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the Inspector:
    â€œYou’re quite sure she’d never been seen before at Gossington?”
    â€œThe servants are positive of that. Quite indignant about it. They’d have remembered if they’d ever seen her about in the neighbourhood, they say.”
    â€œI expect they would,” said Melchett. “Anyone of that type sticks out a mile round here. Look at that young woman of Blake’s.”
    â€œPity it wasn’t her,” said Slack; “then we should be able to get on a bit.”
    â€œIt seems to me this girl must have come down from London,” said the Chief Constable thoughtfully. “Don’t believe there will be any local leads. In that case, I suppose, we should do well to call in the Yard. It’s a case for them, not for us.”
    â€œSomething must have brought her down here, though,” said Slack. He added tentatively: “Seems to me, Colonel and Mrs. Bantry must know something—of course, I know they’re friends of yours, sir—”
    Colonel Melchett treated him to a cold stare. He said stiffly:
    â€œYou may rest assured that I’m taking every possibility into account. Every possibility.” He went on: “You’ve looked through the list of persons reported missing, I suppose?”
    Slack nodded. He produced a typed sheet.
    â€œGot ’em here. Mrs. Saunders, reported missing a week ago, dark-haired, blue-eyed, thirty-six. ’Tisn’t her—and, anyway, everyone knows except her husband that she’s gone off with a fellow from Leeds—commercial. Mrs. Barnard—she’s sixty-five. Pamela Reeves, sixteen, missing from her home last night, had attended Girl Guide rally, dark-brown hair in pigtail, five feet five—”
    Melchett said irritably:
    â€œDon’t go on reading idiotic details, Slack. This wasn’t a schoolgirl. In my opinion—”
    He broke off as the telephone rang. “Hallo—yes—yes, Much Benham Police Headquarters—what? Just a minute—”
    He listened, and wrote rapidly. Then he spoke again, a new tone in his voice:
    â€œRuby Keene, eighteen, occupation professional dancer, five feet four inches, slender, platinum-blonde hair, blue eyes, retroussé nose, believed to be wearing white diamanté evening dress, silver sandal shoes. Is that right? What? Yes, not a doubt of it, I should say. I’ll send Slack over at once.”
    He rang off and looked at his subordinate with rising excitement. “We’ve got it, I think. That was the Glenshire Police” (Glenshire was the adjoining county). “Girl reported missing from the Majestic Hotel, Danemouth.”
    â€œDanemouth,” said Inspector Slack. “That’s more like it.”
    Danemouth was a large and fashionable watering-place on the coast not far away.
    â€œIt’s only a matter of eighteen miles or so from here,” said the Chief Constable. “The girl was a dance hostess or something at the Majestic. Didn’t come on to do her turn last night and the management were very fed up about it. When she was still missing this morning one of the other girls got the wind up about her, or someone else did. It sounds a bit obscure. You’d better go over toDanemouth at once, Slack. Report there to Superintendent Harper, and cooperate with him.”
    II
    Activity was always to Inspector Slack’s taste. To rush off in a car, to silence rudely those people who were anxious to tell him things, to cut short conversations on the plea of urgent necessity. All this was the breath of life to Slack.
    In an incredibly short time, therefore, he had arrived at Danemouth, reported at police headquarters, had a brief interview with a distracted and apprehensive hotel manager, and, leaving the latter with the doubtful comfort of—“got to make sure it is the girl, first, before we start raising the wind”—was driving back to Much Benham in company with Ruby