CHAPTER I

THE PURPLE SICKLE

INSPECTOR JOSEPH FRENCH, of the Criminal Investigation Department of New
Scotland Yard, sat writing in his room in the great building on Victoria
Embankment. Before him on his desk lay sheet after sheet of memorandum
paper covered with his small, neat writing, and his pen travelled so
steadily over the paper that an observer might have imagined that he had
given up the detection of crime and taken to journalism.

He was on a commonplace job, making a _précis_ of the life history of an
extremely commonplace burglar. But though he didn’t know it, Fate,
weighty with the issues of life and death, was even then knocking at his
door.

Its summons was prosaic enough, a ring on the telephone. As he picked up
the receiver he little thought that that simple action was to be his
introduction to a drama of terrible and dastardly crime, indeed one of
the most terrible and dastardly crimes with which he had ever had to do.

“That Inspector French?” he heard. “Arrowsmith speaking—Arrowsmith of
Lincoln’s Inn.”

A criminal lawyer with a large practice, Mr. Arrowsmith was well known
in the courts. He and French were on friendly terms, having had tussles
over the fate of many an evil-doer.

“Yes, Mr. Arrowsmith. I’m French.”

“I’ve a young lady here,” Arrowsmith went on, “who has just pitched me a
yarn which should interest you. She has got into the clutches of a
scoundrel who’s clearly up to no good. I don’t know what he’s after, but
it looks mighty like a scheme of systematic theft. I thought you might
like to lay a trap and take him redhanded.”

“Nothing would please me better,” French returned promptly. “Shall I go
across to your office?”

“No, it’s not necessary. I’ll send the girl to the Yard. Thurza Darke is
her name. She’ll be with you in half an hour.”

“Splendid! I’ll see her directly she comes. And many thanks for your
hint.”

Though he spoke cordially, French was not impressed by the message.
Communications purporting to disclose clues to crimes were received by
the Yard every day. As a matter of principle all were investigated, but
not one in a hundred led to anything. When, therefore, about half an
hour later Miss Darke was announced, French greeted her courteously, but
without enthusiasm.

She was a pretty blonde of about five-and-twenty, with a good manner and
something of a presence. Well but plainly dressed in some light summery
material, she looked what she evidently was, an ordinary, pleasant,
healthy young woman of the lower middle classes. French put her down as
a typist or shopgirl or perhaps a bookkeeper in some small
establishment. In one point only did she seem abnormal. She was
evidently acutely nervous. There was panic in her eyes, tiny drops of
perspiration stood on her face, and the hand in which she grasped her
vanity bag trembled visibly.

“Good-morning, Miss Darke,” said French, rising as she entered and
pulling forward a chair. “Won’t you sit down?” He gave her a keen glance
and went on: “Now, if you’ll excuse me for two or three minutes I’ll be
quite at your service.”

He busied himself again with his papers. If her nervousness were due to
her surroundings she must be allowed time to pull herself together.

“Ready at last,” he went on with his pleasant smile. “Just take your
time and tell me your trouble in your own way and it’ll be a strange
thing if between us all we’ll not be able to help you out.”

The girl looked at him gratefully and with some surprise. Evidently she
had expected a different kind of reception. French noted the glance with
satisfaction. To gain the confidence of those with whom he had to deal
was his invariable aim, not only because he valued pleasant and friendly
relations for their own sake, but because he felt that in such an
atmosphere he was likely to get more valuable details than if his
informant was frightened or distrustful.

“So you know Mr. Arrowsmith?” he prompted, as she seemed to have a
difficulty in starting. “A good sort, isn’t he?”

“He seems so indeed, Mr. French,” she answered with a suggestion of
Lancashire in her accent. “But I really can’t say that I know him. I met
him this morning for the first time.”

“How was that? Did you go to consult him?”

“Not exactly: that is, it was through Miss Cox, Miss Jennie Cox, his
typist. She is my special friend at the boarding-house we live at. She
told him about me without asking my leave. He said he would hear my
story and then she came back to the boarding-house and persuaded me to
go and tell it to him.”

“She thought you were in some difficulty and wanted to do you a good
turn?”

“It was more than that, Mr. French. She knew all about my difficulty,
for I had told her. But she believed I was in danger and thought
somebody should be told about it.”

“In danger? In danger of what?”

The girl shivered.

“Of my life, Mr. French,” she said in a low tone.

French looked at her more keenly. In spite of this surprising reply
there was nothing melodramatic in her manner. But he now saw that her
emotion was more than mere nervousness. She was in point of fact in a
state of acute terror. Whatever this danger might be, it was clear that
she was fully convinced of its reality and imminence.

