part in the transaction. The lady’s name had not been mentioned.

Of course, as Mrs. Blair went straight into Cabin 71, interviewing

the purser as soon as she got on board, it never occurred to the

steward that she was not the lady in question. The name of the

passenger who had arranged the transaction was Carton, and his

description tallied exactly with that of the man killed on the

Tube.

So one mystery, at all events, was cleared up, and the diamonds

were obviously the key to the whole situation.

Those last days on the _Kilmorden_ seemed to pass very quickly. As

we drew nearer and nearer to Cape Town, I was forced to consider

carefully my future plans. There were so many people I wanted to

keep an eye on. Mr. Chichester, Sir Eustace and his secretary,

and—yes, Colonel Race! What was I to do about it? Naturally it was

Chichester who had first claim on my attention. Indeed, I was on

the point of reluctantly dismissing Sir Eustace and Mr. Pagett from

their position of suspicious characters, when a chance conversation

awakened fresh doubts in my mind.

I had not forgotten Mr. Pagett’s incomprehensible emotion at the

mention of Florence. On the last evening on board we were all

sitting on deck and Sir Eustace addressed a perfectly innocent

question to his secretary. I forget exactly what it was, something

to do with railway delays in Italy, but at once I noticed that Mr.

Pagett was displaying the same uneasiness which had caught my

attention before. When Sir Eustace claimed Mrs. Blair for a dance,

I quickly moved into the chair next to the secretary. I was

determined to get to the bottom of the matter.

“I have always longed to go to Italy,” I said. “And especially to

Florence. Didn’t you enjoy it very much there?”

“Indeed I did, Miss Beddingfeld. If you will excuse me, there is

some correspondence of Sir Eustace’s that——”

I took hold of him firmly by his coat sleeve.

“Oh, you mustn’t run away!” I cried with the skittish accent of an

elderly dowager. “I’m sure Sir Eustace wouldn’t like you to leave

me alone with no one to talk to. You never seem to want to talk

about Florence. Oh, Mr. Pagett, I believe you have a guilty secret!”

I still had my hand on his arm, and I could feel the sudden start

he gave.

“Not at all, Miss Beddingfeld, not at all,” he said earnestly. “I

should be only too delighted to tell you all about it, but there

really are some cables——”

“Oh, Mr. Pagett, what a thin pretence. I shall tell Sir Eustace——”

I got no further. He gave another jump. The man’s nerves seemed in

a shocking state.

“What is it you want to know?”

The resigned martyrdom of his tone made me smile inwardly.

“Oh, everything! The pictures, the olive trees——”

I paused, rather at a loss myself.

“I suppose you speak Italian?” I resumed.

“Not a word, unfortunately. But of course, with hall porters

and—er—guides.”

“Exactly,” I hastened to reply. “And which was your favourite

picture?”

“Oh, er—the Madonna—er—Raphael, you know.”

“Dear old Florence,” I murmured sentimentally. “So picturesque on

the banks of the Arno. A beautiful river. And the Duomo, you

remember the Duomo?”

“Of course, of course.”

“Another beautiful river, is it not?” I hazarded. “Almost more

beautiful than the Arno?”

“Decidedly so, I should say.”

Emboldened by the success of my little trap, I proceeded further.

But there was little room for doubt. Mr. Pagett delivered himself

into my hands with every word he uttered. The man had never been

in Florence in his life.

But, if not in Florence, where had he been? In England? Actually

in England at the time of the Mill House Mystery? I decided on a

bold step.

“The curious thing is,” I said, “that I fancied I had seen you

before somewhere. But I must be mistaken—since you were in Florence

at the time. And yet——”

I studied him frankly. There was a hunted look in his eyes. He

passed his tongue over his dry lips.

“Where—er—where——”

“—did I think I had seen you?” I finished for him. “At Marlow. You

know Marlow? Why, of course, how stupid of me, Sir Eustace has a

house there!”

But with an incoherent muttered excuse, my victim rose and fled.

That night I invaded Suzanne’s cabin, alight with excitement.

“You see, Suzanne,” I urged, as I finished my tale, “he was in

England, in Marlow, at the time of the murder. Are you so sure now

that ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’ is guilty.”

“I’m sure of one thing,” said Suzanne, twinkling unexpectedly.

