The Box Office Murders

I

The Purple Sickle

Inspector Joseph French, of the Criminal Investigation Department of New Scotland Yard, sat writing in his room in the great building on Victoria Embankment. Before him on his desk lay sheet after sheet of memorandum paper covered with his small, neat writing, and his pen travelled so steadily over the paper that an observer might have imagined that he had given up the detection of crime and taken instead to journalism.

He was on a commonplace job, making a précis of the life history of an extremely commonplace burglar. But though he didn’t know it, Fate, weighty with the issues of life and death, was even then knocking at his door.

Its summons was prosaic enough, a ring on his telephone. As he picked up the receiver he little thought that that simple action was to be his introduction to a drama of terrible and dastardly crime, indeed one of the most terrible and dastardly crimes with which he had ever had to do.

“That Inspector French?” he heard. “Arrowsmith speaking—Arrowsmith of Lincoln’s Inn.”

A criminal lawyer with a large practice, Mr. Arrowsmith was well known in the courts. He and French were on friendly terms, having had tussles over the fate of many an evildoer.

“Yes, Mr. Arrowsmith. I’m French.”

“I’ve a young lady here,” Mr. Arrowsmith went on, “who has just pitched me a yarn which should interest you. She has got into the clutches of a scoundrel who’s clearly up to no good. I don’t know what he’s after, but it looks mighty like a scheme of systematic theft. I thought you might like to lay a trap and take him redhanded.”

“Nothing would please me better,” French returned promptly. “Shall I go across to your office?”

“No, it’s not necessary. I’ll send the girl to the Yard. Thurza Darke is her name. She’ll be with you in half an hour.”

“Splendid! I’ll see her directly she comes. And many thanks for your hint.”

Though he spoke cordially, French was not impressed by the message. Communications purporting to disclose clues to crimes were received at the Yard every day. As a matter of principle all were investigated, but not one in a hundred led to anything. When therefore some half hour later Miss Darke was announced, French greeted her courteously, but without enthusiasm.

She was a pretty blonde of about five and twenty, with a good manner and something of a presence. Well but plainly dressed in some light summery material, she looked what she evidently was, an ordinary, pleasant, healthy young woman of the lower middle classes. French put her down as a typist or shopgirl or perhaps a bookkeeper in some small establishment. In one point only did she seem abnormal. She was evidently acutely nervous. There was panic in her eyes, tiny drops of perspiration stood on her face, and the hand in which she grasped her vanity bag trembled visibly.

“Good morning, Miss Darke,” said French, rising as she entered and pulling forward a chair. “Won’t you sit down?” He gave her a keen glance and went on: “Now, if you’ll excuse me for two or three minutes I’ll be quite at your service.”

He busied himself again with his papers. If her nervousness were due to her surroundings she must be allowed time to pull herself together.

“Ready at last,” he went on with his pleasant smile. “Just take your time and tell me your trouble in your own way and it’ll be a strange thing if between us all we’ll not be able to help you out.”

The girl looked at him gratefully and with some surprise. Evidently she had expected a different kind of reception. French noted the glance with satisfaction. To gain the confidence of those with whom he had to deal was his invariable aim, not only because he valued pleasant and friendly relations for their own sake, but because he felt that in such an atmosphere he was likely to get more valuable details than if his informant was frightened or distrustful.

“So you know Mr. Arrowsmith?” he prompted, as she seemed to have a difficulty in starting. “A good sort, isn’t he?”

“He seems so indeed, Mr. French,” she answered with a suggestion of Lancashire in her accent. “But I really can’t say that I know him. I met him this morning for the first time.”

“How was that? Did you go to consult him?”

“Not exactly: that is, it was through Miss Cox, Miss Jennie Cox, his typist. She is my special friend at the boarding house we live at. She told him about me without asking my leave. He said he would hear my story and then she came back to the boarding house and persuaded me to go and tell it to him.”

“She thought you were in some difficulty and wanted to do you a good turn?”

“It was more than that, Mr. French. She knew all about my difficulty, for I had told her. But she believed I was in danger and thought somebody should be told about it.”

“In danger? In danger of what?”

The girl shivered.

“Of my life, Mr. French,” she said in a low tone.

French looked at her more keenly. In spite of this surprising reply, there was nothing melodramatic in her manner. But he now saw that her emotion was more than mere nervousness. She was in point of fact in a state of acute terror. Whatever this danger might be, it was clear that she was fully convinced of its reality and imminence.

