, supposing that poor woman
to have lived on.
"She was a younger woman then, you see," one of the
men said handing back the portrait, "twenty, and a bit. No
more. Too young to've come to such an end. But it's the
young ones as are the rash ones."
None of the three had known her intimately.
"Mrs. Hart was a hard woman," one of them said.
"Hardly treated, I thought,' another corrected; "her hus-
band drank, I heard. She had to sell her catches to keep her
body and soul together."
"What was her husband?" Pointer asked.
"Used to swank about an estate of his, but after he was
drowned, it came out that he was a little peddling grocer's
manager down in Newport."
Pointer could collect no facts from the talk. Even the
tragedy was but a vague memory. The broken boat had been
found one morning after a sudden storm, on Peterstone
Flats, just outside Newport, at the mouth of the Usk.
No trace of either body had ever been found, but the tide,
and the rocks, and the storm would account for that.
Pointer let the talk swing round to fishing again. He did
not want to arouse curiosity. He had better means of learn-
ing the truth now than from idle gossip.
He sent off a telegram to the Yard to look up the marriage
records of all H's with even greater care than had been done.
Then Pointer caught the train into noisy Newport.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 243
unbiased, partly because none of the Harts' effects were
missing from their rooms. A couple of very respectable
women, too, bore out that they had seen Mrs. Hart about
the time mentioned walking fast to the cove where the boat
lay. Creel and rod in hand, oilskin on arm.
As to the shop—the only address entered in the news-
paper accounts or on the warrant—the great new docks had
engulfed the street where it had stood. A police-sergeant,
who remembered the inquest well, had a hazy notion that
the Harts had lodged somewhere else, but he was not certain
on the matter, far less could he remember any address. The
Chief Inspector was unable to find any one who could settle
this point. Water rates—gas companies—all had only the
shop address.
One thing was curious, Hart seemed to have no back-
ground. Pointer could not learn of any parents, any home,
from which he had come.
True, this was not unusual, supposing him to be ashamed
of all three. He might even have none, in any but the
literal sense of the word. He might have been an orphan—
a foundling—an unwanted child.
On the other hand, if Hart were Vardon, then the lack
was easily, obviously, explained. There was no mystery
about Vardon's parentage and home. Vardon's whereabouts
could not be traced during that summer nor for the year
succeeding, nor for that matter, without the expenditure of
a great deal of time and money, for still another couple
of years, which he purported to have spent journeying
round the world.
Certainly here in Wales, death, or other natural causes
seemed to have removed every one with whom he claimed
to have come in contact.
A reply telegram came from the Yard in cipher. The
Somerset House register showed no sign of yielding any
earlier marriage on Mable Headley's part than that to
Branscombe.
Pointer looked hard at his boot-tips. Apart from his


244 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
belief that the woman he had heard called Mrs. Tangye
would not have stooped to such a position, the tale he had
learnt sounded preposterous unless Mable Headly had been
tied to Hart. Why should she, young, with many friends,
and certificates that would enable her to teach in any school
in the British Isles, have stayed to face such drudgery? Yet
if she had been married, how to find the record of it?
In a moment he was on his feet, and at work on what he
called routine.
He worked backwards, and forwards, and sideways, and
all ways around his new idea of a marriage at sea, and as
the result of three days and nights of incessant work, he
learnt an interesting little tale which unravelled at least a
part of the mystery that so perplexed him, the mystery of
Mrs. Tangye's actions just before she was murdered.
The story, duly vouched for step by step, was as follows:
Lady Susan Dawlish had come to Bettws-y-coed one sum-
mer fifteen years ago with her great-niece, Mable Headly,
then about twenty. They had stayed at the best hotel in
that lovely spot. Mable played an uncommonly good game
of tennis. So did a Mr. Hart, a visitor at the same hotel.
Also he sang in a well-trained tenor, while Mable played
charming accompaniments. He gave out that he belonged
to a good family in Ireland. Talked of his hunters, and polo
ponies, and passed for the younger son of a hard-up land-
owner. Lady Susan disliked him intensely at first sight,
and took the pretext of "doctor's advice" to go to Colwyn
Bay. She had complained of the young man's unwanted
attentions, mentioning that any such match would be pre-
posterous, as her great-niece would be extremely well off,
since she, Lady Susan, intended leaving her all her money.
The old lady was wealthy, even by post-war standards.
At Colwyn Bay, Pointer found that Hart had followed
the two women, taking up his quarters in another hotel,
but one which used the same tennis courts. But after
a fortnight Lady Susan received a telegram. Her maid had
told the manageress that it was from some relatives who


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 245
were starting for the Colonies, relatives of the older woman,
whom Miss Headly did not even know. Lady Susan went
on to Holyhead to see them off, taking her maid with her.
They were only to be gone two days.
Miss Headly promptly utilised the first to go out with
Hart on a little craft which plied up and down the coast.
They went out beyond the three-mile limit, upon which
the skipper, and owner, married them. A perfectly valid
marriage.
The two young people returned next morning, very pleased
with themselves. Old Lady Susan would have to make the
best of it now. But she never returned. That afternoon
a telegram arrived to say that she had been knocked down by
a motor, and killed instantly. That was all the manageress
knew. She, and others in the hotel, still remembered the sea-
marriage of the young couple. The woman identified the
portrait of Mrs. Tangye as that of the gay, brisk, young
woman of fifteen years ago.
As for Hart, like the hotel keeper at the inland resort,
she had liked him immensely. "So gentlemanly," "such
a sweet temper," "so romantic."
The description was still the same as Pointer had heard
on the Usk. Apparently Hart had no distinguishing marks
of any kind except his good tennis, and even better singing.
A solicitor's story came next. A solicitor in Chester
where Lady Susan lived. She had made a will years before,
leaving everything to the relatives whom she had gone to
Holyhead to see that Saturday. Mable Headly was not even
mentioned in it. The solicitor remembered a young whelp
quite clearly who had come to splutter and bluster about
the will.
He had also a vague recollection of a pale, silent, haughty-
looking wife, the great-niece of his late client, who seemed
only anxious for her husband to come away with her. The
solicitor had wondered how on earth she had come to marry
him. Again Pointer could not obtain any definite description.
The solicitor proved quite unable, as well as unwilling to


246 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
identify Vardon from his portrait, but neither could he say
that the photograph might not be that of the man he had
only seen once.
Pointer devoted himself to Hart's surroundings. With
great difficulty he unearthed some one who remembered Hart
in Newport. Hart at that time was an auctioneer's assistant.
This was just before his holiday in Bettws-y-coed. Pointer's
informant told him with a chuckle that Hart always saved up,
and took a holiday "regardless," hoping to meet some wealthy
girl, or widow, preferably the latter. "Not so long to wait,"
added his one-time friend, "at least, that's what he used
to say."
Here, too, the portrait of Vardon, a good one, was not of
much use. One moment, like the hotel manageress, the man
did not think it possible for Hart to have changed his appear-
ance so completely, but the next he weakened, and murmured
that fifteen years would make a difference.
Apart from identification, the sordid tale so far was clear
enough. Hart, at that time the young auctioneer's clerk,
just then out of a job, had cajoled what he doubtless mistook
for a wealthy girl of the upper classes into a hurried marriage
with him. It was easy to picture his disgust when he found
himself instead of better off, saddled with a girl without a
penny. Pointer too imagined her desperate efforts to right
things. He thought that the woman whom he had only seen
lying, as he believed, murdered, would have put up a good
fight to make and keep a home.
This acquaintance of Hart's had no idea where Mr. and
Mrs. Hart lived. The shop of which Hart claimed to be,
and probably was, the manager, was the kind known as a lock-
up. The man had never met Mrs. Hart except in the shop,
where, according to him, she was a live wire wasted. Hart
had a way of shutting himself up for hours—drinking, the
man said, and the shop, already at the bottom of the hill when
the Harts had taken it over, slid completely out of sight.
Then came, after nearly two years of married life, the finding
of the boat, the tragedy, as it was assumed to be.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 247
This was something learnt, but it left the kernel of the
riddle—to Pointer—still unexplained. From many small
things in the report of the inquest, he believed that-the wife
had really gone out in that boat, but not so Hart. Yet his
wife would know that he was not in the boat. His wife
would surely have made some inquiries again later on.
Especially would that be the case, if she were of such a char-
acter as "the murdered woman," so Pointer called her in his
mind.
Finally Pointer got the real explanation. He got it from
the Chaplain of a Sailors' Home at Cardiff, whither his
search for Captain Todhunter, had led him. Todhunter
was the master mariner who had married Irving Hart and
Mable Headly in that swift fashion, nearly fifteen years
ago.
Drunk when in charge of his old tub some four years
later, he had lost her. And with his boat, lost his own means
of livelihood. He had died in the Home about two years
ago.
Before he died, he had made a statement on oath which
was duly taken down and witnessed. It was still in the
Chaplain's care. By it, Captain Todhunter revoked a
statement which he and his mate had made to Mrs. Hart two
years after her marriage to Hart. It seemed that the husband
had tired of the tie and had arranged "for a consideration"
with the needy captain to come and make a so-called con-
fession to his wife. The confession being that the ship was
within the statutory three-mile limit, not outside it when the
marriage was solemnised, and that, therefore, Mable Headly
and Irving Hart were not, and never had been, married. The
captain said that the young woman had taken it quietly
enough.
She had made inquiries, but as his mate stood in with
the captain, these had only confirmed Todhunter's story.
Miss Headly had not noticed the name of a ship off for
Pernambuco, which had sighted them, and signalled them
a message to take back to the owners in Cardiff just before the


