THE YELLOW CLAW. Sax Rohmer

short, it amounts to this, then: Mrs. Vernon, during these various

      absences, never went to Scotland at all? It was a conspiracy?”

      “Exactly--exactly, Inspector! I wired instructing my agent to extort

      from the woman, Fry, the address to which she forwarded letters received

      by her for Mrs. Vernon. The lady's death, news of which will now have

      reached him, will no doubt be a lever, enabling my representative to

      obtain the desired information.”

      “When do you expect to hear from him?”

      “At any moment. Failing a full confession by the Frys, you will of

      course know how to act, Inspector?”

      “Damme!” cried Dunbar, “can your man be relied upon to watch them? They

      mustn't slip away! Shall I instruct Perth to arrest the couple?”

      “I wired my agent this morning, Inspector, to communicate with the local

      police respecting the Frys.”

      Inspector Dunbar tapped his small, widely-separated teeth with the end

      of his fountain-pen.

      “I have had one priceless witness slip through my fingers,” he muttered.

      “I'll hand in my resignation if the Frys go!”

      “To whom do you refer?”

      Inspector Dunbar rose.

      “It is a point with which I need not trouble you, sir,” he said. “It was

      not included in the extract of report sent to you. This is going to be

      the biggest case of my professional career, or my name is not Robert

      Dunbar!”

      Closing his notebook, he thrust it into his pocket, and replaced his

      fountain-pen in the little leather wallet.

      “Of course,” said the solicitor, rising in turn, and adjusting the

      troublesome pince-nez, “there was some intrigue with Leroux? So much is

      evident.”

      “You will be thinking that, eh?”

      “My dear Inspector”--Mr. Debnam, the wily, was seeking information--“my

      dear Inspector, Leroux's own wife was absent in Paris--quite a safe

      distance; and Mrs. Vernon (now proven to be a woman conducting a love

      intrigue) is found dead under most compromising circumstances--MOST

      compromising circumstances--in his flat! His servants, even, are got

      safely out of the way for the evening”...

      “Quite so,” said Dunbar, shortly, “quite so, Mr. Debnam.” He opened the

      door. “Might I see the late Mrs. Vernon's maid?”

      “She is at her home. As I told you, Mrs. Vernon habitually released her

      for the period of these absences.”

      The notebook reappeared.

      “The young woman's address?”

      “You can get it from the housekeeper. Is there anything else you wish to

      know?”

      “Nothing beyond that, thank you.”

      Three minutes later, Inspector Dunbar had written in his book:--Clarice

      Goodstone, c/o Mrs. Herne, 134a Robert Street, Hampstead Road, N. W.

      He departed from the house whereat Death the Gleaner had twice knocked

      with his Scythe.

      CABMAN TWO

      Returning to Scotland Yard, Inspector Dunbar walked straight up to

      his own room. There he found Sowerby, very red faced and humid, and a

      taximan who sat stolidly surveying the Embankment from the window.

      “Hullo!” cried Dunbar; “he's turned up, then?”

      “No, he hasn't,” replied Sowerby with a mild irritation. “But we know

      where to find him, and he ought to lose his license.”

      The taximan turned hurriedly. He wore a muffler so tightly packed

      between his neck and the collar of his uniform jacket, that it appeared

      materially to impair his respiration. His face possessed a bluish tinge,

      suggestive of asphyxia, and his watery eyes protruded remarkably; his

      breathing was noisily audible.

      “No, chuck it, mister!” he exclaimed. “I'm only tellin' you 'cause it

      ain't my line to play tricks on the police. You'll find my name in

      the books downstairs more'n any other driver in London! I reckon I've

      brought enough umbrellas, cameras, walkin' sticks, hopera cloaks,

      watches and sicklike in 'ere, to set up a blarsted pawnbroker's!”

      “That's all right, my lad!” said Dunbar, holding up his hand to silence

      the voluble speaker. “There's going to be no license-losing. You did not

      hear that you were wanted before?”

      The watery eyes of the cabman protruded painfully; he respired like a

      horse.

      “ME, guv'nor!” he exclaimed. “Gor'blime! I ain't the bloke! I was

      drivin' back from takin' the Honorable 'Erbert 'Arding 'ome--same as I

      does almost every night, when the 'ouse is a-sittin'--when I see old Tom

      Brian drawin' away from the door o' Palace Man--”

      Again Dunbar held up his hand.

      “No doubt you mean well,” he said; “but damme! begin at the beginning!

      Who are you, and what have you come to tell us?”

      “'Oo are I?--'Ere's 'oo I ham!” wheezed the cabman, proffering a greasy

      license. “Richard 'Amper, number 3 Breams Mews, Dulwich Village”...

      “That's all right,” said Dunbar, thrusting back the proffered document;

      “and last night you had taken Mr. Harding the member of Parliament, to

      his residence in?”--

      “In Peers' Chambers, Westminister--that's it, guv'nor! Comin' back, I

      'ave to pass along the north side o' the Square, an' just a'ead o' me,

      I see old Tom Brian a-pullin' round the Johnny 'Orner,--'im comin' from

      Palace Mansions.”

      “Mr. Exel only mentioned seeing ONE cab,” muttered Dunbar, glancing

      keenly aside at Sowerby.

      “Wotcher say, guv'nor?” asked the cabman.

      “I say--did you see a gentleman approaching from the corner?” asked

      Dunbar.