“Just so,” he said.  “I take your meaning.  Now then, come in, and we’ll put it before my manager, Mr. Appleyard.  I’ve great faith in his judgment—­let’s see what he’s got to say.”

The two Gaffneys were waiting just within the packingroom of the warehouse.  Allerdyke bade them wait a little longer, and took the detective straight into Appleyard’s office.  There, behind the closed door, he told Appleyard of everything that had happened since their last meeting, and of what Chettle had just said.  The problem was, in view of all that, of the mysterious proceedings of Mrs. Marlow the night before, and of what Allerdyke had just heard at New Scotland Yard—­what was best to be done, severally and collectively, by all of them?

Ambler Appleyard grasped the situation at once and solved the problem in a few direct words.  There was no need whatever, he said, for Chettle to do more than his plain duty, no need for him to exceed it.  He was bound, being what he was, to make his report about his discovery of the photograph and the writing on it.  That he must do.  But he was not bound to tell anything that Allerdyke had told him:  he was not bound to give information which Allerdyke had collected.  Let Chettle go and tell the plain facts about his own knowledge of the photo and leave Allerdyke, for the moment, clean out of the question.  Allerdyke himself could go with his news in due course.  And, wound up Appleyard, who had a keen knowledge of human nature and saw deep into Chettle’s mind, Mr. Allerdyke would doubtless see that Chettle lost nothing by holding his tongue about anything that wasn’t exactly ripe for discussion.  At present, he repeated, let Chettle do his duty—­not exceed it.

“That’s it,” agreed Allerdyke.  “You’ve hit it, Ambler.  You go and tell what you know of your own knowledge,” he went on, turning to Chettle.  “Leave me clean out for the time being.  I’ll come in at the right moment.  Say naught about me or of what I’ve told you.  And if you’re sent back to Hull, just contrive to see me before you go.  And, as Mr. Appleyard says, I’ll see you’re all right, anyhow.”

When Chettle had gone, Allerdyke closed the door on him and turned to his manager with a knowing look.

“That chap’s right, you know, Ambler,” he said.  “A false move, a too hasty step’ll ruin everything.  If that woman’s startled—­if she gets a suspicion—­egad, it’s all mixed up about as badly as can be!  Now, about these Gaffneys?”

“Wait a while,” said Appleyard.  “I don’t know that we want their services just yet.  I’ve found out a thing or two that may be useful.  About this man Rayner now, who’s in evident close touch with Miss Slade (by the by, you saw her at the Waldorf at half-past eleven last night, and I saw her come into the Pompadour at half-past twelve, with Rayner), and about whom we accordingly want to know something—­I’ve found out, through ordinary business channels, that he does carry on a business at Clytemnestra House, in Arundel Street, under the name of Gavin Ramsay.  And—­if we want to know more of him—­I’ve an idea.  You go and see him, Mr. Allerdyke—­on business.”