248 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
ceremony, which she was now told was worthless. Had she
done so, she could have proved, as Pointer now did, that over
four nautical miles, not three, separated them from the nearest
shore. She had finally, after her interview with the mate,
accepted the "confession" as genuine. And on the next day,
had come the news of the fatal accident to both plotter, and
plotted against.
All the parties were dead, said the Chaplain. There were
no children. There seemed to be no living relatives. So,
after communicating the paper to the Chief Constable the
Chaplain had kept the matter to himself.
As to the accident to Mrs. Tangye, the only other name
given in the papers had been that of her previous marriage.
Headly had not been mentioned.
Captain Todhunter had always kept his log books, and
Pointer verified the place of the marriage by them, and by
the log of the signalling ship whose first mate, through his
glasses, had seen the marriage actually performed, and would
have signalled his good wishes to the young couple but for
lack of time, and trouble with the crew.
Pointer further learned that his owners had received a
letter only a little over a week ago on the matter. A letter
signed M. H., and dated that last Sunday of Mrs. Tangye's
life. It was in her writing, without any attempt at altera-
tion, and was to the effect that the writer enclosed a five-
pound note to pay for immediate inquiries to be made as to
a ship which was off Colwyn Bay on a date fifteen years ago
and at a given hour. The date and the hour of the marriage
of Hart and Mable Headly. Had any such ship signalled
to a little steamer called the Sea-foam? The writer wanted
to know whether the latter, the ship sighted, was within three
miles from land or not. A great deal hung on the fact the
letter added, and requested that the reply be sent with all
possible speed to the initials at the foot, Paddington Post
office. To be called for. Something in the note, more than
the money, had hurried up the inquiry which was only a
matter of a couple of hours.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 249
On Monday night a reply had been posted as directed,
giving the exact description of the Sea-foam, stating that
the present captain, the then first officer of the passing
steamer, had seen a marriage ceremony performed aboard
her, beside a little garlanded rail. That the Captain's testi-
mony, and the log book from which the information was
taken, were open to inspection and verification at all times.
The readers of the note had guessed M. H.'s reason for
writing.
"Run to earth at last," Pointer said to himself. He
meant the interpretation—the making clear, of Mrs. Tangye's
last days, and at least some, if not all, of the motive for the
murder. Mable Hart had either staged that boat accident,
or had had a genuine one.
In either case, she had decided to cut the complicated
hateful string that her life had become. Hart had probably
believed that she had killed herself intentionally; but the
thought had aroused no pity in him. Only suggested the
idea of escaping himself by bribing the beach loafer to say
that he had seen both husband and wife set sail in the ill-
fated boat.
At any rate, Hart had doubtless believed her drowned,
and continued in that belief. Until when?
If he were Vardon, until his cousin married Mable
Headly. If he were not Vardon, then until they met at
the orchid-show. If he were not Vardon, that meeting
might well have been fortuitous. In either case, what fol-
lowed would, Pointer thought, have run on similar lines.
Hart had played a bold game. He had probably told the
woman who considered herself Mrs. Tangye that, though he
had snatched at the fact that by some strange mistake he
was believed to have been drowned, and though he fully be-
lieved in her own death in that storm, yet he had never
rested till he had sifted the matter of their marriage, and
proved it to be genuine. Todhunter, Hart would claim, had
been actuated by hopes of blackmail. Hart had then given
Mrs. Tangye the name and address of the owners of the ship


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 251
phe believed that she, and therefore far less he, had no real
rights. As to what would have come afterwards, Pointer
could only guess, nor did it matter. On the whole he be-
lieved that Mrs. Tangye would have gone abroad. At any
rate this Monday, she had written for her old will restoring
Branscombe's money to Cecil Branscombe's heir.
That will! If Hart were Vardon, it, and the gift of the
fifteen hundred pounds took on another light. In that
case, it was a bad blunder.
Inevitable, perhaps, under the pressure of lack of funds.
Pointer followed that thought all through its ramifications.
If Hart were Vardon, then all his story of the gift of the
money in his rooms, of the talk there was false. Nothing
bore out his statement. But neither did any known facts
contradict it.
But how about the will if Hart were not Vardon?
In that case it would be enormously to his interest not to
have Mrs. Tangye die intestate, with always the possibility
of her first marriage, her only legal marriage, cropping out.
Pointer imagined that Hart would have very much
pressed the point about the will. It would create an at-
mosphere of disinterestedness on his side—supposing he
were not Vardon. In the latter case it would have taken
careful handling. But then the whole affair had been
handled carefully.
At any rate, because of Hart's pressure, Mrs. Tangye had
hurried out at once after his visit on Monday, bought the
will form, and made her will. Pointer thought that looked
as though she expected to be very busy, perhaps to be away
on a journey, and was afraid of it slipping her memory. As
to the notice of withdrawal of funds from Tangye's firm;
Mrs. Tanyge might have been going to use it, or some of it,
for herself. She could have justified the keeping back, at
least temporarily, for her own use of a part of Clive Brans-
combe's money, by the certainty that if the dead man had
known the facts, he would not have wished her to stand penni-
less in the world.


CHAPTER XV
W1lmot and Haviland met Pointer at the London Terminus.
The Chief Inspector took them on with him to New Scotland
Yard, where he told the tale to them and the Assistant Com-
missioner at the same time. Captain Pelham punctuated the
telling with a few shrewd questions. When it was over he
glanced at Wilmot.
"You and I will find it difficult to keep our feet, Wilmot,
against this."
Wilmot refused to consider that all was lost.
"Though I grant you, Pointer, that your theory's wonder-
fully improved from the puny shade it was when you showed
it last. But, as I see it, it immeasurably strengthens the
idea of suicide. Immeasurably. Suppose every fact to be
right, except the end. Have Mrs. Tangye hate—as she
would, depend on it—the very thought of Hart! Just
imagine her situation, her truly terrible situation. She's not
married to Tangye. She never was married to Branscombe.
She loathes her real husband. If she tells the world the
truth, she places herself in a most pitiful position.
"Even if she takes Tangye into her confidence, she knows
him well enough to feel sure that he won't be able to keep
it to himself. He will be free to marry Mrs. Bligh, or
possibly Miss Eden. Poor Mrs. Tangye! A wife and yet
not a wife! Rather than face a life in hiding, a life of per-
petual humiliation, of never-dying gossip, she picks up that
revolver. . . . No wonder she fired it with the left hand!
I don't see any need for a Hart in the final scene. I only
see a broken heart. An agonised, tormented soul!"
Wilmot's voice had a ring of deep feeling in it for once.
"And I see Vardon," murmured Haviland, "though I see
what you mean too, Mr. Wilmot. As a matter of fact, for
253


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 255
"You think Vardon is in danger?" put in the quicker-
witted newspaper man.
"If he's not Hart, we do," Pelham answered very seriously,
"in that case, if Hart can do away with Vardon in some
manner that prevents definite identification of the body—
why, he'll think that he's hung up the case indefinitely."
"Then he doesn't know Pointer," Wilmot turned to the
Chief Inspector in mock despair. "What's a body more
or less to you? You'd merely think out some fresh tale of
mystery, and sail on, with or without the corpse.
"No, no!" Wilmot made a gesture with his cigarette sug-
gestive of dispersing smoke, or a crowd of tiny gnats, from
in front of his eyes, "you postulate a murderer who not
only left no trace of his presence at the scene of his supposed
crime, but has given us no sign of life throughout the investi-
gation. No effort has been made to mislead us. There has
been no stir in the underwood of the case to mark the passage
of a secret criminal, and we've all been listening attentively.
I can't think Vardon, or any other man, would have such iron
nerve."
"The thing I'm afraid of," Pointer spoke very gravely,
a little uneasily, "is that there may be still another murder.
However, the only witness I found in Wales, who could
identify Hart—possibly—is spending a couple of days in a
nursing-home."
"Eh?" asked Pelham.
"I really hadn't the face to ask for any more men, sir.
So I suggested a quiet retreat to him. It's only a matter of
two or three days, and free of charge. I told him that he
might get sandbagged outside. That idea made him skip
under shelter like a lamb. The doctor's in the secret, but
all the rest, even the Matron, think it's suicidal mania. He's
never left alone, allowed no visitors, watched day and night,
and the staff are laying themselves out to amuse him. His
only complaint will be that the food is all cut up, and that
he won't be allowed to shave himself, but that's not much.
Once Vardon's ship is back from Sweden, it's due to-morrow,