“What’s that?”

“That ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’ is better looking than poor Mr.

Pagett. No, Anne, don’t get cross. I was only teasing. Sit down

here. Joking apart, I think you’ve made a very important discovery.

Up till now, we’ve considered Pagett as having an alibi. Now we

know he hasn’t.”

“Exactly,” I said. “We must keep an eye on him.”

“As well as everybody else,” she said ruefully. “Well, that’s one

of the things I wanted to talk to you about. That—and finance. No,

don’t stick your nose in the air. I know you are absurdly proud

and independent, but you’ve got to listen to horse sense over this.

We’re partners—I wouldn’t offer you a penny because I liked you,

or because you’re a friendless girl—what I want is a thrill, and

I’m prepared to pay for it. We’re going into this together

regardless of expense. To begin with you’ll come with me to the

Mount Nelson Hotel at my expense, and we’ll plan out our campaign.”

We argued the point. In the end I gave in. But I didn’t like it.

I wanted to do the thing on my own.

“That’s settled,” said Suzanne at last, getting up and stretching

herself with a big yawn. “I’m exhausted with my own eloquence. Now

then, let us discuss our victims. Mr. Chichester is going on to

Durban. Sir Eustace is going to the Mount Nelson Hotel in Cape Town

and then up to Rhodesia. He’s going to have a private car on the

railway, and in a moment of expansion, after his fourth glass of

champagne the other night, he offered me a place in it. I dare say

he didn’t really mean it, but, all the same, he can’t very well

back out if I hold him to it.”

“Good,” I approved. “You keep an eye on Sir Eustace and Pagett,

and I take on Chichester. But what about Colonel Race?”

Suzanne looked at me queerly.

“Anne, you can’t possibly suspect——”

“I do. I suspect everybody. I’m in the mood when one looks round

for the most unlikely person.”

“Colonel Race is going to Rhodesia too,” said Suzanne thoughtfully.

“If we could arrange for Sir Eustace to invite him also——”

“You can manage it. You can manage anything.”

“I love butter,” purred Suzanne.

We parted on the understanding that Suzanne should employ her

talents to the best advantage.

I felt too excited to go to bed immediately. It was my last night

on board. Early to-morrow morning we should be in Table Bay.

I slipped up on deck. The breeze was fresh and cool. The boat was

rolling a little in the choppy sea. The decks were dark and

deserted. It was after midnight.

I leaned over the rail, watching the phosphorescent trail of foam.

Ahead of us lay Africa, we were rushing towards it through the dark

water. I felt alone in a wonderful world. Wrapped in a strange

peace, I stood there, taking no heed of time, lost in a dream.

And suddenly I had a curious intimate premonition of danger. I had

heard nothing, but I swung round instinctively. A shadowy form had

crept up behind me. As I turned, it sprang. One hand gripped my

throat, stifling any cry I might have uttered. I fought desperately,

but I had no chance. I was half choking from the grip on my throat,

but I bit and clung and scratched in the most approved feminine

fashion. The man was handicapped by having to keep me from crying

out. If he had succeeded in reaching me unawares it would have been

easy enough for him to sling me overboard with a sudden heave. The

sharks would have taken care of the rest.

Struggle as I would, I felt myself weakening. My assailant felt it

too. He put out all his strength. And then, running on swift

noiseless feet, another shadow joined in. With one blow of his

fist, he sent my opponent crashing headlong to the deck. Released,

I fell back against the rail, sick and trembling.

My rescuer turned to me with a quick movement.

“You’re hurt!”

There was something savage in his tone—a menace against the person

who had dared to hurt me. Even before he spoke I had recognized

him. It was my man—the man with the scar.

But that one moment in which his attention had been diverted to me

had been enough for the fallen enemy. Quick as a flash he had risen

to his feet and taken to his heels down the deck. With an oath

Rayburn sprang after him.

I always hate being out of things. I joined the chase—a bad third.

Round the deck we went to the starboard side of the ship. There by

the saloon door lay the man in a crumpled heap. Rayburn was bending

over him.

“Did you hit him again?” I called breathlessly.

“There was no need,” he replied grimly. “I found him collapsed by

the door. Or else he couldn’t get it open and is shamming. We’ll

soon see about that. And we’ll see who he is too.”

