“Are you Miss Fanning?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Then you are the young woman we wish to see, and, with your permission, we’ll come inside,” said Inspector Chippenfield, recovering from his first surprise and speaking briskly.

They followed the girl into the hall, and into a room off the hall to which she led the way.  A small Pomeranian dog which lay on an easy chair, sprang up barking shrilly at their entrance, but at the command of the girl it settled down on its silk cushion again.  The apartment was a small sitting-room, daintily furnished in excellent feminine taste.  Both police officers took in the contents of the room with the glance of trained observers, and both noticed that, prominent among the ornaments on the mantelpiece, stood a photograph of the late Sir Horace Fewbanks in a handsome silver frame.

The photograph made it easy for Inspector Chippenfield to enter upon the object of the visit of himself and his subordinate to the flat.

“I see you have a photograph of Sir Horace Fewbanks there,” he said, in what he intended to be an easy conversational tone, waving his hand towards the mantelpiece.

The wistful expression of the girl’s face deepened as she followed his glance.

“Yes,” she said simply.  “It is so terrible about him.”

“Was he a—­a relative of yours?” asked the inspector.

She had come to the conclusion they were police officers and that they were aware of the position she occupied.

“He was very kind to me,” she replied.

“When did you see him last?  How long before he—­before he died?”

“Are you detectives?” she asked.

“From Scotland Yard,” replied Inspector Chippenfield with a bow.

“Why have you come here?  Do you think that I—­that I know anything about the murder?”

“Not in the least.”  The inspector’s tone was reassuring.  “We merely want information about Sir Horace’s movements prior to his departure for Scotland.  When did you see him last?”

“I don’t remember,” she said, after a pause.

“You must try,” said the inspector, in a tone which contained a suggestion of command.

“Oh, a few days before he went away.”

“A few days,” repeated the inspector.  “And you parted on good terms?”

“Yes, on very good terms.”  She met his glance frankly.

Inspector Chippenfield was silent for a moment.  Then, fixing his fiercest stare on the girl, he remarked abruptly: 

“Where’s Birchill?”

“Birchill?” She endeavoured to appear surprised, but her sudden pallor betrayed her inward anxiety at the question.  “I—­I don’t know who you mean.”

“I mean the man you’ve been keeping with Sir Horace Fewbanks’s money,” said the inspector brutally.

“I’ve been keeping nobody with Sir Horace Fewbanks’s money,” protested the girl feebly.  “It’s cruel of you to insult me.”