256 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
he'll be escorted up to town and taken over by us like royalty.
I think we've done our best to safeguard him, as we have
Vardon. . . ."
"I hope we shan't slip up on the question of identification,"
Pelham said, "it's absolutely vital here. If only we had
been able to lay our hands on a photograph of this Hart!"
"As far as I could find out, he never had one taken,"
Pointer was not pleased with that fact.
"I can't see how you can doubt that Vardon's the mur-
derer," Haviland said firmly, "it all seems of a piece. In
fact, it's like one of these prehistoric monsters you hear of,
where first you find a footprint—heard a pair of them in this
case—and then you get a bit of a bone. Then comes along
the spine, and finally you wind up with the skull, and there
you are."
"Ah," Pointer said good-humouredly, "the great thing is
not to link up one beast's snout with another creature's tail.
It doesn't matter in a museum case, but it might in one
of ours."
And with that small joke the men separated. Wilmot
and Haviland going on with Pointer to see Tangye.
Pointer had sent the stockbroker a telegram before start-
ing up to town.
It was a very jaded looking man who glanced up at the
two tall figures, one in uniform, one in tweeds, as followed
by Wilmot they were shown into his den by a servant who
they knew, and Tangye knew, was a butler detective.
"Well?" Tangye said tersely, rather white about his
tightening lips.
"Now, sir," Pointer took a chair unasked. "We haven't
the man who murdered Mrs. Tangye but information has
come to hand which tends to let you out. As you've seemed
to feel yourself an object of suspicion"
"Seemed to feel!" Tangye flashed back, unlocking a
tantalus and pouring out some whisky for himself which
he merely waved beneath the siphon as a matter of-form.
He did not ask any of the three to drink with him. He had


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 259
here evidently. "We know that on Monday at noon Mr,
O'Malley sent you a wire in code to say that he couldn't
meet his liabilities and was off for abroad. We know that
no blame whatever attaches to your firm for the position in
which it found itself."
"Ah, you know that?" this time Tangye looked relieved,
"Well, you've guessed why I stayed on. I had come back
home intending to ask my wife to help me out. A damned
unpleasant errand. And you can imagine my feelings when
the interview started in as it did. But I thought I might
talk her into a better temper. She was quick-tempered, but
placable—as a rule. I found her adamant. I didn't even
mention money. It was impossible. And yet I needed it
as I've never needed it before in my life. I went back to
town, and on Tuesday morning tried to see if I could raise
some. But credit in the city is an odd thing. The whisper
of O'Malley's difficulties had got about, and no bank would
lend. It would have been suicide to borrow privately. My
liabilities, since Dublin had let me in, were too high. Now
ray insurance papers were in my desk at home. I could raise
something on them. My wife's policy was there too. In
her own writing-table. I decided to raise money on mine,
and if I could manage it, on my wife's as well. I paid the
premiums on both.
"I drove home without any thought of slipping away un-
noticed, but as it happened the commissionaire was busy with
a messenger boy as I came out of the alley and never saw
me. I decided to leave the car at a turning near Riverview,
and let myself into the house quietly. I had no desire to
meet Mrs. Tangye. ... I got the documents I wanted.
Then I remembered my wife's insurance papers. She kept
them in the safe. I ran upstairs, made sure that no one
was in our bed-room, and tried the knob. But for once
the safe was locked. I went downstairs again. There was
no sound in the morning-room. Mrs. Tangye might be out.
I slipped into the garden through a side door in my study.
Going around to the morning-room, I saw that no light was


260 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
lit, and that one of the windows was ajar. I felt sure from
that that Mrs. Tangye was out. So, switching on the lamp
by her desk. I opened it. It was unlocked. The keys
were lying on top. The desk was empty except that in the
pigeon-hole where she usually kept her policy, was a small
pile of account books and papers neatly tied together. Just
as I caught sight of one end of the paper I was after, I
heard a sound outside the door. I thought it was Mrs.
Tangye, and snatching up the packet, I slipped out into the
garden again. It was, of course, Miss Saunders who opened
the door as I left by the window. She watched me go."—
Tangye's hand shook as he lit a cigar.
"There's no doubt about it that my wife must have been
sitting dead in that alcove all the time. Florence says she
didn't leave the room after four she thinks. It's a horrible
thought, but I think it's a true one."
"I think so, too," Pointer agreed soberly. "What did
you do then?"
"I slipped out by the tradesmen's gate, and into my car
which I'd left at the first turning. Drove to the city and
raised in five minutes a little money, though nothing like
what I needed. But I had made up my mind what I was
going to do with it. I have an acquaintance—Merchant of
Merchant Bros., as you seem to know. He's in cotton. We
had talked things over on Saturday in Norfolk. He had
urged me for once to come in on a speculation. The biggest
thing of the last fifty years he called it, and rightly. A
few fivers margined at the beginning of this cotton boom
might mean thousands at the end. It has. I got the loan,
telephoned to Manchester and posted him the cheque. Then
I got my car out, took my wife's books back with me, and
drove home intending to make things up with her. When
I got to Riverview the Superintendent was here, and I was
told that Mrs. Tangye was dead.
"The moment you, Superintendent, went upstairs to look
over the bedroom, Miss Saunders came into my den."
Tangye paused and shot out his lower lip. "She had an en-


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 261
velope in her hands with fifteen hundred pounds in it in bank
notes. In a whisper she told me that she had found this en-
velope lying in Mrs. Tangye's safe. I knew my wife had just
sold a farm. I had no idea for how much. There was still
time to post the money to Manchester. I thanked her, and
decided to pass over her having unlocked the safe without
authority. Slipped out of the house and round to the post
office. There I telephoned to Merchant's son in the City.
He passed my message on to his father, and I posted the
notes. On that I returned to the house, to find Miss Saun-
ders sitting here waiting for me. The police had gone. She
sat in the chair you're in now, Superintendent." Tangye
fixed a meditative eye on the piece of furniture in question.
"It certainly was an unexpected interview. Miss Saunders
accused me of shooting my wife. In a way it makes it
infinitely more ghastly that I believe she really and truly
believes I did fire that shot. Though how she thinks Mrs.
Tangye would let herself be picked off like a half-frozen
bee! All that stuff she told you was, of course, invention
on her part, but I think she believes I murdered Mrs. Tangye,
and then lost my head, and left the notes behind me. Well,
I saw pretty quickly what a position I was in. I'm bound
to say she helped me to see it. There were the insurance
policies on which I had raised money. There was the fifteen
hundred which I had just posted; by the six-thirty post, too!
There was my presence at Riverview—I had no idea then
that I hadn't been seen leaving my office. That was pure
luck. There was the visit on Sunday to the orchid-show
with a lady. There was the quarrel on Monday! It made
an ugly story. Miss Saunders didn't slur anything over.
She told me that she had cleaned up all marks of my com-
ing in to the morning-room, and closed the windows which
I had left, as I found them open. Miss Saunders made me
an offer. To back up any story I should tell. To substitute
her name for that of the lady who really was with me on
Sunday, if I would marry her—Miss Saunders*—and give
her the promise in writing; at once.


262 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
"Otherwise she intended to denounce me. She told me
that she would say that she had seen me actually with the
pistol in my hand. I'm bound to say she put the wind up
me all right. The more I thought it over, the worse it
looked. I couldn't make up my mind what to do. Marry
that octopus! Penal servitude didn't seem much better, bar-
ring of course the disgrace. Then there flashed into my
mind a bottle of vanishing ink I'd seen in Vardon's rooms
only a fortnight before. It looked just like the regular
stuff, only it wouldn't last a fortnight. He had won it on
shipboard as a booby prize, he told me. It's common stuff
in every South American stationer's."
Pointer thought of his wasted efforts.
"I 'phoned up to find if he was in. He wasn't. But I
decided to try for that ink all the same. It meant salvation
to me.
"I told Miss Saunders I would pick her up just over
Richmond Bridge, and take her along to my office where my
head clerk was still busy, I told her he could be depended
on not to talk, and that I would write her a marriage promise
there. I took my wife's papers off with me again—I couldn't
put them back in her desk after, the police had been over
it—and drove around to Vardon's, then I made an excuse
that I must run up and tell him of the accident. But the
ink was gone. He'd given it to a friend only a couple of
days before, I've since learnt. There was no help for it.
We went on to my office. There I wrote out an agreement
which she read through and tightened up. She put it inside
her dress and went back alone to Riverview. She told me,
by the way, with that engaging frankness which is one of
her most amiable characteristics, that the paper would be
kept in its sealed envelope by her legal advisor, whoever that
exalted personage may be. This was evidently a warning
that it would be no use for me to murder her to get it back.
I noticed, as possibly you did, that she refused to spend any
night at Riverview?"