“But what are you afraid may happen to you?” he persisted.

Again she shivered. “I may be murdered,” she declared and her voice
dropped to a whisper.

“Oh, come now, my dear young lady, people are not murdered in an offhand
way like that! Surely you are mistaken? Tell me all about it.” His voice
was kind, though slightly testy.

She made an obvious effort for composure.

“It was Eileen Tucker. She was my best friend. They said she committed
suicide. But she didn’t, Mr. French! I’m certain she never did. She was
murdered! As sure as we’re here, she was murdered! And I may be too!” In
spite of her evident efforts for self-control, the girl’s voice got
shrill and she began jerking about in her chair.

“There now,” French said soothingly. “Pull yourself together. You’re
quite safe here at all events. Now don’t be in a hurry or we’ll get
mixed up. Take your own time and tell me everything from the beginning.
Start with yourself. Your name is Thurza Darke. Very good now; where do
you live?” He took out his notebook and prepared to write.

His quiet, methodical manner steadied the girl and she answered more
calmly.

“At 17 Orlando Street, Clapham. It’s a boarding-house kept by a Mrs.
Peters.”

“You’re not a Londoner?”

“No; I come from Birkenhead. But my parents are dead and I have been on
my own for years.”

“Quite. You are in some job?”

“I’m in charge of one of the box offices at the Milan Cinema in Oxford
Street.”

“I see. And your friend, Miss Jennie Cox, who also lives at Mrs. Peter’s
boarding-house, is typist to Mr. Arrowsmith. I think I’ve got that
straight. Now you mentioned another young lady—at least I presume she
was a young lady—a Miss Eileen Tucker. Who was she?”

“She was in one of the box offices at the Hammersmith Cinema.”

“Same kind of job as your own?”

“Yes. I met her at an evening class in arithmetic that we were both
attending and we made friends. We were both bad at figures and we found
it came against us at our work.”

French nodded. The name, Eileen Tucker, touched a chord of memory,
though he could not remember where he had heard it. He picked up his
desk telephone.

“Bring me any papers we have relative to the suicide of a girl called
Eileen Tucker.”

In a few moments a file was before him. A glance through it brought the
case back to him. It was summarised in a cutting from the Mid-Country
Gazette of the 10th January of that year. It read:

“TRAGIC DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL.

“Dr J. S. Jordan, deputy coroner for South Eastern Surrey, held
an inquest at the Crown Inn, Caterham, yesterday morning, on the
body of a young girl which was found in a quarry hole about a
mile from the town and not far from the road to Redhill. The
discovery was made by a labourer named Thomas Binks, who was
taking a short cut across the country to his work. Binks
reported the affair to the police and Sergeant Knowles
immediately visited the scene and had the body conveyed to the
town. The remains were those of a girl of about twenty-five, and
were clothed in a brown cloth coat with fur at the collar and
cuffs, a brown skirt and jumper and beige shoes and stockings. A
brown felt hat lay in the water a few feet away and in the right
hand was clasped a vanity bag, containing a cigarette case and
holder, some loose coins and a letter. This last was practically
illegible from the water, but enough could be made out to show
that it was from a man of undecipherable name, breaking off an
illicit relation as he was going to be married. Dr. Adam Moody,
Caterham, in giving evidence stated that death had occurred from
drowning, that there were no marks of violence, and that the
body had probably been in the water for two or three days. At
first the identity of the deceased was a mystery, but Sergeant
Knowles handled the affair with his usual skill and eventually
discovered that she was a Miss Eileen Tucker, an employee in the
box office of the Hammersmith Cinema in London. She seemed to
have been alone in the world, having lived in a boarding-house
and no relatives being discoverable. After considering the
evidence, the jury, with Mr. John Wells as foreman, brought in a
verdict of suicide while of unsound mind.”

“A sad case,” said French sympathetically when he had finished the
paragraph. “I see that the jury brought in a verdict of suicide, but you
think the poor young lady was murdered? Now, just tell me why you think
so.”

“I know it! I’m sure of it! She wasn’t the kind of girl to commit
suicide.”

“That may be, but you’ve surely something more definite to go on than
that?”

“No proof, but I’m as certain of it as if I had been there. But what she
told me about the man shows it wasn’t what they said.”

“I don’t quite follow you. What did she tell you?”

“She was in trouble through some man, but not the kind of trouble the
letter said. There was no love affair or anything of that kind. It was
money.”

