hill.  Keith liked him on the instant.  He found himself powerless to resist the infection of Wallie’s grin, and as Wallie hustled into the kitchen like a wet spaniel, he followed and helped him unload.  By the time the little Jap had disgorged his last package, he had assured Keith that the rain was nice, that his name was Wallie, that he expected five dollars a week and could cook “like heaven.”  Keith laughed outright, and Wallie was so delighted with the general outlook that he fairly kicked his heels together.  Thereafter for an hour or so he was left alone in possession of the kitchen, and shortly Keith began to hear certain sounds and catch occasional odoriferous whiffs which assured him that Wallie was losing no time in demonstrating his divine efficiency in the matter of cooking.

Wallie’s coming gave him an excuse to call up McDowell.  He confessed to a disquieting desire to hear the inspector’s voice again.  In the back of his head was the fear of Shan Tung, and the hope that McDowell might throw some light on Miriam Kirkstone’s unusual request to see her that night.  The storm had settled down into a steady drizzle when he got in touch with him, and he was relieved to find there was no change in the friendliness of the voice that came over the telephone.  If Shan Tung had a suspicion, he had kept it to himself.

To Keith’s surprise it was McDowell who spoke first of Miss Kirkstone.

“She seemed unusually anxious to get in touch with you,” he said.  “I am frankly disturbed over a certain matter, Conniston, and I should like to talk with you before you go up tonight.”

Keith sniffed the air.  “Wallie is going to ring the dinner bell within half an hour.  Why not slip on a raincoat and join me up here?  I think it’s going to be pretty good.”

“I’ll come,” said McDowell.  “Expect me any moment.”

Fifteen minutes later Keith was helping him off with his wet slicker.  He had expected McDowell to make some observation on the cheerfulness of the birch fire and the agreeable aromas that were leaking from Wallie’s kitchen, but the inspector disappointed him.  He stood for a few moments with his back to the fire, thumbing down the tobacco in his pipe, and he made no effort to conceal the fact that there was something in his mind more important than dinner and the cheer of a grate.

His eyes fell on the telephone, and he nodded toward it.  “Seemed very anxious to see you, didn’t she, Conniston?  I mean Miss Kirkstone.”

“Rather.”

McDowell seated himself and lighted a match.  “Seemed—­a little—­nervous—­perhaps,” he suggested between puffs.  “As though something had happened—­or was going to happen.  Don’t mind my questioning you, do you, Derry?”

“Not a bit,” said Keith.  “You see, I thought perhaps you might explain—­”

There was a disquieting gleam in McDowell’s eyes.  “It was odd that she should call you up so soon—­and in the storm—­wasn’t it?  She expected to find you at my office.  I could fairly hear the lightning hissing along the wires.  She must have been under some unusual impulse.”