“Well, what about him?” Nigel demanded, a little carried away by Maggie’s earnestness.

She shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she confessed.  “If the stories one hears about him are true, no man nor any woman could ever influence him.  At least, though, one could watch and hope.”

“Prince Shan is supposed to be coming to Paris, not to London,” Nigel remarked.

“If he goes to Paris,” Maggie said, “Naida and Immelan will go.  So shall we.  If he comes here, it will be easier.  Tell me, Nigel, did you see the Prime Minister?”

“I saw him,” Nigel replied, “but without the slightest result.  He is clearly of the opinion that the open verdict was a merciful one.  In other words, he believes that it was a case of suicide.”

“How wicked!” Maggie exclaimed.

“I suppose it is trying the ordinary Britisher a little high,” Nigel remarked, “to ask him to believe that he was murdered in cold blood, here in the heart of London, by the secret service agent of a foreign Power.  The strangest part of it all is that it is true.  To think that those few pages of manuscript would have told us exactly what we have to fear!  Why, I actually had them in my hand.”

“And I in my corsets!” Maggie groaned.

They were both silent for a moment.  Then Nigel moved towards the door and opened it.

“Come downstairs into the library, will you, Maggie?” he begged.  “Let us go in for a little reconstruction.”

They found Brookes in the hall and took him with them.  The blinds in the room had never been raised, and there was still that nameless atmosphere which lingers for long in an apartment which has become associated with tragedy.  Instinctively they all moved quietly and spoke in hushed voices.  Nigel sat in the chair where his uncle had been found dead and made a mental effort to reconstruct the events which must have immediately preceded the tragedy.

“I know that this was all thrashed out at the inquest, Brookes,” he said, “but I want you to tell me once more.  You see how far it is from this table to the door.  My uncle must have had abundant warning of any one approaching.  Was there no other way by which any one could have entered the room?”

“There was, your lordship,” the man replied, “and I have regretted several times since that I did not mention it at the inquest.  The cleaners were here on the morning of that day, and the window at the farther end of the room was unfastened—­I even believe that it was open.”

Nigel rose and examined the window in question.  It was almost flush with the ground, and although there were iron railings separating it from the street, a little gate opening from the area entrance made ingress not only possible but easy.  Nigel returned to his chair.

“I can’t understand this not having been mentioned at the inquest, Brookes,” he said.

“I was waiting for the question to be asked, your lordship.  It was perfectly clear to every one there, if your lordship will excuse my saying so, that both the coroner and the police seemed to have made up their minds that it was a case of suicide.”