“Yes,” assented Carrados.  “The open way; the safe way.”

“You must understand that they live in a very small style, Mr. Carrados, and Millicent is almost entirely in the man’s power.  The only servant they have is a woman who comes in for a few hours every day.  The house is lonely and secluded.  Creake is sometimes away for days and nights at a time, and Millicent, either through pride or indifference, seems to have dropped off all her old friends and to have made no others.  He might poison her, bury the body in the garden, and be a thousand miles away before anyone began even to inquire about her.  What am I to do, Mr. Carrados?”

“He is less likely to try poison than some other means now,” pondered Carrados.  “That having failed, his wife will always be on her guard.  He may know, or at least suspect, that others know.  No. ...  The common-sense precaution would be for your sister to leave the man, Mr. Hollyer.  She will not?”

“No,” admitted Hollyer, “she will not.  I at once urged that.”  The young man struggled with some hesitation for a moment and then blurted out:  “The fact is, Mr. Carrados, I don’t understand Millicent.  She is not the girl she was.  She hates Creake and treats him with a silent contempt that eats into their lives like acid, and yet she is so jealous of him that she will let nothing short of death part them.  It is a horrible life they lead.  I stood it for a week and I must say, much as I dislike my brother-in-law, that he has something to put up with.  If only he got into a passion like a man and killed her it wouldn’t be altogether incomprehensible.”

“That does not concern us,” said Carrados.  “In a game of this kind one has to take sides and we have taken ours.  It remains for us to see that our side wins.  You mentioned jealousy, Mr. Hollyer.  Have you any idea whether Mrs. Creake has real ground for it?”

“I should have told you that,” replied Lieutenant Hollyer.  “I happened to strike up with a newspaper man whose office is in the same block as Creake’s.  When I mentioned the name he grinned.  ‘Creake,’ he said, ‘oh, he’s the man with the romantic typist, isn’t he?’ ’Well, he’s my brother-in-law,’ I replied.  ‘What about the typist?’ Then the chap shut up like a knife.  ‘No, no,’ he said, ’I didn’t know he was married.  I don’t want to get mixed up in anything of that sort.  I only said that he had a typist.  Well, what of that?  So have we; so has everyone.’  There was nothing more to be got out of him, but the remark and the grin meant—­well, about as usual, Mr. Carrados.”

Carrados turned to his friend.

“I suppose you know all about the typist by now, Louis?”

“We have had her under efficient observation, Max,” replied Mr. Carlyle with severe dignity.

“Is she unmarried?”

“Yes; so far as ordinary repute goes, she is.”

“That is all that is essential for the moment.  Mr. Hollyer opens up three excellent reasons why this man might wish to dispose of his wife.  If we accept the suggestion of poisoning—­though we have only a jealous woman’s suspicion for it—­we add to the wish the determination.  Well, we will go forward on that.  Have you got a photograph of Mr. Creake?”