“But what are you afraid may happen to you?” he persisted.

Again she shivered. “I may be murdered,” she declared, and her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Oh, come now, my dear young lady, people are not murdered in an offhand way like that! Surely you are mistaken? Tell me all about it.” His voice was kind, though slightly testy.

She made an obvious effort for composure.

“It was Eileen Tucker. She was my best friend. They said she committed suicide. But she didn’t, Mr. French! I’m certain she never did. She was murdered. As sure as we’re here, she was murdered! And I may be too!” In spite of her evident efforts for self-control, the girl’s voice got shrill and she began jerking about in her chair.

“There now,” French said soothingly. “Pull yourself together. You’re quite safe here at all events. Now don’t be in a hurry or we’ll get mixed up. Take your own time and tell me everything from the beginning. Start with yourself. Your name is Thurza Darke. Very good now; where do you live?” He took out his notebook and prepared to write.

His quiet, methodical manner steadied the girl and she answered more calmly.

“At 17 Orlando Street, Clapham. It’s a boarding house kept by a Mrs. Peters.”

“You’re not a Londoner?”

“No. I come from Birkenhead. But my parents are dead and I have been on my own for years.”

“Quite. You are in some job?”

“I’m in charge of one of the box offices at the Milan Cinema in Oxford Street.”

“I see. And your friend, Miss Jennie Cox, who also lives at Mrs. Peters’ boarding house, is typist to Mr. Arrowsmith. I think I’ve got that straight. Now you mentioned another young lady—at least I presume she was a young lady—a Miss Eileen Tucker. Who was she?”

“She was in one of the box offices at the Hammersmith Cinema.”

“Same kind of job as your own?”

“Yes. I met her at an evening class in arithmetic that we were both attending and we made friends. We were both bad at figures and we found it came against us at our work.”

French nodded. The name, Eileen Tucker, touched a chord of memory, though he could not remember where he had heard it. He picked up his desk telephone.

“Bring me any papers we have relative to the suicide of a girl called Eileen Tucker.”

In a few moments a file was put before him. A glance through it brought the case back to him. It was summarized in a cutting from the Mid-Country Gazette of 10th January of that year. It read:

“Tragic Death of a Young Girl

“Dr. J. S. Jordan, deputy coroner for South Eastern Surrey, held an inquest at the Crown Inn, Caterham, yesterday morning on the body of a young girl which was found in a quarry hole about a mile from the town and not far from the road to Redhill. The discovery was made by a labourer named Thomas Binks, who was taking a shortcut across the country to his work. Binks reported the affair to the police and Sergeant Knowles immediately visited the scene and had the body conveyed to the town. The remains were those of a girl of about twenty-five, and were clothed in a brown cloth coat with fur at the collar and cuffs, a brown skirt and jumper and beige shoes and stockings. A brown felt hat lay in the water a few feet away and in the right hand was clasped a vanity bag, containing a cigarette case and holder, some loose coins and a letter. This last was practically illegible from the water, but enough could be made out to show that it was from a man of undecipherable name, breaking off an illicit relation as he was going to be married. Dr. Adam Moody, Caterham, in giving evidence stated that death had occurred from drowning, that there were no marks of violence, and that the body had probably been in the water for two or three days. At first the identity of the deceased was a mystery, but Sergeant Knowles handled the affair with his usual skill and eventually discovered that she was a Miss Eileen Tucker, an employee in the box office of the Hammersmith Cinema in London. She seemed to have been alone in the world, having lived in a boarding house and no relatives being discoverable. After considering the evidence, the jury, with Mr. John Wells acting as foreman, brought in a verdict of suicide while of unsound mind.”

“A sad case,” said French sympathetically, when he had finished the paragraph. “I see that the jury brought in a verdict of suicide, but you think the poor young lady was murdered? Now just tell me why you think so.”

“I know it! I’m sure of it! She wasn’t the kind of girl to commit suicide.”

“That may be, but you’ve surely something more definite to go on than that?”

“No proof, but I’m as certain of it as if I had been there. But what she told me about the man shows it wasn’t what they said.”

“I don’t quite follow you. What did she tell you?”

“She was in trouble through some man, but not the kind of trouble the letter said. There was no love affair or anything of that kind. It was money.”

“Money?”