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 263
"We noticed it," Pointer said with a faint smile. There
•was a pause.
"Thank you, sir, for being so frank. If all goes well,
you'll be able to snap your fingers at that paper. It was
practically blackmail. Now at the orchid-show did you see
Mrs. Tangye?"
"Not I! I hadn't the shadow of an idea that she was
there until I ran into Miss Eden by chance. She told me
of Mrs. Tangye's having seen me and my companion. And
of her having looked terribly upset. I pooh-poohed the idea
that she should mind. Naturally it wasn't what I should
have chosen. But a flower-show! After all a flower-show!
Second to being seen at a picture gallery I should have
thought. Miss Eden, however, warned me that my wife
was terribly upset. I didn't believe her. But I decided it
might be as well not to linger. A meeting might have been
most awkward. So the lady and I left. Next day came
the quarrel. I think that's the circle complete!"
Pointer thought a moment.
"And how did you get hold of Mrs. Tangye's keys?"
"Miss Saunders handed them to me. While we were in
the car driving to Vardon's. I must have been ass enough
to drop them in his rooms when I tried to open a book-case.
I don't remember what became of them, so I suppose I left
them lying on his table. You see, at the time I thought them
of no importance. Then came the discovery of that missing,
or rather unentered-money. I confess I thought that Miss
Saunders had taken it, and only handed me the half. 'Pon
my word, I hoped as much. I wish to Heaven she could
be jailed, but I suppose there's no chance of that?"
Pointer did not enter into that pious hope. There was
a little silence.
"I want to say one thing more." Tangye spoke very
earnestly. "I want to say it solemnly; you're making a
mistake, Chief Inspector. There's no crime here. Mrs.
Tangye fired that shot herself. That I swear."


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 265
from Mrs. Bligh's maid of the camera's disappearance. It
had not been seen. If Tangye's story was true, some one
had "annexed" it.
"There's one other thing I wish to say," Tangye said as
his guests rose to go. "I have withdrawn all opposition to
the probating of that will that Mrs. Tangye signed the Mon-
day before she died."
"You think it's genuine?" Haviland frowned. He did
not.
"I always held that Vardon had a right to the land. As
to the money—I have no wish to hand over the sum in ques-
tion to the lawyers. Vardon agrees to leave it in my firm.
They would not," was the laconic reply.
"And your wife's notice of withdrawal of her funds?"
Tangye's face darkened. "A cursed unfair and vindictive
thing of her to want to do. I can't understand it. Except
that the poor girl really was off her head."
"You knew of the notice?"
"Stewart gave me the note when you telephoned him for
an interview. Lest you should ask. ... I destroyed it."
Tangye still looked black. Evidently he had not forgiven
his wife for that letter. Pointer thought that its existence
had gone far to make Tangye take her death as he had done.
There was a short silence in the police car that Pointer
•was driving.
"Vardon's luck seems too good to last," Haviland spoke
crossly. "And that's a fact! First he gets the fifteen hun-
dred pounds handed him and no questions asked. Then a
will is found on him giving him ten thousand in cash and
close on that in land—and still no questions to be asked."
"It does make one wonder!"
"Whether he is Tangye's friend and accomplice?" mused
Wilmot. "I've never had so fascinating a problem to ponder.
No murder, I still think. Yes, in spite of the great Hart
discovery. At least I think I think so. But there certainly
is an intricate shadow-dance here, which is vastly interest-
ing."


CHAPTER XVI
The day after Pointer had searched Newport without find-
ing a trace of the Hart's home-circle, Barbara arrived at
that bustling town.
She had spent the time coming down in the train in
thought.
There were only two things about Mrs. Tangye which
marked her out from all the other women whom Barbara
knew. Her salmon fishing, a little. Her love of duets, very
decidedly. Mrs. Tangye had once spoken as though she
had always played them, even as a little girl.
W. Griffith was the name of the best music shop in New-
port, she was told at a stationer's where she inquired if such
a firm still existed.
Leaving Olive to paddle along the sands, and try to
swim in a foot of water, Barbara set off down Cathedral
Street. How to begin? To enter a shop and merely ask
if they had ever supplied music to a Miss Headly, might
not lead far.
Barbara was very nervous when she finally decided on
what to say. She entered the shop, therefore, with an air
of defiant self-possession.
"I want to get hold of some duets that used to be popular
years ago," she told the pleasant-faced, elderly man who
came forward. "I'm a nurse"; she flushed to the brim of
her hat, as though the profession were a blot on any family
"and I have a patient," she forced herself to say, "who used
to love playing duets. I think it might help her—it's a
mental case—if she could get hold again of some of the very
ones she used to play with a friend, a Miss Headly. I should
of course, expect to pay specially for them. Have you been
here long?"
267


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 269
Tangye. Obviously. Yet, some things fitted. General age.
Love of duets. Salmon fishing. Appearance. Could Mrs.
Tangye have had a sister after all? Or was this merely
a chance resemblance?
Barbara listened to a long-winded account of the accident.
To her it settled the matter. Then she pricked up her ears
again.
"Both she and her husband had come down in the world.
So he said. I don't know about him. Though he was the
sort that's bound to sink. But it was true enough of her.
She was a lady. Parson's daughter. Had an aunt a lady
of title, so he used to brag."
Parson's daughter? Titled aunt? But drowned?
"Was she left-handed, by any chance?"
"I don't remember. I wouldn't notice that, you see, when
she was playing."
Barbara got him to give her the address of a little dairy
shop above which the Hart's had lived. The salesman had
often spent an evening there. "In the beginning," he
was careful to add.
The address in question turned out to be a small milkshop
in a backwater. It was a neat affair, with a snowy marble
counter, white new-laid eggs, jars of honey arranged in a
golden pyramid, and a shining bowl of milk with a silver
cover from which to serve customers.
All looked spotless. So did Mr. Pringle who was just
about to serve a dirty urchin. The boy handed over a
smutty jug. Pringle filled it casually with a funnel clean
as a whistle. The surplus of milk ran cheerfully down the
dirty handle just now held by the grimy fingers, and back
into the gleaming bowl. By the time this would have been
repeated many times, Barbara wondered what the last
customer bought.
Courageously she asked for a glass from it, however, and
sat down to chat. She was passing through Newport, she
told the man, and wanted to learn some facts about friends
of friends of hers. Called Hart. They used to live here


272 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
keep oneself respectable here, if that's all there is to it?
Not that we ever saw her at her best, poor dear." The
woman's face softened as she handed the photograph of
"the cousin" back to Barbara. "Things went from bad to
worse with them. Her money too, it was. Born to better
things she was, as her underwear showed clearly. A par-
son's daughter she was, and though Tom and I are Wes-
leyans, we're broad-minded. And played the piano some-
♦thing beautiful. She kept her piano as long as she could.
Used to play duets with her husband at first. He could play
as well as he could sing."
"Was he a parson's son?" Barbara asked by way of
reaching this mysterious husband of the mysterious, inex-
plicable Mrs. Hart.
"Not much!" came from Pringle. "Common! No class
at all!"
"You're all wrong, Tom," Mrs. Pringle was indignant.
"I don't say as he behaved right. I mean about money-
matters, but he was a gentleman—or better!" Mrs. Pringle
lowered her voice mysteriously, "I think he was something
better still. You don't seem to know about him, miss?"
Barbara said that he"r friends had only known Mrs. Hart
before her marriage and knew nothing whatever of the hus-
band.
"I think he didn't dare ask his father for help," Mrs.
Pringle went on.
Pringle's sniff said what he thought.
"Poor thing! She did scrape, and save, and pinch," Mrs.
Pringle spoke with real pity now. "And then to get
drowned, both of 'em, like rats in a trap! It do seem hard!
What might her name have been before she married, miss?"
"Headly. Mable Headly."
"There now! I said to Tom all her things was marked
M. H., though I was sure they was older than her marriage.
Changed her name and not her letter. Unlucky, isn't it,
miss."
Again Barbara agreed. Still all at sea. Still half dazed


