“Yet,” I urged, “there is no visible connection between the episodes of the case and this strange apparition which I saw in the garden last night.”

“There was no visible connection between Sir Marcus’s body in a packing-case in the hold of the Oritoga and the garage of the house in College Road until we found one,” retorted Gatton.  “Anyway I am glad you mentioned the matter to me; I will take a note of it, for it may prove to provide a link in the chain.  And now”—­taking out a note-book and pencil—­“for the history of these cat things.”

I sighed rather wearily as I crossed the room to my bookcase and took down the volume of Gaston Maspero, the same which I had been reading but had returned to its shelf as Gatton had been admitted.

“We have it here in a nutshell,” I said.

Gatton methodically noted the passages which I read to him.  The task concluded: 

“H’m,” he muttered, scanning his notes, “very strange, very strange indeed.  ’She had also her hours of treacherous perversity, during which she played with her victim as with a mouse, before finishing him off with a blow of her claws.’”

He raised his eyes and stared at me strangely.

“She played with her victim as with a mouse,” he murmured, “before finishing him off with a blow—­”

CHAPTER VIII

MY VISITOR

For long enough after Gatton’s departure I sat thinking over our conversation.  Despite the lateness of the hour at which he had departed, he had had no thought of rest and was setting out in quest of further evidence to point to the author of Sir Marcus’s death.  The room was laden with tobacco smoke, for our conference had lasted more than two hours, but dusk was very fully established and when presently as I sat there in the dark contemplating the horrible labyrinth into which my steps had drifted, Coates entered.

“Ah, Coates,” I said, “light up.”

He switched on the electric light and I saw layers of smoke—­clouds drifting from the open window towards the newly opened door.

“Shall you be going out again to-night, sir?” asked Coates, standing rigidly to attention as was his custom when addressing me.

“I think not, Coates,” I replied.  “I have done enough for one day, but I should be glad if you would ring up the New Avenue Theater and inquire if Miss Merlin will speak to me.  It will be about time now for the performance to have finished.”

“Very good, sir,” said Coates, and proceeded to make the call, whilst I sat listlessly smoking and listening to his voice.  Presently: 

“Miss Merlin did not appear to-night, sir,” he announced:  “she is indisposed.”

“I thought as much,” I muttered.  “I could hardly have expected after such a day of horror and excitement that she would have been capable of appearing to-night.  Ring up her flat, Coates,” I added.  “I should like to speak to her, for I know she is in great trouble.”