With a beating heart I drew near. I had realized at once that my

assailant was a bigger man than Chichester. Anyway, Chichester was

a flabby creature who might use a knife at a pinch, but who would

have little strength in his bare hands.

Rayburn struck a match. We both uttered an ejaculation. The man

was Guy Pagett.

Rayburn appeared absolutely stupefied by the discovery.

“Pagett,” he muttered. “My God, Pagett.”

I felt a slight sense of superiority.

“You seem surprised.”

“I am,” he said heavily. “I never suspected——” He wheeled suddenly

round on me. “And you? You’re not? You recognized him, I suppose,

when he attacked you?”

“No, I didn’t. All the same, I’m not so very surprised.” He stared

at me suspiciously.

“Where do you come in, I wonder? And how much do you know?”

I smiled.

“A good deal, Mr.—er—Lucas!”

He caught my arm, the unconscious strength of his grip made me

wince.

“Where did you get that name?” he asked hoarsely.

“Isn’t it yours?” I demanded sweetly. “Or do you prefer to be

called ‘The Man in the Brown Suit’?”

That did stagger him. He released my arm and fell back a pace or

two.

“Are you a girl or a witch?” he breathed.

“I’m a friend.” I advanced a step towards him. “I offered you my

help once—I offer it again. Will you have it?”

The fierceness of his answer took me aback.

“No. I’ll have no truck with you or with any woman. Do your

damnedest.”

As before, my own temper began to rise.

“Perhaps,” I said, “you don’t realize how much in my power you are?

A word from me to the Captain——”

“Say it,” he sneered. Then advancing with a quick step: “And whilst

we’re realizing things, my girl, do you realize that you’re in _my_

power this minute? I could take you by the throat like this.” With

a swift gesture he suited the action to the word. I felt his two

hands clasp my throat and press—ever so little. “Like this—and

squeeze the life out of you! And then—like our unconscious friend

here, but with more success—fling your dead body to the sharks.

What do you say to that?”

I said nothing. I laughed. And yet I knew that the danger was real.

Just at that moment he hated me. But I knew that I loved the

danger, loved the feeling of his hands on my throat. That I would

not have exchanged that moment for any other moment in my life. .

. .

With a short laugh he released me.

“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly.

“Anne Beddingfeld.”

“Does nothing frighten you, Anne Beddingfeld?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, with an assumption of coolness I was far from

feeling. “Wasps, sarcastic women, very young men, cockroaches, and

superior shop assistants.”

He gave the same short laugh as before. Then he stirred the

unconscious form of Pagett with his feet.

“What shall we do with this junk? Throw it overboard?” he asked

carelessly.

“If you like,” I answered with equal calm.

“I admire your whole-hearted, blood-thirsty instincts, Miss

Beddingfeld. But we will leave him to recover at his leisure. He

is not seriously hurt.”

“You shrink from a second murder, I see,” I said sweetly.

“A second murder?”

He looked genuinely puzzled.

“The woman at Marlow,” I reminded him, watching the effect of my

words closely.

An ugly brooding expression settled down on his face. He seemed to

have forgotten my presence.

“I might have killed her,” he said. “Sometimes I believe that I

meant to kill her. . . .”

A wild rush of feeling, hatred of the dead woman, surged through

me. _I_ could have killed her that moment, had she stood before

me. . . . For he must have loved her once—he must—he must—to have

felt like that!

I regained control of myself and spoke in my normal voice:

“We seem to have said all there is to be said—except good night.”

“Good night and good-bye, Miss Beddingfeld.”

“Au revoir, Mr. Lucas.”

Again he flinched at the name. He came nearer.

“Why do you say that—au revoir, I mean?”

“Because I have a fancy that we shall meet again.”

“Not if I can help it!”

Emphatic as his tone was, it did not offend me. On the contrary I

hugged myself with secret satisfaction. I am not quite a fool.

“All the same,” I said gravely, “I think we shall.”

“Why?”

I shook my head, unable to explain the feeling that had actuated

my words.

“I never wish to see you again,” he said suddenly and violently.

It was really a very rude thing to say, but I only laughed softly

and slipped away into the darkness.

I heard him start after me, and then pause, and a word floated down

the deck. I think it was a “witch”!