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 275
then on his way to meet Vardon's train, and conduct him
to the buffet where the choirmaster from Newport sat drink-
ing endless cups of coffee out of his own thermos flask, and
within arms' length of three waitresses who had been duly
propitiated.
She tried for Haviland. Haviland was not in his police
station. But she finally found Wilmot in. He told her
that he would be pleased to either see her at his flat, or meet
her anywhere she wished.
Barbara chose his rooms, and hustling Olive into a taxi
drove to them.
She ran up the stairs, and was hardly in Wilmot's spacious,
beautifully reticent rooms, before she poured out what she
had found and what she so tremendously regretted not hav-
ing found in Wales.
Wilmot listened with breathless interest.
"You've done splendidly!" he told her warmly. Some-
what to her surprise. "And the photograph?" Even he
looked keenly interested as he held out his hand.
"It's to be posted on to me from the hotel. I left my ad-
dress. It'll be here to-night, or to-morrow morning." She
branched off to again ask whether that first marriage would
in any way help to orient the inquiry into the dead woman's
past.
But Wilmot considered the portrait the greatest stride
which the case had yet made towards a solution.
"We must get into touch with the Chief Inspector," he
reached for his telephone under a beautiful old lacquer bell.
Barbara told him that she had asked in vain for Pointer at
Scotland Yard or at his own home. None the less Wilmot
tried his luck too.
"Out. They don't know when he'll be back. This is awk-
ward!"
He stood with pursed lips. What steps ought he to take?
How to act quickly and yet most efficaciously? He did not
want Pointer to come upon some ill-considered, hastily car-
ried out decision. Wilmot prided himself on always making


276 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
the best possible use of any information which he received.
"The Assistant Commissioner has just rung me up to
ask if by chance he were here. It seems that the Yard have
traced a Hart, a brother of Irving Hart's. He seems to be
a sort of secretary, or assistant to a Professor Orison. I
don't know if you've ever heard the name?"
"Professor Orison? Oh yes. I heard a lecture of his
once, in what I suppose he called English. But this brother
—you think he may be of help?"
Barbara thought Wilmot was attaching undue importance
to what was, after all, an old, finished item of Mrs. Tangye's
past.
Wilmot did not care to explain just what the photograph
might really mean.
"The trouble is this brother is off for Berlin to-night.
And the Yard doesn't know whether Pointer wants him
stopped* or not. An awkward thing to blunder just now.
It's Pointer's case, you see." Wilmot stood a second look-
ing irresolutely at the girl.
"Can't I help? Oh, Mr. Wilmot, please don't shunt me!
For Phil's sake—for the sake of bringing Mrs. Tangye's
murderer to justice, I'd do anything! Anything!"
He came closer and looked at her keenly.
"I believe you would!" he said encouragingly. "Splen-
did!" He thought for half a second. "Yes, that's the best
thing to do. You go to Professor Orison's house. This
man Hart isn't there. We've just telephoned to the Pro-
fessor to ask. He says he's doing some home work, and
that he doesn't expect to see him till to-morrow. But should
Hart suddenly go there while I'm looking him up down
where he lives in Bloomsbury, you'll be on hand. You might
get some facts from him. You'll be safe in speaking quite
openly to him."
"And what about Olive? She's down below in the taxi."
Again Wilmot reflected for a second.
"We'll take her along in my car! She might come in
useful for sending a message, or whatever maids do come


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 277
in for." He finished vaguely. He was in a tearing hurry,
and Barbara caught his spirit of rush. Of things draw-
ing to a climax. But he made time for two things.
"I must leave a line to tell Pointer what we're after. And
send a message to the same effect to the Yard."
And, in spite of her impatience, he scribbled a note, slipped
it in an envelope, addressed it to Pointer, and left it con-
spicuously on his table. Then he turned to his 'phone, and
Barbara heard the code word for the C.I.D. of Scotland
Yard.
"Tell Chief Inspector Pointer that Miss Ash and I are
going to see this Hart at once. She to Professor Orison's
house, and I to his lodgings in Bloomsbury. Leave this
message at every place where Inspector Pointer may call."
A moment more and he was running beside her down the
stairs.
In his car he rattled on in the highest spirits. Barbara
had never seen Wilmot on the war-path before. This was
Wilmot, the great reporter. Wilmot of the War.
"I'll come with you to Professor Orison's to make sure
Hart isn't in the house. Then I'll taxi on to him, and wait
till Pointer joins me. He wont be long. If you, mean-
while will be kind enough to stay at the Professor's till I
'phone you—half an hour should settle everything. The
lower rooms in his house are a sort of Polish museum, you
know. Ever been there?"
Barbara never had.
"I've heard it's jolly good. Scotland Yard, in its note,
said that Hart, when he's there, acts as showman; when he's
away, the Professor sometimes takes a hand himself. If
he does, try to get him to talk about Hart. You may pick
up something about the family. Where Hart came from,
and so on. Say you think you knew a sister-in-law of his."
Barbara bit her lip. She felt that she only understood
a very small part of the real story, and yet would have to
act as though she knew all. Few positions are more hobbling
to an intelligent person.


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 279
"The footsteps! The footsteps that stopped! They've
stopped again on the landing above us. I knew! I smelled
death! They're coming in! They're coming in! They
won't stop this time. Oh, Miss Barbara, run—run!
They're coming for us!"
The girl fell on to a seat in what Barbara thought was a
faint. But it was something deeper than that. She herself
was entirely unaffected by the girl's mad words, though the
tone of horror had startled her. Had she had a clue to
them, it might have been different.
The door opened, and an old man, with thick white hair
and eyebrows, and a skin so wrinkled that he looked like a
deflated balloon, came into the room, bowing politely.
"Did I hear some one call? I am Professor Orison and—
is your young friend ill?" He broke off. "The air is some-
what stuffy in here, I am afraid. It is impossible to open
a window without admitting smuts."
Barbara would have recognised the Professor again with-
out having heard his name. His was neither an appearance
nor an accent to be mistaken.
He rang the bell.
"Let me assist you and my housekeeper to carry her up-
stairs into an airier room."
Olive was taken up to a neat, simple bedroom on the floor
above. It was a warm, prepossessing room, and on his ad-
vice they laid the girl down on the bed without making
further efforts to revive her.
"Leave that to nature." The professor felt the girl's pulse.
"I have some trifling knowledge of medicine. Enough to
know a case of fatigue, and a chill after insufficient food.
She will be better if left alone—in perfect quiet. There is
such a thing as mental noise and rush," he added, smiling
gently, as Barbara lingered. "Thoughts can disturb."
Barbara told him that Olive had had a great shock
recently.
"Just so. Deranged nerves. Let her be by herself in
this darkened room, and I guarantee that when you look in


282 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Down the little path to the gate Olive hurried. Leaving it
open she raced headlong to the corner; a mongrel in the
next garden was barking his envy, he was so tired of his own
little patch of lawn.
At the corner a constable stood talking to two men in
tweeds. One tall, one medium. Olive put all her strength
into a last spurt.
"Inspector Pointer! Help! Miss Barbara. . . . Oh,
you're too late! Too late!"
Pointer had wheeled at the first sight of the flying figure.
He had run to meet the girl, "The end house?"
Olive nodded.
The end house was Professor Orison's. It was the only
gate that stood open. Pointer did not wait to hear more.
Nor did Vardon.
The Chief Inspector had played for all England. The
first forward of his time. But he had never run as he ran
now. Vardon was close at his heels. The constable brought
up the rear helping Olive along.
Pointer jumped the steps, and thundered out a true police-
man's knock with the wrought iron knocker before he flung
the door open. He wanted all within the house to know that
the Law was at hand. It was a knock to make any evil-doer
pause.
From far above him he heard another kind of pounding
as though some one were beating on the door of a locked
room.
As Pointer rushed into the hall, the housekeeper shrank
back fearfully into a doorway.
"Whatever is the matter?" she quavered. "First the maid
runs off. Then the young lady runs out into the garden
and clambers over the wall, and the master after her. Giv-
ing me a blow on the chest in passing that knocked the breath
out of me."
Far overhead, the sound of knocking and banging con-
tinued.
Pointer, a hand on her arm, ran her out to the back. He


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 285
rSred for the unbelievable quickness of its scenting powers,
its skill in finding, its intelligence.
Pointer, using a chairback as a pole, hurled himself across
the room, the hall, through the door and down the steps. He
vaulted the railing between the two houses.
"There's a girl missing. She's in that house. Your
dog . . . It's life or death."
The man, young and wiry, dashed back with him, the dog
one streak beside him, his gray-hound blood to the fore.
"Here!" Pointer stopped him in the print-room, the one
which Olive had heard Babara enter.
"We think she's been concealed somewhere. In the walls
or a secret cupboard."
Like master, like dog; the lurcher was all eagerness.
"Find her, Pal! Seek! Seek! Find her!" said his mas-
ter, setting his own mind intently to grip the dog's mind.
Pointer and Vardon were doing the same. Every nerve in
their bodies was with the dog, in some ways the cleverest
beast that lives, who stood for the barest second with one
paw lifted. Then he made straight for a wall, and stretching
down between his front paws, nosed between them. In a
second, Pointer, Vardon, and his master, had flung aside the
five-foot broad bookcase which stood in no wise different
from the other cases ranged at regular intervals around the
room. Behind it the wall looked unbroken. But Pointer
ran his finger nails along the panelling. Pulling, not press-
ing. Suddenly the whole panel moved towards him. As he
hoped, some one had been in too great a hurry to close the
secret door absolutely true on to its invisible catch. One
pressure of a clumsy hand, and all would have been lost.
Inside, hanging to a bracket, was something like a bag—.
something covered with a brown cloth—it was Barbara.
Olive fainted.
They cut Barbara down, and laid her on the floor. The
dog whimpered unheeded as he licked one hand clenched in
agony.