“Money?”

“Yes. I thought at first she had got into debt to this man and couldn’t
pay and I offered to lend her what I could; it wasn’t very much. But she
said it wouldn’t help her; that the man had her in his power and that
she was frightened. I begged her to tell me particulars, but she
wouldn’t. But she was frightened all right.”

“I don’t want to suggest anything bad about the poor young lady, but
doesn’t it look as if he had found her out in something that she
shouldn’t have done? Tampering with the cinema cash, for example?”

Miss Darke looked distressed.

“That was what I feared,” she admitted, “but of course I didn’t let her
know I suspected it. And of course I don’t know that it was that.”

French was frankly puzzled.

“Well, but if all that’s true, it surely supplies a motive for suicide?”

“It might have with another girl, but not with her. Besides there was
the letter.”

“Yes, you mentioned the letter before. Now how does the letter prove
that it wasn’t suicide?”

Miss Darke paused before replying and when at last she spoke it was with
less conviction.

“I looked at it like this,” she said. “From the letter it would be
understood that some man had got her into trouble and then deserted her.
From what she told me that wasn’t so, and from what I know of her it
wasn’t so. But if that’s right there couldn’t have been any letter—not
any real letter, I mean. I took it the letter had been written by the
murderer and left in her bag to make it look like suicide.”

In spite of himself French was interested. This was a subtle point for a
girl of the apparent mentality of this Miss Darke to evolve from her own
unaided consciousness. Not, he felt, that there was anything in it. The
probabilities were that the unfortunate Eileen Tucker had been deceived
and deserted by the usual callous ruffian. Naturally she would not tell
her friend. On the other hand he considered that Miss Darke was
surprisingly correct in her appreciation of the psychological side of
the affair. The older French grew, the more weight he gave to the
argument that X hadn’t performed a certain action because he “wasn’t the
sort of person to do it”; with due reservation of course and granted an
adequate knowledge of X’s character.

“That’s a very ingenious idea, Miss Darke,” he said. “But it’s only
speculation. You don’t really know that it is true.”

“Only from what she said,” returned the girl. “But I believed her.”

“Now, Miss Darke,” French said gravely, “I have a serious question to
ask you. If you knew all these material facts, why did you not come
forward and give evidence at the inquest?”

The girl hung her head.

“I know I should have,” she admitted sadly, “but I just didn’t. I did
not hear of Eileen’s death till I saw it in the paper the day after and
it didn’t say where the inquest would be. I ought to have gone to
Caterham and asked but I just didn’t. No one asked me any questions
and—well, it seemed easier just to say nothing. It couldn’t have helped
Eileen any.”

“It might have helped the police to capture her murderer, if she was
murdered,” French returned. “And it might have saved you from your
present difficulties. You were very wrong there, Miss Darke; very wrong
indeed.”

“I see that now, Mr. French,” she repeated.

“Well,” said French, “that’s not what you called to talk about. Go on
with your story. What can you tell me about the man? Did Miss Tucker
mention his name or describe him?”

Miss Darke looked up eagerly, while the expression of fear on her
features became more pronounced.

“No, but she said there was something horrible about him that just
terrified her. She hated the sight of him.”

“But she didn’t describe him?”

“No, except that he had a scar on his wrist like a purple sickle. ‘A
purple sickle’ were her exact words.”

“H’m. That’s not much to go on. But never mind. Tell me now your own
story. Try to put the events in the order in which they happened. And
don’t be in a hurry. We’ve all the day before us.”

Thurza Darke paused, presumably to collect her thoughts, then went on:

“The first thing, I think, was my meeting Gwen Lestrange in the train.”

“What? Still another girl? I shall be getting mixed among so many. First
there is yourself, then Miss Jennie Cox, Mr. Arrowsmith’s typist, then
poor Miss Eileen Tucker, who died so sadly at Caterham. And now here’s
another. Who is Gwen Lestrange?”

“I met her first in the train,” Miss Darke repeated. “I go to my work
most days by the Bakerloo tube from the Elephant to Oxford Circus. One
day a strange girl sitting beside me dropped a book on to my knee and we
began to talk. She said that she came by that train every day. A couple
of days later I met her again and we had another talk. This happened two
or three times and then we began to look out for each other and got
rather friends. She was a very pleasant girl; always smiling.”

“Did you find out her job?”

“Yes, she said she was a barmaid in the Bijou Theatre in Coventry
Street.”

“Describe her as well as you can.”

