Kerry scratched his close-cropped head in angry perplexity.

“You’re always right, Mary,” he said.  “But hang me if—­Never mind!  When we get the servant we’ll soon get Kazmah.”

“Aye,” murmured his wife.  “If ye hae na’ got Kazmah the now.”

“But—­Mary!  This isn’t helping me!  It’s mystifying me deeper than ever!”

“It’s no’ clear eno’, Dan.  But for sure behind this mystery o’ the death o’ Sir Lucien there’s a darker mystery still; sair dark.  ’Tis the biggest case ye ever had.  Dinna look for Kazmah.  Look tee find why the woman went tee him; and try tee find the meanin’ o’ the sma’ window behind the big chair. . . .  Yes”—­she seemed to be staring at some distant visible object—­“watch the man Mareno—­”

“But—­Mrs. Irvin—­”

“Is in God’s guid keepin’—­”

“You don’t think she’s dead!”

“She is wairse than dead.  Her sins have found her out.”  The fey light suddenly left her eyes, and they became filled with tears.  She turned impulsively to her husband.  “Oh, Dan!  Ye must find her!  Ye must find her!  Puir weak hairt—­dinna ye ken how she is suffering!”

“My dear,” he said, putting his arms around her, “What is it?  What is it?”

She brushed the tears from her eyes and tried to smile. “’Tis something like the second sight, Dan,” she answered simply.  “And it’s escapit me again.  I a’most had the clue to it a’ oh, there’s some horrible wickedness in it, an’ cruelty an’ shame.”

The clock on the mantel shelf began to peal.  Kerry was watching his wife’s rosy face with a mixture of loving admiration and wonder.  She looked so very bonny and placid and capable that he was puzzled anew at the strange gift which she seemingly inherited from her mother, who had been equally shrewd, equally comely and similarly endowed.

“God bless us all!” he said, kissed her heartily, and stood up.  “Back to bed you go, my dear.  I must be off.  There’s Mr. Irvin to see in the morning, too.”

A few minutes later he was swinging through the deserted streets, his mind wholly occupied with lover-like reflections to the exclusion of those professional matters which properly should have been engaging his attention.  As he passed the end of a narrow court near the railway station, the gleam of his silver mounted malacca attracted the attention of a couple of loafers who were leaning one on either side of an iron pillar in the shadow of the unsavory alley.  Not another pedestrian was in sight, and only the remote night-sounds of London broke the silence.

Twenty paces beyond, the footpads silently closed in upon their prey.  The taller of the pair reached him first, only to receive a back-handed blow full in his face which sent him reeling a couple of yards.

Round leapt the assaulted man to face his second assailant.

“If you two smarts really want handling,” he rapped ferociously, “say the word, and I’ll bash you flat.”