286 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Every village constable is instructed in how to bring peo-
ple back to consciousness.
"Schaefer's method, I see. I'm in the R.A.F. Can I
help?" The dog's master looked serviceable.
"You work that arm. You, that one, Vardon. Now, in
time to my counts!" Pointer dug his fingers beneath Bar-
bara's young ribs. Fortunately nowdays no time has to be
lost in taking off bodices, and cutting laces.
Pointer, while he worked, called out some instructions to
the constable in the hall. Among other orders, the man was
to telephone for a doctor.
Rhythmically, quietly, they worked over the girl. Giles,
the flying man, changing places with Pointer every five min-
utes. As for Olive, when she came to herself again, she
crouched in a corner, huddled and shivering.
A quarter of an hour passed.
Pointer felt his very heart turning cold. The bloated mask
that was Barbara's face was taking on a set look. The terrible
purple colour seemed growing more fixed. The swollen
lips had fallen still further apart. The whole body of the
young girl seemed heavier, less flexible.
The other saw the change too. The R.A.F. man was bit-
ing his lips. Vardon's face was too agonised to look at. He
was working quietly, obediently, desperately, but he was
sobbing now under his whistling breath.
Pointer handed him the arm which he was flexing and
turned away. He tore out one of the big, plain, silver, cuff-
links he wore. Silver, so that no thief should be tempted to
steal them. With a turn of the link he unscrewed one
lozenge-shaped end. Inside it, was what looked like a com-
pressed cocoon. Pointer ripped it open with a touch of his
penknife. Within was something wrapped in a leaf. Still
faintly green. Pointer unfolded it.
It was a fresh Guru nut in a tiny lotus leaf once wet with
lotus dew. A slave's ransom among the Senussi. Five of
them a princess's dower. A Sheik had given it to Pointer in
gratitude for timely help. Pointer now crushed it with the


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 287
handle of his knife. He laid the crumbs on the girl's black
tongue and kept the mouth gently shut. Then it was his
turn to relieve Giles.
Five minutes passed. Vardon gave a cry. The lips be-
neath his hand had trembled and tried to close. Another
second and the colour of Barbara's face changed from blue-
red to white which slowly turned creamy. The eyes, though
bloodshot were back in their sockets now, and the lids cov-
ered them softly. Still another minute and they lifted again.
Barbara looked at Vardon. A look that he never forgot,
though he never quite fathomed it. Confidence and love
were in it, and something humble. Something that mutely
asked forgiveness. For Barbara came back to consciousness
with the certainty as to Vardon's innocence of Mrs. Tangye's
death shining like a great light within her heart. She knew
at last, by some conviction of the soul, some telepathy of the
spirit, that, whoever might be guilty, it was not he.
Vardon had got her into his arms, her head was lying
against his breast. What he murmured to her, those around
did not have to forget, they did not hear it, so disconnecting
is great excitement.
They learnt afterwards that by chance the cord around her
neck had been pulled tight in such a way that she had been
garotted. The chief pressure had not come on her wind-
pipe, or there would have been no chance of saving
her.
Pointer called in the constable from the telephone. The
man had been recording an unbroken series of blanks. A
great medical congress was on, the Chief Inspector now re-
membered, and every qualified man would be at it.
Pointer took his place, called up Scotland Yard, and
rattle off a code order. Then he slammed down the receiver,
and hurried back into the room.
Barbara was sitting up and trying to speak. Pointer
thought that she had better be given no stimulant after that
nut, but he suggested that she should be carried into the next
room, where there was a roaring fire, and where incidentally,


288 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
the Professor had been trying to extract information from
an imperturbable but dumbfounded constable. Barbara
croaked out a refusal to be carried, and insisted on walking,
though Vardon kept his arm around her and Giles crooked
an elbow to be used if wanted. Pal barked his joy. He
liked girls, and in some way he felt that this one belonged
to him.
Pointer detained his master, and handed him his official
card when they were alone.
"We owe you and your dog "Pointer's voice shook.
For once, the Chief Inspector could not finish a sentence.
Another three minutes, and not all the Guru nuts in the
world could have saved Barbara.
Giles whistled the lurcher to him. "He's not much to look
at, or rather he's too much. But I've always been glad I
stole him—saving your presence—as a pup from a drunken
tinker, who was beating him to death. He gave his
greyhound-collie-airedale-retriever-setter-spaniel a friendly
smack.
"Thanks so much for asking us to your party," he said
prettily, and the detective officer laughed, glad of the re-
lief to the tension of the past few minutes, "but Pal and I
mustn't stay longer. We promised mother to be back early."
"If ever you're in a tight place, Mr. Giles, you call on
me!" Pointer showed him to the door. There was a fog
outside, growing thicker every minute.
The meeting between Barbara and the Professor was al-
most amusing.
The Professor stared in feeble bewilderment, and listened
to her story in something like a frenzy of weakness and
excitement.
Her tale was brief.
She did not recollect what had happened to her beyond
that, as she was bending over a tattered Zainer, something-
it was a brown clothes bag from an upper room—had been
pulled over her head from behind, its cord drawn tight by an
unseen hand. She had felt first as though hit by a flash of


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 289
light, and then, as though dropping through endless space into
darkness. Unconsciousness had come at once.
"But when—what time?" Orison shrilled, "What hour
was it when you came here? You say you saw Professor
Orison. I'm Professor Orison. The only Professor Ori-
son. I've never seen you before." He eyed Barbara with
suspicion.
She told him the time. Barbara was feeling amazingly
herself again. She was in no pain. Even her swollen neck
did not hurt her unless she touched it. She felt as though
she had been given a drink of some powerful elixir. It was
Olive who looked as though she had been at the verge of
death. Red-eyed, haggard, ghastly pale, she kept close to
Pointer's side.
Once in crossing to the fire to stoke it, Vardon tripped a
little. Olive flinched like a beaten dog who hears the whip.
Orison put a shaking, wrinkled hand to his head. "But
I was upstairs at that time! Tied and gagged!"
His story was that, nearly half an hour before the time
Barbara had got to the house, he had been in the house alone,
as he thought, except for his housekeeper, and was stooping
with his back to the door, fitting a key into the rather diffi-
cult lock of the press that housed his stamp collection, when
something, or some one, had pressed his head on to the floor
where a sponge lay, apparently dropped from space. When
he next recollected anything, he was alone in an upper bed-
room, bound and gagged. He could hear nothing of what
passed in the house, for the towel over his mouth passed
across his ears as well.
"But surely our stories can wait," Orison fumed shrilly,
"I presume you are satisfied of this young lady's bona
fides "he looked as though he himself were not, "the
essential is to get back my green Mauritius. 1847. Three
thousand pounds! Not yet listed! I know it's been
taken "He tottered into the next room and gave a
screech that sounded like a rusty siren.
"I knew it! Gone!"