“Yes. I thought at first she had got into debt to this man and couldn’t pay and I offered to lend her what I could; it wasn’t very much. But she said it wouldn’t help her; that the man had her in his power and that she was frightened. I begged her to tell me particulars, but she wouldn’t. But she was frightened all right.”

“I don’t want to suggest anything bad about the poor young lady, but doesn’t it look as if he had found her out in something that she shouldn’t have done? Tampering with the cinema cash, for example?”

Miss Darke looked distressed.

“That was what I feared,” she admitted, “but of course I didn’t let her know I suspected it. And of course I don’t know that it was that.”

French was frankly puzzled.

“Well, but if all that’s true, it surely supplies a motive for suicide?”

“It might have with another girl, but not with her. Besides, there was the letter.”

“Yes, you mentioned the letter before. Now how does the letter prove that it wasn’t suicide?”

Miss Darke paused before replying and when at last she spoke it was with less conviction.

“I looked at it like this,” she said. “From the letter it would be understood that some man had got her into trouble and then deserted her. From what she told me that wasn’t so and from what I know of her it wasn’t so. But if that’s right there couldn’t have been any letter—not any real letter, I mean. I took it the letter had been written by the murderer and left in her bag to make it look like suicide.”

In spite of himself French was interested. This was a subtle point for a girl of the apparent mentality of this Miss Darke to evolve from her own unaided consciousness. Not, he felt, that there was anything in it. The probabilities were that the unfortunate Eileen Tucker had been deceived and deserted by the usual callous ruffian. Naturally she would not tell her friend. On the other hand, he considered that Miss Darke was surprisingly correct in her appreciation of the psychological side of the affair. The older French grew the more weight he gave to the argument that X hadn’t performed a certain action because he “wasn’t the sort of person to do it”: with due reservation, of course, and granted an adequate knowledge of X’s character.

“That’s a very ingenious idea, Miss Darke,” he said. “But it’s only speculation. You don’t really know that it is true.”

“Only from what she said,” returned the girl. “But I believed her.”

“Now, Miss Darke,” French said gravely, “I am afraid I have a serious question to ask you. If you knew all these material facts, why did you not come forward and give evidence at the inquest?”

The girl hung her head.

“I know I should have,” she admitted sadly, “but I just didn’t. I did not hear of Eileen’s death till I saw it in the paper the day after and it didn’t say where the inquest would be. I ought to have gone to Caterham and asked, but I just didn’t. No one asked me any questions and—well, it seemed easier just to say nothing. It couldn’t have helped Eileen anyway.”

“It might have helped the police to capture her murderer, if she was murdered,” French returned. “And it might have saved you from your present difficulties. You were very wrong there, Miss Darke; very wrong indeed.”

“I see that now, Mr. French,” she repeated.

“Well,” said French, “that’s not what you called to talk about. Go on with your story. What can you tell me about the man? Did Miss Tucker mention his name or describe him?”

Miss Darke looked up eagerly, while the expression of fear on her features became more pronounced.

“No, but she said there was something horrible about him that just terrified her. She hated the sight of him.”

“But she didn’t describe him?”

“No, except that he had a scar on his wrist like a purple sickle. ‘A purple sickle,’ were her exact words.”

“H’m. That’s not much to go on. But never mind. Tell me your own story. Try to put the events in the order in which they happened. And don’t be in a hurry. We’ve all the day before us.”

Thurza Darke paused, presumably to collect her thoughts, then went on:

“The first thing, I think, was my meeting Gwen Lestrange in the train.”

“What? Still another girl? I shall be getting mixed among so many. First there is yourself, then Miss Jennie Cox, Mr. Arrowsmith’s typist, then poor Miss Eileen Tucker, who died so sadly at Caterham. And now here’s another. Who is Gwen Lestrange?”

“I met her first in the train,” Miss Darke repeated. “I go to my work most days by the Bakerloo tube from the Elephant to Oxford Circus. One day a strange girl sitting beside me dropped a book on to my knee and we began to talk. She said she came by that train every day. A couple of days later I met her again and we had another talk. This happened two or three times and then we began to look out for each other and got rather friends. She was a very pleasant girl; always smiling.”

“Did you find out her job?”

“Yes, she said she was a barmaid in the Bijou Theatre in Coventry Street.”

“Describe her as well as you can.”

