on the steps outside. Besides beauty, she possessed courage and brains.
Virginia was so engrossed in the puzzle presented to her that it did not occur to her to wonder at this strange man’s ready use of her name.
“Why didn’t Élise hear the shot, I wonder?” she murmured.
Anthony pointed to the open window, as a loud backfire came from a passing car.
“There you are. London’s not the place to notice a pistol shot.”
Virginia turned with a little shudder to the body in the chair.
“He looks like an Italian,” she remarked curiously.
“He is an Italian,” said Anthony. “I should say that his regular profession was that of a waiter. He only did blackmailing in his spare time. His name might very possibly be Giuseppe.”
“Good heavens!” cried Virginia. “Is this Sherlock Holmes?”
“No,” said Anthony regretfully. “I’m afraid it’s just plain or garden cheating. I’ll tell you all about it presently. Now you say this man showed you some letters and asked you for money. Did you give him any?”
“Yes, I did.”
“How much?”
“Forty pounds.”
“That’s bad,” said Anthony, but without manifesting any undue surprise. “Now let’s have a look at the telegram.”
Virginia picked it up from the table and gave it to him. She saw his face grow grave as he looked at it.
“What’s the matter?”
He held it out, pointing silently to the place of origin.
“Barnes,” he said. “And you were at Ranelagh this afternoon. What’s to prevent you having sent it off yourself?”
Virginia felt fascinated by his words. It was as though a net was closing tighter and tighter round her. He was forcing her to see all the things which she had felt dimly at the back of her mind.
Anthony took out his handkerchief and wound it round his hand, then he picked up the pistol.
“We criminals have to be so careful,” he said apologetically. “Finger prints, you know.”
64
