“My good fellow, I have spent a valuable hour this morning in persuading the Home Secretary that the less Scotland Yard interferes in my behalf the more effectually shall I be protected.  I don’t want any detective within a mile of my house or office.  But, as I have told you already, explanations must wait—­ You, Bates, look a man who can hold his tongue.  Do so, and with Mr. Theydon’s permission I’ll make it worth your while when this storm has blown over—­ Now, give me that key.”

Theydon was silenced, if not convinced.  He realized, of course, that he must make a full confession to the Criminal Investigation Department before the sun went down, but argued that he might as well see the present adventure through.

Soon he and Forbes were standing at the door of No. 17.  Forbes curbed his impatience sufficiently to permit of any one who happened to be in the interior answering the summons of the electric bell.  Of course, no one came.  The police had no reason to remain in charge of the place, and Ann Rogers would have become a raving lunatic if left alone there for one half-hour.

The aromatic odor of the burnt joss stick still clung to the suite of apartments, and Forbes noticed it at once.

“Where was the body found?” he asked.

Theydon led the way to the bedroom.  He related Winter’s theory of the crime, and pointed out its seeming aimlessness.  So far as the police could ascertain from the half-crazy servant, none of Mrs. Lester’s jewels was missing.  Even her gold purse, containing a fair sum of money, was found on the dressing-table.

He did not know that the detectives had taken away a few scraps of torn paper thrown carelessly into the grate and had carefully gathered up a tiny snake-like curl of white ash from the tiled hearth, which, on analysis, would probably prove to be the remains of the joss stick.

Forbes gazed at the impression on the side of the bed as though the body of the woman whom he had last seen in full possession of her grace and beauty were still lying there.  The vision seemed to affect him profoundly.  He did not speak for fully a minute, and, when speech came, his voice was low and strained.

“Tell me everything you know,” he said.  “The Scotland Yard men took an unusual step in admitting you to their conclave.  They must have had some motive.  Tell me what they said, their very words, if you can recall them.”

Theydon was uncomfortably aware of a strange compulsion to obey.  His commonplace, everyday senses cried out in revolt, and warned him that he was tampering dangerously with matters which should be left to the cold scrutiny of the law, but some subconscious instinct overpowered these prudent monitors, and he gave an almost exact account of his talk with Winter and Furneaux.

Then followed questions, eager, searching, almost uncanny in their prescience.

“The little one—­ who strikes me as having more brains than I credit the ordinary London policeman with—­ spoke of the evil deities of China.  How did such an extraordinary topic crop up?”