290 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Pointer led him gently, but firmly, back into the other
room.
"You really need to rest yourself, sir," he warned him, "at
your age"
"My age!" piped the Professor indignantly, "my age, sir,
is no more than your own. Mind, mind is what counts.
And as long as the power of growth exists, so long—>—" his
voice trailed off feebly. He looked a very old man as he
sat mouthing at them.
Tea was brought in by one of the constables.
"The housekeeper was too upset to bring it herself, sir,"
he explained to Pointer, "says she isn't accustomed to seeing
double. Or rather to having a gentleman be downstairs and
upstairs at the same time."
"Now what did she mean by that?" mumbled Orison after
a thirsty drink, "the female mind is apt to lack coherence."
"She means that some one impersonated you, sir, this after-
noon. That the man whom Miss Ash here saw and talked
to was made up to look like you, not a difficult feat, and evi-
dently deceived your housekeeper as well. As to your stamp,
we shall get the man who stole it, the man who passed him-
self off as you."
"Hart!" Barbara said suddenly. For the moment she had
forgotten the talk with Wilmot.
"Hart? My secretary? Well—what of him?" Orison
mumbled, groping for his spectacles, as though they would
help him find the man.
There was a ring at the front door.
"That'll be Wilmot!" Pointer said eagerly rising, and
going to it himself. But it was Haviland who came back
with him a second later. Haviland, who brought in wisps
of fog clinging to him. The Superintendent evidently had
no clue to this little meeting, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully
after the barest of greetings all around.
Pointer did not stop to tell him of what had just taken
place. He wanted to hear as quickly as possible what
Barbara had to tell, since she seemed so able to talk. She


292 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Wilmot's wits will pull him through, and yet detain Hart.
Now, sir, since we're all here as your guests would you
like to hear the real reason for the attack this afternoon?
An attack, not on your collection, but aimed solely at Miss
Ash here?"
Orison blinked. He said that he certainly should like to
hear the explanation of such an astounding statement.
"But that stamp has been taken!" he pointed out.
"Overlooked, sir, I think you'll find when you've time to
go over your collection more at leisure. But do you remem-
ber hearing of the death of a Mrs. Tangye just over a week
ago?"
As he expected, the Professor shook his head.
"No. I never read newspapers. The waves set up by
their articles are not conducive to that calmness essential to
the mental worker."
The Professor looked longingly at his desk. On a knee-
hole table lay the draft of a lecture on Minkowski. He was
just making his argument clear that under certain aspects
of space-time the triply extended, and the singly enduring
can be one and the same attribute.
Pointer, who had looked at the open sheets thought that
they could wait. He settled himself still more at ease in his
chair, one hand fingering the pipe in his pocket, as the next
best thing to smoking it, and began:
"It may help to pass the time for you, Miss Ash, and you,
Olive, since you can't get away. Once upon a time, or lit-
erally, thirty-five years ago, a curate's daughter was born.
Her name was Mable Headly."
Pointer ran through the story that he had just lately been
piecing together.
"Apparently, Professor, this Hart who was believed to
have been drowned and your secretary are one and the same
person, not brothers-in-law," Pointer wound up, "you see
our interest in him now? It looks as though he had been
aware of Miss Ash's investigations down at Newport, and
realising that if once she gets hold of his portrait, the only


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 295
The taxi drew in.
"You take this one, sir," Pointer advised, "there's another
behind there for the ladies. Let me put you in, you look
pretty well done."
Pointer lifted the bent figure like a child down the steps
to the taxi. Haviland, grinning, opened the door.
A couple of men were passing. Another, on the other
side of the road, lingered.
Pointer turned to the nearest.
"Here is Professor Orison," he said, literally laying his
burden in the other's arms, and slipping, as he did so, a
respirator over the man's mouth. At least it looked like a
respirator, but it fitted uncommonly closely. "Take him to
the station, Watts. Wash him well, and you'll find Mr.
Wilmot. Put Mr. Wilmot through the mangle, and you'll
find Hart. Irving Hart. Wanted for the murder of his
wife, Mable Hart, and the attempted murder of Miss Ash.
You have warrants made out in all three names?"
Detective Inspector Watts nodded.
"Yes, sir. Here, Miller, handcuff the left hand to yours.
I'll do the same with his right. We'll see he doesn't get a
chance to lift either to his mouth, sir."
Pointer and Haviland retraced their steps. A dog barked
from a neighbouring window. Some one hastily shut him
up. Evidently Pal and his master were interested specta-
tors.
"He'll read about it to-night. I wouldn't arrest Wilmot
in the room for fear of a scene. Those two girls have had
enough of horrors. You got my message too, I see, Newnes.
I suppose Inspector Watts has been bringing you up to date
as you came along?"
"Rather! Back in a minute!" Newnes started off at a
run to the nearest telephone.
Haviland closed the front door. The spare constable was
dismissed from extra duty, the other had been sent to the
police station with the housekeeper long go. Haviland held
the knob a second in his hand and stood staring at Pointer.


296 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
He had kept his face absolutely wooden outside, but it had
paled.
"Wilmot! Mr. Wilmot! Well, I'm—I'm—I am! And
that's a fact! Oh, well played, sir! But Mr. Wilmot!"
It spoke volumes for Pointer's standing, that Haviland did
not, even for a second, question the facts.
"You've known it all along?" he asked with deep respect.
"Not a bit of it. Never suspected it till an hour ago.
Let's clear the house, and I'll explain."
Meanwhile Barbara would have followed the Professor
into the hall, but Olive had stopped her.
"Don't go near him, miss! He's been meaning murder
every second since they brought us into the room. He's
been sitting there longing to wring both our necks, and only
putting it off." Olive's cheeks had colour in them now.
"I wasn't ill. I was terrified. Afraid lest he should get the
better of the Inspector in some way."
Pointer and Haviland returned.
"Right you are, Olive," Haviland nodded. "But, as a
matter of fact, you don't get the better of Chief Inspector
Pointer easily. Pie's"
"I'll call and see you to-morrow, if I may, Miss Ash,"
Pointer broke in hurriedly, "if only to thank you for what
you've done. That Pringle family, and above all, that photo-
graph of Hart. . . . But we mustn't start explanations now.
You may not think it, but you need quiet. And so does
Olive. I'll answer every question to-morrow, and ask just
a few myself."
Barbara did not move.
"Is Philip cleared, Mr. Chief Inspector? Absolutely? I
know he's innocent "her eyes met her fiance's for one
magic moment, "but is he cleared?"
"Absolutely and definitely."
"But how do you "began Vardon.
"Ah, here's your cab," was his only answer. "Mr. Var-
don will see you both safely home," and Pointer most in-


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 297
hospitably opened the door. But this time it was Olive, who
stopped.
"Miss Barbara! That photograph! I'm sure I have it
here in my bag. The hall-porter at the hotel gave me at the
last minute what I thought was only some price lists I'd asked
about, never thinking we was going to leave Newport so
suddenly. He said they were for me, and I dropped them
into my bag.
"There wasn't any letter amongst them. And in the train
I read the papers you bought, Miss. But while I was wait-
ing for you outside Mr. Wilmot's rooms, I looked through
them. One envelope is for you, and you can feel there's a
picture inside it. I'd have given it you immediate, only
Mr. Wilmot was talking so hard after we got into his car
and you both seemed in such a rush. Just now I didn't
say nothing. Not in front of that Professor! Here it is,
miss."
Pointer laid a hand on it.
"I'm asking an awful lot. But will you let me have this—
without looking at it yourself? I think, thanks to you that
the "he was going to say "prosecution" but changed the
word to "case, has got a tremendous lift."
"Since Hart is Mrs. Tangye's murderer, I don't want to
see his portrait." Barbara shivered. "But how did you
catch him? I thought he had got away from here?"
"You let Mr. Vardon take you home now," was Pointer's
soothing answer. "And we'll have a long talk to-morrow,
but just one question first. How did you get out of the
house, Olive? You saved Miss Barbara's life by that plucky
run."
Olive explained, while Barbara for the first time learnt
the sequence of events in her rescue.
The two girls clung to each other. Olive was crying,
Barbara was beginning to feel exhausted. The powerful
stimulant of the nut was passing off. She was glad to let
Vardon close the taxi door on the three of them.


298 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
Pointer drew out the photograph, a cabinet-sized enlarge-
ment of a family group. There in the centre, out of the shad-
ows, looked a face. The face of Wilmot. Practically un-
altered, except for the haziness of a beard just beginning to
show.
A ring came on the telephone. Pointer leapt for the in-
strument. Listened; and turned away with a smile.
"He's safely searched and locked up. All rings and per-
sonal belongings have been taken from him. Haviland,
we've won!" He drew a deep breath.
"This last hour I've been like Olive—terrified. But lest
he should guess, we, or rather, I, knew the truth. Frightened
for fear he should make some slip I should have to notice.
That's why I talked such a lot when that confounded fog
came down. That's why I sent his housekeeper off to be
locked up as soon as possible. Wilmot would be sure to
have poison handy. Ring, cigar-case, watch. A dozen pos-
sible places. Even before I knew who Hart would turn
out to be, I expected I might have trouble to take him alive.
So I kept that respirator of mine handy. No getting any-
thing into his mouth with that on, even without Watts's added
precautions.
"Death by his own hand would be too utterly inadequate.
He's not to escape punishment like that."
"But what in the world made you link Wilmot with Pro-
fessor Orison? You say you had no idea of it till this after-
noon? I still don't understand it, sir. The fact is," Havi-
land confessed honestly, "the more I think it over, the less I
see how you did it."
"It was a mistake on his part to tie his hands together,
back to back. It looked very convincing, but it showed his
palms. Interested in palmistry, Haviland?"
"Me? Not much! Why?"
"I pay great attention to palms. Ever since a crook de-
tected me by mine. That over-rated villain, Peace, once said
that policemen only looked at faces never at hands. They're
one of the few things make-up doesn't change. I can recog-
i