“She was a big girl, tall and broad and strong looking. Sort of athletic in her movements. She had a square face, if you know what I mean; a big jaw, determined looking.”

“What about her colouring?”

“She was like myself, fair with blue eyes and a fair complexion.”

“Her age?”

“About thirty, I should think.”

French noted the particulars.

“Well, you made friends with this Miss Lestrange. Yes?”

“The thing that struck me most about her was that she seemed so well off. She was always well dressed, had a big fur coat and expensive gloves and shoes. And once when I lunched with her we went to Fuller’s and had a real slap-up lunch that must have cost her as much as I could spend in lunches in a week. And she didn’t seem the type that would be getting it from men.

“I said that I couldn’t return such hospitality as that and she laughed and asked me what I was getting at the Milan. Then she said it was more than she got, but that there were ways of adding to one’s salary. When I asked her how, she smiled at first, but afterwards she told me.”

French’s quiet, sympathetic manner had evidently had its effect. Miss Darke had lost a good deal of her terror, and her story was coming much more spontaneously. French encouraged her with the obvious question.

“She said she had got let in on a good thing through a friend. It was a scheme for gambling on the tables at Monte Carlo.”

“At Monte Carlo?”

“Yes. It was run by a syndicate. They had a man there who did the actual playing. They sent him out the money and he sent back the winnings. You could either choose your number or colour or you could leave it to him to do the best he could for you. If you won you got your winnings less five percent for expenses: if you lost, of course you lost everything. But the man did very well as a rule. He worked on a system and in the long run you made money.”

In spite of himself French became more interested. The story, he felt, was old—as old as humanity. But the setting was new. This Monte Carlo idea was ingenious, though it could take in only the ignorant. Evidently it was for this class that the syndicate catered.

“And that was how Miss Lestrange had made her money?”

“Yes.” Apparently Miss Darke had not questioned the fact. “She said that as a rule she made a couple of pounds a week out of it. I said it was well for her and that I wished that I had an obliging friend who would let me into something of the kind. She didn’t answer for a while and then she said that she didn’t see why I shouldn’t get in if I wanted to. If I liked she would speak to her friend about it.

“I wasn’t very keen at first for at one time or another I had seen a deal of trouble coming through gambling. But I thought a little fling wouldn’t do me any harm so I thanked her and asked her to go ahead. If she won, why shouldn’t I?”

“Why, indeed? And did she arrange it?”

“Yes. I didn’t see her for three or four days, then I met her in the train. She said she had fixed up the thing for me and if I would come in early next morning she would introduce me to the man who took the stakes. Our jobs started about one o’clock, you will understand, Mr. French, so we had plenty of time earlier.”

“Of course. I suppose you both worked on till the places closed in the evening.”

“That’s right. We were done about eleven or a little later. Well, next morning I met her at eleven and we saw the bookmaker, Mr. Westinghouse. Gwen had told me that his office was rather far away and that he would meet us in the Embankment Gardens at Charing Cross. And so he did.”

“Now before you go on you might describe Mr. Westinghouse.”

“I can tell you just what he was like,” the girl returned. “You know those big American business men that you see on the films? Clean shaven and square chins and very determined and all that? Well, he was like that.”

“I know exactly. Right, Miss Darke. You met Mr. Westinghouse?”

“Yes. Gwen introduced me, and he asked me my name and a lot of questions about myself and he wrote down the answers in a notebook. Then he said he would agree to act for me, but that I was to promise not to mention the affair, as they wanted to keep it in the hands of a few. I promised and he took my stake. It was only five shillings, but he took as much trouble over it as if it had been pounds. He wanted to know if I would like to choose my number, but I said I would leave it to the man on the ground.”

“And what was the result?”

“Mr. Westinghouse said that he couldn’t undertake to let me know before the end of a week, on account of the time it took to write out and back again, and also because the man did not always play, but only when he felt he was going to win. He had a sort of sense for it, Mr. Westinghouse said. So I met him a week later. He said I had done well enough for a start. I had won three times my stake. He gave me nineteen shillings, the fifteen shillings win and my five shillings back, less five percent. I was delighted and I put ten shillings on and kept the nine. That time I doubled my ten and got another nineteen shillings. The next time I lost, but the next I had a real bit of luck.”

“Yes?” French queried with as great a show of interest as he could simulate. The tale was going according to plan. He could almost have told it to Miss Darke.