“She was a big girl, tall and broad and strong looking. Sort of athletic
in her movements. She had a square face, if you know what I mean; a big
jaw, determined looking.”

“What about her colouring?”

“She was like myself, fair with blue eyes and a fair complexion.”

“Her age?”

“About thirty, I should think.”

French noted the particulars.

“Well, you made friends with this Miss Lestrange. Yes?”

“The thing that struck me most about her was that she seemed so well
off. She was always well dressed, had a big fur coat and expensive
gloves and shoes. And once when I lunched with her we went to Fuller’s
and had a real slap-up lunch that must have cost her as much as I could
spend in lunches in a week. And she didn’t seem the type that would be
getting it from men.

“I said that I couldn’t return such hospitality as that and she laughed
and asked me what I was getting at the Milan. Then she said it was more
than she got, but that there were ways of adding to one’s salary. When I
asked her how, she smiled at first, but afterwards she told me.”

French’s quiet, sympathetic manner had evidently had its effect. Miss
Darke had lost a good deal of her terror and her story was coming much
more spontaneously. French encouraged her with the obvious question.

“She said she had got let in on a good thing through a friend. It was a
scheme for gambling on the tables at Monte Carlo.”

“At Monte Carlo?”

“Yes. It was run by a syndicate. They had a man there who did the actual
play. They sent him out the money and he sent back the winnings. You
could either choose your number or colour or you could leave it to him
to do the best he could for you. If you won you got your winnings less
five per cent. for expenses; if you lost of course you lost everything.
But the man did very well as a rule. He worked on a system and in the
long run you made money.”

In spite of himself French became more interested. The story, he felt,
was old—as old as humanity. But the setting was new. This Monte Carlo
idea was ingenious, though it could only take in the ignorant. Evidently
it was for this class that the syndicate catered.

“And that was how Miss Lestrange had made her money?”

“Yes.” Apparently Miss Darke had not questioned the fact. “She said that
as a rule she made a couple of pounds a week out of it. I said she was
lucky and that I wished that I had an obliging friend who would let me
into something of the kind. She didn’t answer for a while and then she
said that she didn’t see why I shouldn’t get in if I wanted to. If I
liked she would speak to her friend about it.

“I wasn’t very keen at first, for at one time or another I had seen a
deal of trouble coming through gambling. But I thought a little fling
wouldn’t do me any harm, so I thanked her and asked her to go ahead. If
she won, why shouldn’t I?”

“Why indeed? And she did arrange it?”

“Yes. I didn’t see her for three or four days, then I met her in the
train. She said she had fixed up the thing for me and if I would come in
early next morning she would introduce me to the man who took the
stakes. Our jobs started about one o’clock, you will understand, Mr.
French, so we had plenty of time earlier.”

“Of course. I suppose you both worked on till the places closed in the
evening.”

“That’s right. We were done about eleven or a little later. Well, next
morning I met her at eleven and we saw the bookmaker, Mr. Westinghouse.
Gwen had told me that his office was rather far away and that he would
meet us in the Embankment Gardens at Charing Cross. And so he did.”

“Now before you go on you might describe Mr. Westinghouse.”

“I can tell you just what he was like,” the girl returned. “You know
those big American business men that you see on the films? Clean shaven
and square chins and very determined and all that? Well, he was like
that.”

“I know exactly. Right, Miss Darke. You met Mr. Westinghouse?”

“Yes. Gwen introduced me and he asked me my name and a lot of questions
about myself and he wrote down the answers in a notebook. Then he said
he would agree to act for me, but that I was to promise not to mention
the affair, as they wanted to keep it in the hands of a few. I promised
and he took my stake. It was only five shillings, but he took as much
trouble over it as if it had been pounds. He wanted to know if I would
like to choose my number, but I said I would leave it to the man on the
ground.”

“And what was the result?”

“Mr. Westinghouse said that he couldn’t undertake to let me know before
the end of a week, on account of the time it took to write out and back
again, and also because the man did not always play, but only when he
felt he was going to win. He had a sort of sense for it, Mr.
Westinghouse said. So I met him a week later. He said I had done well
enough for a start. I had won three times my stake. He gave me nineteen
shillings, the fifteen shillings win and my five shillings back, less
five per cent. I was delighted and I put ten shillings on and kept the
nine. That time I doubled my ten and got another nineteen shillings. The
next time I lost, but the next I had a real bit of luck.”

“Yes?” French queried with as great a show of interest as he could
simulate. The tale was going according to plan. He could almost have
told it to Miss Darke.