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 299
nise a hand now. Any one's. It's a mere matter of train-
ing—of routine. And Wilmot- happens to have the most
extraordinary lines, and absence of lines. Those palms
turned towards me were Wilmot's, and no one else's in the
world. That gave me a tremendous jar. Miss Ash being
missing could only be Hart's work. Obviously. And here
in the house where she had last been seen alive, was Orison
with Wilmot's hands. The chain made itself. Orison!—
Wilmot—Hart. And, well, if ever there was a moment to
be quick off the mark, it was when I believed Miss Ash was
in the house, and couldn't find her. For I knew then, or
rather I feared, that those hands being Wilmot's meant that
we should find her dead or dying." Pointer walked to the
window, and stood there for a long minute before he turned
round again. "Nothing but Olive's rush out of the house—
nothing but the fact that by God's mercy, Vardon and I were
at hand—we were asking the constable to point us out Ori-
son's house—saved her.
"As for Miss Ash's story about Wilmot's sending her here
post-haste—those messages he sent to the Yard, and the one
from the Assistant Commissioner about Hart the secretary,
and the letter left for me on his table, will all turn out to be
dummies, of course. We may be sure that he had some
very neat plan for throwing us off the scent mapped out in
that dark brain of his. All I knew an hour ago was, that the
delay before she saw the Professor would have been suffi-
cient to let Wilmot get into Orison's things."
"He always was a lightning worker!" Newnes threw in.
The reporter had returned, and was writing like a delirious
hen scratching for food.
"And a cruel, ruthless venal beast under all his smooth
manners. Every one on the staff loathed him. So he stole
groceries for his shop, did he? Wilmot has always bragged
about belonging to some pious Catholic mother too devout to
send him to college. Educated by a tutor, and all that!
And all the time he had been a drunken little manager in a
filthy slum!"


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 301
if this weren't the first crime that Wilmot has committed.
Orison has only been known to be in existence about three
years.
"You remember the steamboat murder as it was called, just
three years ago? Norton had the case. It was never solved.
Rajah's son found murdered and some thousands of pounds
of Bearer bonds missing? Wilmot was one of the party I
now remember. I shouldn't wonder if Norton will be able to
make some connections when he hears of this. As to Ori-
son's success, Wilmot is an uncommonly brainy chap.
Also he chose a field where a flow of language does instead
of facts, I take it. I mean metaphysics, and so on."
Pointer had never been able to master that subject.
"Yes, Orison—in case of need—would make a very useful
second incarnation of Wilmot. Or third, if we call him
Hart. He knew how to meet the right people, too," the
Chief Inspector went on.
"And he knew how to advertise, none better," Newnes
said contemptuously. "I wondered why the Polish Profes-
sor was so to the fore in every report of social things. Wil-
mot would be able to arrange that without any one being the
wiser. But about just now—how did he manage to tie
himself up like that? I never saw such a piece of work."
"A series of granny's hitches. A useful fisherman's knot,
which you tie loosely and can pull tight. The loose end was
fastened to the bedpost, so that the further he worked his
chair away, the tighter everything went. That was part of
what made him thump about so."
"But those wrinkles!" Newnes murmured when he had
got the outlines down, "they really looked impossible to
doubt."
"They're real enough—while they last. I've made them
myself. But that, Newnes, isn't for publication. Just for-
get Orison's make-up."
"But how's it done. Between ourselves?"
"There's a very common substance, which, mixed with
gelatine and allowed to harden into a jelly, can be liquefied in


302 THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED
a second with hot water. You paint it on with a brush, or
sponge it on. As it dries—it takes only a minute by an
open window—it contracts the skin into a thousand puckers.
It can only be washed off in very hot water. That was what
I was on my way to do when Olive ran out."
Haviland stared. So did Newnes.
"Well, Orison's appearance so obviously lent itself to the
idea of a disguise, once you thought of it in that light, and
knew about that wrinkle-making dodge. I intended to call
on him, have him ask me to tea, and then—well—I shouldn't
wonder if he had found himself feeling suddenly rather faint.
I should have got close enough to him to make sure whether
that skin was natural or not. You can tell the manufactured
article when you know what signs to look for. Vardon,
who has been quite definitely not identified by the Newport
choirmaster, was coming along to see if he could recognise
the voice. I thought Orison might possibly be Oliver
Headly. And Vardon knew Oliver. I think one of the
reasons Orison wanted to be off, was that he had made him-
self up rather hurriedly. After all, Miss Ash would stare
at him as you and I would."
Newnes got up, his wad of notes in his hand.
"Of all the tales to spin! You knew he was engaged to
Lord Vibart's daughter, I suppose? Secret de polichinelle.
It was to be announced at Christmas."
"So that was it," Pointer said thoughtfully. "A smart,
and, I suppose, wealthy marriage?"
"Rather! She was left half shares in the paper by her
grandfather who started it, you know. Her husband could
become one of the most influential men in England if he had
brains. That's why Lord Vibart is said to've finally given
his consent. No one can deny that Wilmot has brains."
"High stakes!" Pointer was looking through the papers
in the writing-table as he talked.
"No other kind would attract Wilmot in fact," Havi-
land thought.
"Yes," Pointer went on, "it must have been a blow when


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 303
he met his wife. Undoubtedly he believed her drowned, and
with her all record of those sordid early years."
"Miss Vibart is a beautiful girl," Newnes said. "She's
supposed to be most frightfully in love with him. He's
very successful with women, you know."
"Beautiful? Wilmot would like that too." Pointer was
rapidly glancing at a pile of papers in front of him.
Haviland was doing the same.
"Well, she's had an escape second only to Miss Ash's."
Pointer lit his pipe. "But one can imagine the shock it must
have been to Wilmot to discover that he was, after all, still
tied to a penniless woman of no particular family or influ-
ence. Mr. Branscombe left everything he had to his 'wife.'
I doubt if she could have kept a penny of his money. And
I feel sure she wouldn't have, finally. Altogether the fact
that she was alive meant the utter ruin of all Wilmot's plans.
No wonder he had to work quickly."
"To think that when I pulled him out of the train at Vic-
toria, he had just come away from a murder!" Newnes
looked stirred. "He was a fine actor, and no mistake!"
"Every criminal must be, or go under at once," Pointer
threw in with but little enthusiasm.
Newnes bustled off.
"What's much more thrilling—to me "Pointer said
grimly, "is the thought that if I had detected any make-up in
the Professor's appearance on close inspection, I intended to
tell you and Wilmot of him to-night. Nice little surprise it
would have been for Wilmot!"
"In point of fact, sir," Haviland rubbed his chin appre-
ciatively, "he didn't miss any of the surprise. Last glimpse
I had of him his eyes were still popping out of their sockets.
Neatest thing of its kind I ever saw done! So it was Wil-
mot whom Mrs. Tangye met at Tunbridge," Haviland was
trying to get the facts clear.
"Must have been."
The trial that ended Wilmot's earthly career, showed this
to have been the case. He had gone there idly, interested in


THE FOOTSTEPS THAT STOPPED 305
"No wonder Wilmot wouldn't come along to Usk," the
Chief Inspector said, thinking back. "Nor down to Tun-
bridge Wells. Nor meet Miss Eden. He was playing
safety first."
"Nor attend the funeral even," Haviland added. "As a
matter of fact, I don't envy his feelings when Miss Ash came
in with the news of that portrait group."
"Oh, I think he rather enjoyed the excitement it gave
him. He had still a good, a very good chance of suppressing
the portrait, after getting rid of the two girls. And if there
was any trouble, Orison could be spurlos versenkt. Though
except for Wilmot there was no one to connect the Professor
with the girls—once his housekeeper had been silenced. He
drove them here himself.
"Oh, I think he meant to do things on the grand scale. It
was his one chance. Then, if all went well, Orison would
probably have faded away in time. He's been less and less
before the public of late. I think Wilmot was tiring of
him, and—if he was concerned in that steamboat murder—
began to feel himself quite safe."
"Was his housekeeper in it all?"
"She was in his power, at any rate. I don't think there's
much doubt of that. She would do, as well as say, what-
ever he told her. From the way she eyed the constable when
he came in with Olive, I knew she had had trouble with the
police before."
"Newnes was right in saying that he was an actor. Who
ever would have guessed, without some reason for it, that the
Professor was anything other than a weak, old gentleman.
And his story about his double all so neat and pat!"
"Humph! I was very careful not to tackle that double.
The last thing I wanted was a crack in his plating. As to
the note of age, Orison forced that. It could be put down
to shock. But it also let him hobble about. Wilmot has
a catch in his step. Did you notice it when I was telling
the Assistant Commissioner and you two about the Hart
marriage? It only seems to come when he's greatly excited


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BOUR OWN
3 9015 06394 2836
DEC11 1947
UNIV. OF MICH.
LIBRARY