“That fourth time,” the girl went on, “Mr. Westinghouse seemed much excited. He said I had done something out of the common and that it was only the second case which had occurred since they started. I had won maximum, that meant thirty-five times my bet. I had put on ten shillings and he handed me sixteen pounds twelve and sixpence.”

“A lot of money,” said French gravely.

“Wasn’t it? Well, you may imagine, Mr. French, that after that I went ahead with the thing. But I never had another bit of luck like that, though on the whole I did fairly well, at least until lately.”

That, of course, was the next step. She had still to tell of her loss and the penalty. But that, French felt sure, was coming.

“About a month ago,” the girl went on, “Gwen told me she was leaving town. She had got a better job in the Waldorf Theatre in Birmingham. But I carried on the gambling all the same. But somehow after she left my luck seemed to desert me. I began to lose until at last I had lost everything I had won and all my small savings as well.”

“And what did Mr. Westinghouse say to that?”

“I told him what had happened and that I couldn’t go on betting. He seemed cut up about it and said that if he had foreseen that result he wouldn’t have taken me on. Then he said it was a real pity I couldn’t go on a little longer. The luck at the tables came in cycles and they had been passing through a specially bad cycle. Several other people had lost as well as me. He said the luck was due to turn and that if I could hold on I would be sure to win back all that I had lost and more. I said I couldn’t as I hadn’t the money and that was all there was to it. He said to let things stand for a week and then to come back to him and he would see what could be done.”

“And you did?”

“Yes. Mr. Westinghouse told me he was glad to see me as the luck had turned. If I could manage a really good bet he was certain that I should win handsomely. I said I hadn’t the money. Then he hummed and hawed and at last said that he couldn’t see me stuck; that he felt responsible for me and that he would help me out. If I would undertake to let him have half the profits, he would lend me enough to clear a good round haul. He took two notes out of his pocket and said here was ten pounds. I could put it on in one bet if I liked, but he advised me to put on four bets of two-pound-ten each instead. Some one or two were sure to get home.

“I didn’t like the idea, but I was sure he wouldn’t have offered such a thing unless there really was a good chance. So after some time I thanked him and agreed. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but there it is. I’m telling you just what happened.”

French smiled.

“If we were all as wise as we should be, Miss Darke, there would be no stories to tell. Never mind. Just go on with yours.”

“Well, you can guess what happened. I lost every single one of my bets! There was I without a penny left and owing Mr. Westinghouse ten pounds.”

Miss Darke evidently had something of the dramatic sense. She paused unconsciously to give point to her climax, then went on:

“He was very nice about it at first, but soon I saw a different side to his character. He began to press for the money and the more I told him I couldn’t pay and asked for time, the more persistent he got. At last about ten days ago he said that he would give me a fortnight more and that if I had not paid by then he would go to my employers and ruin me. When I said that it was his own fault for tempting me to borrow he got furious and said I’d see whose fault it was and for me to look out for myself.

“I was in a terrible state of mind, Mr. French. I didn’t know what would happen to me or who to turn to. And then the night before last who should I meet when I was going home in the tube but Gwen Lestrange.”

Again Miss Darke paused at her climax, and French, who had been listening carefully though without a great deal of interest to the commonplace little story, offered a sympathetic comment. How many times had just such a little drama been enacted, and how many times it would again! Probably since before the dawn of history gambling had been used to get the fools of the human race into the power of the knaves. There was only one point in the episode still unrevealed—the source of wealth to which this silly girl had access and from which Westinghouse expected to be paid. That, however, would no doubt soon be disclosed. For French could not bring himself to believe that it was anything so crude as robbing the till in the cinema, the only thing which appeared to follow from the story.

“Gwen seemed pleased to see me. She said her mother had been ill and she had got a couple of days’ leave from Birmingham. She asked me to have coffee with her next morning at Lyons’ Corner House, so that we could have a chat.

“I think I told you I started work about one o’clock, and shortly before twelve next day I joined her at Lyons’. She exclaimed at once about my looks. ‘Why, what on earth’s wrong with you?’ she cried. ‘You’re in trouble of some kind.’

“I didn’t want to talk about myself, but she insisted on hearing, and when she learned what had happened she was very angry. ‘That old scoundrel!’ she cried, ‘and I used to think he was straight!’ She got quite excited about it. She advised me to tell Westinghouse to go to hell and dare him to do his worst. He couldn’t do me any harm, she said. I had only to deny the story and say he had been persecuting me and he could produce no proof. But I knew that was no good and that the mere raising of the question with the cinema manager would lose me my job. And it would have, Mr. French.”