“That fourth time,” the girl went on, “Mr. Westinghouse seemed much
excited. He said I had done something out of the common and that it was
only the second case which had occurred since they started. I had won
maximum, that meant thirty-five times my bet. I had put on ten shillings
and he handed me sixteen pounds twelve and sixpence!”

“A lot of money,” said French gravely.

“Wasn’t it? Well, you may imagine, Mr. French, that after that I went
ahead with the thing. But I never had another bit of luck like that,
though on the whole I did fairly well, at least until lately.”

That, of course, was the next step. She had still to tell of her loss
and the penalty. But that, French felt sure, was coming.

“About a month ago,” the girl went on, “Gwen told me she was leaving
town. She had got a better job in the Waldorf Theatre in Birmingham. But
I carried on the gambling all the same. But somehow after she left my
luck seemed to desert me. I began to lose until at last I had lost
everything I had won and all my small savings as well.”

“And what did Mr. Westinghouse say to that?”

“I told him what had happened and that I couldn’t go on betting. He
seemed cut up about it and said that if he had foreseen that result he
wouldn’t have taken me on. Then he said it was a real pity I couldn’t go
on a little longer. The luck at the tables came in cycles and they had
been passing through a specially bad cycle. Several other people had
lost as well as me. He said the luck was due to turn and that if I could
hold on I would be sure to win back all that I had lost and more. I said
I couldn’t as I hadn’t the money and that was all there was to it. He
said to let things stand for a week and then to come back to him and he
would see what could be done.”

“And you did?”

“Yes. Mr. Westinghouse told me he was glad to see me as the luck had
turned. If I could manage a really good bet he was certain that I should
win handsomely. I said I hadn’t the money. Then he hummed and hawed and
at last said that he couldn’t see me stuck; that he felt responsible for
me and that he would help me out. If I would undertake to let him have
half the profits, he would lend me enough to clear a good round haul. He
took two notes out of his pocket and said here was ten pounds. I could
put it on in one bet if I liked, but he advised me to put on four bets
of two-pound-ten each instead. Some one or two were sure to get home.

“I didn’t like the idea, but I was sure he wouldn’t have offered such a
thing unless there really was a good chance. So after some time I
thanked him and agreed. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but there it
is. I’m telling you just what happened.”

French smiled.

“If we were all as wise as we should be, Miss Darke, there would be no
stories to tell. Never mind. Just go on with yours.”

“Well, you can guess what happened. I lost every single one of my bets!
There was I without a penny left and owing Mr. Westinghouse ten pounds.”

Miss Darke evidently had something of the dramatic sense. She paused
unconsciously to give point to her climax, then went on:

“He was very nice about it at first, but soon I saw a different side to
his character. He began to press for the money and the more I told him I
couldn’t pay and asked for time, the more persistent he got. At last,
about ten days ago, he said he would give me a fortnight more and that
if I had not paid by then he would go to my employers and ruin me. When
I said it was his own fault for tempting me to borrow he got furious and
said I’d see whose fault it was and for me to look out for myself.

“I was in a terrible state of mind, Mr. French. I didn’t know what would
happen to me or who to turn to. And then the night before last who
should I meet going home in the tube but Gwen Lestrange.”

Again Miss Darke paused at her climax and French, who had been listening
carefully though without a great deal of interest to the commonplace
little story, offered a sympathetic comment. How many times had just
such a little drama been enacted, and how many times it would again!
Probably since before the dawn of history gambling had been used to get
fools of the human race into the power of the knaves. There was only one
point in the episode still unrevealed—the source of wealth to which
this silly girl had access and from which Westinghouse expected to be
paid. That, however, would no doubt soon be revealed. For French could
not bring himself to believe that it was anything so crude as robbing
the till in the cinema, the only thing which appeared to follow from the
story.

“Gwen seemed pleased to see me. She said her mother had been ill and she
had got a couple of days’ leave from Birmingham. She asked me to have
coffee with her next morning at Lyons’ Corner House, so that we could
have a chat.

“I think I told you I started work about one o’clock, and shortly before
twelve next day I joined her at Lyons’. She exclaimed at once about my
looks. ‘Why, what on earth’s wrong with you,’ she cried. ‘You’re in
trouble of some kind.’

“I didn’t want to talk about myself, but she insisted on hearing, and
when she learned what had happened she was very angry. ‘That old
scoundrel!’ she cried, ‘and I used to think he was straight!’ She got
quite excited about it. She advised me to tell Westinghouse to go to
hell and dare him to do his worst. He couldn’t do me any harm, she said.
I had only to deny the story and say he had been persecuting me and he
could produce no proof. But I knew that was no good and that the mere
raising of the question with the cinema manager would lose me my job.
And it would have, Mr. French.”

