Peter Ruff and the Double Four. E. Phillips Oppenheim

see,” he answered. “I am much obliged to you, Miss Shaw. Believe me that you have my sincere sympathy!”

      Peter Ruff’s farewell words were unheard. Letty had fallen forward in her chair, her head buried in her hands.

      Peter Ruff went to Berkeley Square and found Lady Mary waiting for him. Sir William Trencham, the great solicitor, was with her. Lady Mary introduced the two men. All the time she was anxiously watching Ruff’s face.

      “Mr. Ruff has been to see Miss Shaw,” she explained to Sir William. “Mr. Ruff, tell me quickly,” she continued, with her hand upon his shoulder, “did she say anything? Did you find anything out?”

      He shook his head.

      “No!” he said. “I found nothing out!”

      “You don’t think, then,” Lady Mary gasped, “that there is any chance—of getting her to confess—that she did it herself?”

      “Why should she have done it herself?” Peter Ruff asked. “She admits that the man tried to make love to her. She simply left him. She was in her own home, with her mother and servant within call. There was no struggle in the room—we know that. There was no necessity for any.”

      “Have you made any other enquiries?” Lady Mary asked.

      “The few which I have made,” Peter Ruff answered gravely, “point all in the same direction. I ascertained at the Milan that your brother called there late last night, and that he heard Miss Shaw had been supping alone with Austen Abbott. He followed them home. I have ascertained, too, that he had a key to Miss Shaw’s flat. He apparently met Austen Abbott upon the threshold.”

      Lady Mary covered her face with her hands. She seemed to read in Ruff’s words the verdict of the two men—the verdict of common sense. Nevertheless, he made one more request before leaving.

      “I should like to see Captain Sotherst, if you can get me an order,” he said to Sir William.

      “You can go with me to-morrow morning,” the lawyer answered. “The proceedings this morning, of course, were simply formal. Until after the inquest it will be easy to arrange an interview.”

      Lady Mary looked up quickly.

      “There is still something in your mind, then?” she asked. “You think that there is a bare chance?”

      “There is always the hundredth chance!” Peter Ruff replied.

      Peter Ruff and Miss Brown supped at the Milan that night as they had arranged, but it was not a cheerful evening. Brian Sotherst had been very popular among Letty Shaw’s little circle of friends, and the general feeling was one of horror and consternation at this thing which had befallen him. Austen Abbot, too, was known to all of them, and although a good many of the men—and even the women—were outspoken enough to declare at once that it served him right, nevertheless, the shock of death—death without a second’s warning—had a paralysing effect even upon those who were his severest critics. Violet Brown spoke to a few of her friends—introduced Peter Ruff here and there—but nothing was said which could throw in any way even the glimmerings of a new light upon the tragedy. It all seemed too hopelessly and fatally obvious.

      About twenty minutes before closing time, the habitues of the place were provided with something in the nature of a sensation. A little party entered who seemed altogether free from the general air of gloom. Foremost among them was a very young and exceedingly pretty girl, with light golden hair waved in front of her forehead, deep blue eyes, and the slight, airy figure of a child. She was accompanied by another young woman, whose appearance was a little too obvious to be prepossessing, and three or four young men—dark, clean-shaven, dressed with the irritating exactness of their class—young stockbrokers or boys about town. Miss Brown’s eyes grew very wide open.

      “What a little beast!” she exclaimed.

      “Who?” Peter Ruff asked.

      “That pretty girl there,” she answered—“Fluffy Dean her name is. She is Letty Shaw’s protege, and she wouldn’t have dreamed of allowing her to come out with a crowd like that. Tonight, of all nights,” she continued, indignantly, “when Letty is away!”

      Peter Ruff was interested.

      “So that is Miss Fluffy Dean,” he remarked, looking at her curiously. “She seems a little excited.”

      “She’s a horrid little wretch!” Miss Brown declared. “I hope that some one will tell Letty, and that she will drop her now. A girl who would do such a thing as that when Letty is in such trouble isn’t worth taking care of! Just listen to them all!”

      They were certainly becoming a little boisterous. A magnum of champagne was being opened. Fluffy Dean’s cheeks were already flushed, and her eyes glittering. Every one at the table was talking a great deal and drinking toasts.

      “This is the end of Fluffy Dean,” Violet Brown said, severely. “I hate to be uncharitable, but it serves her right.”

      Peter Ruff paid his bill.

      “Let us go,” he said.

      In the taxicab, on their way back to Miss Brown’s rooms, Ruff was unusually silent, but just before he said good night to her—on the pavement, in fact, outside her front door—he asked a question.

      “Violet,” he said, “would you like to play detective for an hour or two?”

      She looked at him in some surprise.

      “You know I always like to help in anything that’s going,” she said.

      “Letty Shaw was an Australian, wasn’t she?” he asked.

      “Yes.”

      “She was born there, and lived there till she was nearly eighteen—is that true?” he asked again.

      “Quite true,” Miss Brown answered.

      “You know the offices of the P.& O. line of steamers in Pall Mall?” he asked.

      She nodded.

      “Well?”

      “Get a sailing list to Australia—there should be a boat going Thursday. Present yourself as a prospective passenger. See how many young women alone there are going out, and ask their names. Incidentally put in a little spare time watching the office.”

      She looked at him with parted lips and wide-open eyes.

      “Do you think—” she began.

      He shook her hand warmly and stepped back into the taxicab.

      “Good night!” he said. “No questions, please. I sha’n’t expect you at the office at the usual time to-morrow, at any rate. Telephone or run around if you’ve anything to tell me.”

      The taxicab disappeared round the corner of the street. Miss Brown was standing still upon the pavement with the latchkey in her hand.

      It was afternoon before the inquest on the body of Austen Abbott, and there was gathered together in Letty Shaw’s parlor a curiously assorted little group of people. There was Miss Shaw herself—or rather what seemed to be the ghost of herself—and her mother; Lady Mary and Sir William Trencham; Peter Ruff and Violet Brown—and Mr. John Dory. The eyes of all of them were fixed upon Peter Ruff, who was the latest arrival. He stood in the middle of the room, calmly taking off his gloves, and glancing complacently down at his well-creased trousers.

      “Lady Mary,” he said, “and Miss Shaw, I know that you are both anxious for me to explain why I ask you to meet me here this afternoon, and why I also requested my friend Mr. Dory from Scotland Yard, who has charge of the case against Captain Sotherst, to be present. I will tell you.”

      Mr. Dory nodded, a little impatiently.

      “Unless you have something very definite to say,” he remarked, “I