“I dare say it would,” French admitted.

“Well, I wasn’t on for it anyway, and when she saw I wasn’t she let that drop. Then she said that she felt sort of responsible for me, seeing that it was through her I got into the thing, and that she would therefore try and help me out. There was a cousin of hers, a really good sort, who might be able to help me. He had helped her at one time when she was in the same trouble herself. She would stake her reputation that he at all events was straight, and if I wished she would introduce me to him.

“Well, I needn’t take up your time by telling you all our conversation. It ended in my agreeing to go to Mr. Style, as the cousin was called. Gwen fixed up a meeting. I was to be at St. Pancras when his train came in from Luton, where he lived, and he would talk to me on the platform. I went there and he found me at once.”

“You might describe Mr. Style also.”

The girl shivered as if at an unpleasant memory.

“I can easily do that,” she said, and her expression became almost that of horror. “As long as I live I’ll remember his appearance. He was thin and tall and sallow, with a small, fair moustache. But his eyes were what struck you. He had such queer, staring eyes that you would think they could see right into your mind. They made me feel quite queer. Sort of uncanny, if you understand what I mean.”

French nodded and she went on:

“He said that his cousin, Miss Lestrange, had told him of me and the fix I was in, and he thought he could do something to help me. He said he had a job which he thought I could do and which would pay me well. It was easy as far as actual work was concerned, but it required a young lady of good appearance and manner and some shrewdness to carry it through. Also it was highly confidential and the lady must be above suspicion as to character and discretion. Those were his words as far as I remember.”

Again French nodded.

“I said I already had a job which I didn’t want to give up, but he said I could do his job at the same time as they didn’t clash. It was perfectly easy and perfectly safe, but old-fashioned people mightn’t altogether approve of it and he was glad to know that I had no prejudices in that respect.

“As you may imagine, Mr. French, I wasn’t very pleased at this, and I asked him rather sharply what he meant. And then he said something which upset me horribly and made me wish I had never seen him. I scarcely like to repeat it.”

“I’m afraid you must.”

“He asked me what I thought of a young lady who gambled on borrowed money which she couldn’t repay if she lost. Then always with his horrible smile he went on to say that a potential thief could scarcely be tied down by out-of-date ideas of morality.”

“Plain speaking.”

The girl made a hopeless little gesture.

“You may say I should have got up and walked away,” she continued, “but I just couldn’t. Somehow I felt as if I had no strength left to do anything. But I was terribly upset. I had not realized that I had done anything so serious and I grew sort of cold when I thought of it. He watched me for a moment, then he laughed and said not to be a fool, that I had done what anyone would have done in my place, and that he only mentioned the matter so that I might not imagine that I was above the little weaknesses of ordinary people. I said I had never imagined anything of the sort, and he answered that that being so we might get to business.”

Though Miss Darke was now telling her story as clearly and collectedly as French could have wished, it was evident that the personality of Style had profoundly impressed her. The more she spoke of him, the more nervous and excited she grew. But French’s sympathetic bearing seemed to steady her and after a short pause she continued.

“He said then that he would make me a confidential offer. He would take over all my liabilities and make me an immediate advance to get me out of my present difficulties. He would also guarantee me a substantial increase to my income, without in any way prejudicing my present job, if I would do as he asked. He assured me that what he would ask was absolutely safe if I was careful, and that though it might not exactly accord with certain straitlaced ideas, it would not injure anyone or cause any suffering. He also declared on his honour it was nothing immoral or connected with sex. But he said he had no wish to coerce me. I could think the offer over and I was perfectly free to take it or leave it as I thought best.”

“A plausible ruffian.”

“I asked him then what the job actually was. But he said there was time enough for that, and he began to ask me about the cash at the Milan and how it was checked, and if I was overlooked in the box office and how often the manager came round, and so on. I can tell you I didn’t like it, Mr. French, and I began to feel I just couldn’t have anything to say to his job.”

“Yes?” French queried as the girl stopped. “And then?”

“And then,” repeated Miss Darke excitedly and with an unconscious dramatic effort, “then he raised his arm and I saw his wrist. Mr. French, it had a purple scar like a sickle on the inside!”