“I daresay it would,” French admitted.

“Well, I wasn’t on for it any way, and when she saw I wasn’t she let
that drop. Then she said that she felt sort of responsible for me,
seeing that it was through her I got into the thing, and that she would
therefore try and help me out. There was a cousin of hers, a really good
sort, who might be able to help me. He had helped her at one time when
she was in the same trouble herself. She would stake her reputation that
he at all events was straight, and if I wished she would introduce me to
him.

“Well, I needn’t take up your time by telling you all our conversation.
It ended in my agreeing to go to Mr. Style, as the cousin was called.
Gwen fixed up a meeting. I was to be at St. Pancras when his train came
in from Luton, where he lived, and he would talk to me on the platform.
I went there and he found me at once.”

“You might describe Mr. Style also.”

The girl shivered as if at an unpleasant memory.

“I can easily do that,” she said, and her expression became almost that
of horror. “As long as I live I’ll remember his appearance. He was thin
and tall and sallow, with a small, fair moustache. But his eyes were
what struck you. He had such queer, staring eyes that would look at you
as if they could see right into your mind. They made me feel quite
queer. Sort of uncanny, if you understand what I mean.”

French nodded and she went on:

“He said that his cousin, Miss Lestrange, had told him of me and the fix
I was in, and he thought he could do something to help me. He said he
had a job which he thought I could do and which would pay me well. It
was easy as far as actual work was concerned, but it required a young
lady of good appearance and manner and some shrewdness to carry it
through. Also it was highly confidential and the young lady must be
above suspicion as to character and discretion. Those were his words as
far as I remember.”

Again French nodded.

“I said I already had a job which I didn’t want to give up, but he said
I could do his job at the same time as they didn’t clash. It was
perfectly easy and perfectly safe, but old-fashioned people mightn’t
altogether approve of it and that he was glad to know that I had no
prejudices in that respect.

“As you may imagine, Mr. French, I wasn’t very pleased at this, and I
asked him rather sharply what he meant. And then he said something which
upset me horribly and made me wish I had never seen him. I scarcely like
to repeat it.”

“I’m afraid you must.”

“He asked what I thought of a young lady who betted on borrowed money
which she couldn’t repay if she lost. Then, always with his horrible
smile, he went on to say that a potential thief could scarcely be tied
down by out-of-date ideas of morality.”

“Plain speaking.”

The girl made a hopeless little gesture.

“You may say I should have got up and walked away,” she continued, “but
I just couldn’t. Somehow I felt as if I had no strength left to do
anything. But I was terribly upset. I had not realised that I had done
anything so serious and I grew sort of cold when I thought of it. He
watched me for a moment, then he laughed and said not to be a fool, that
I had done what any one would have done in my place, and that he only
mentioned the matter so that I might not imagine that I was above the
little weaknesses of ordinary people. I said I never imagined anything
of the sort, and he answered that that being so we might get to
business.”

Though Miss Darke was now telling her story as clearly and collectedly
as French could have wished, it was evident that the personality of
Style had profoundly impressed her. The more she spoke of him, the more
nervous and excited she grew. But French’s sympathetic bearing seemed to
steady her, and after a short pause she continued.

“He said then that he would make me a confidential offer. He would take
over all my liabilities and make me an immediate advance to get me out
of my present difficulties. He would also guarantee me a substantial
increase to my income, without in anyway prejudicing my present job, if
I would do as he asked. He assured me that what he would ask was
absolutely safe if I was careful, and that though it might not exactly
accord with certain straightlaced ideas, it would not injure any one or
cause any suffering. He also declared on his honour it was nothing
immoral or connected with sex. But he said he had no wish to coerce me.
I could think the offer over and I was perfectly free to take it or
leave it as I thought best.”

“A plausible ruffian.”

“I asked him then what the job actually was. But he said there was time
enough for that, and he began to ask me about the cash at the Milan and
how it was checked, and if I was overlooked in the box office and how
often the manager came round, and so on. I can tell you I didn’t like
it, Mr. French, and I began to feel I just couldn’t have anything to say
to his job.”

“Yes!” French queried as the girl stopped. “And then?”

“And then,” repeated Miss Darke excitedly and with an unconscious
dramatic effort, “then he raised his arm and I saw his wrist. Mr.
French, it had a purple scar like a sickle on the inside!”