“Excuse me, madam, for intruding,” said Harley to the woman with the baby, “but Polly has some information of use to the police.  Oh, don’t be alarmed.  She has committed no crime.  I shall only detain her for a few minutes.”

He bowed to the tired-looking woman and closed the sitting-room door.  “Now, young woman,” he said, sternly, adopting this official manner of his friend, Inspector Wessex, “I am going to give you one warning, and one only.  Although I don’t think you know it, you have got mixed up with a gang of crooks.  Play the game with me, and I’ll stand by you.  Try any funny business and you’ll go to jail.”

The official manner had its effect.  Miss Jones looked sharply across at the speaker.  “I haven’t done anything,” she said, sullenly.

Paul Harley advanced and stood over her.  “What about the trick with the serviettes at Sir Charles Abingdon’s?” he asked, speaking the words in slow and deliberate fashion.

The shaft went home, but the girl possessed a stock of obstinate courage.  “What about it?” she inquired, but her voice had changed.

“Who made you do it?”

“What’s that to you?”

Paul Harley drew out his watch, glanced at the face, and returned the timepiece to his pocket.  “I have warned you,” he said.  “In exactly three minutes’ time I shall put you under arrest.”

The girl suddenly lifted her veil and, raising her face, looked up at him.  At last he had broken down her obstinate resistance.  Already he had noted the coarse, elemental formation of her hands, and now, the veil removed, he saw that she belonged to a type of character often found in Wales and closely duplicated in certain parts of London.  There was a curious flatness of feature and prominence of upper jaw singularly reminiscent of the primitive Briton.  Withal the girl was not unprepossessing in her coarse way.  Utter stupidity and dogged courage are the outstanding characteristics of this type.  But fear of the law is strong within them.

“Don’t arrest me,” she said.  “I’ll tell you.”

“Good.  In the first place, then, where were you going when I came here?”

“To meet my boy at Vauxhall Station.”

“What is his name?”

“I’m not going to tell you.  What’s he done?”

“He has done murder.  What is his name?”

“My God!” whispered the girl, and her face blanched swiftly.  “Murder!  I—­I can’t tell you his name—­”

“You mean you won’t?”

She did not answer.

“He is a very dark man,” continued Harley “with black eyes.  He is a Hindu.”

The girl stared straight before her, dumbly.

“Answer me!” shouted Harley.

“Yes—­yes!  He is a foreigner.”

“A Hindu?”

“I think so.”

“He was here five minutes ago?”

“Yes.”

“Where was he going to take you?”

“I don’t know.  He said he could put me in a good job out of London.  We had only ten minutes to catch the train.  He’s gone to get the tickets.”