Detective-Inspector Fay was an able and successful officer, of international reputation, whose achievements had placed a substantial price on his head in most countries sufficiently civilized to possess their criminal organizations. His bag had included many famous law-breakers, and, though now employed in less strenuous directions, he was admitted to be one of the most skilful and reliable of Scotland Yard’s unravelers of mystery. But, experienced as he was, the inspector could not suppress his horror and indignation when the mutilated body of Christine Manderson was uncovered to him.

“What, in God’s name, was there in this garden to-night?” he demanded, shuddering.

“A madman,” the theatrical manager muttered.

The inspector’s glance rested on him for an instant, but passed on. He made no further remarks during his examination but when, concluding it, he carefully replaced the covering and turned again to the others, there was a concentrated gleam in his eyes and a certain set to his face that were known to bode ill to the perpetrators of the deeds that inspired them.

“There can scarcely be a whole bone in her body,” he declared, regarding them all intently. “Her face is smashed to pulp; some of the hair has been wrenched from her head; and even the bones of her fingers are broken. It is the most brutal and disgusting crime I have had the misfortune to meet with in the whole of my thirty years experience.”

He gave a brief order to an attendant constable, who moved to the door.

“If you will kindly retire with the constable to the next room,” he requested, “I will take a separate account from every one. Perhaps Mr. Copplestone will give me his information first.”

The constable marshalled them into an adjoining room, which the danseuse filled with complaints at this prolonged detention. Copplestone remained behind. His dullness and immobility had increased almost to a stupor.

“She was engaged to marry me,” he said, in a slow lifeless tone, “since yesterday.”

Inspector Fay seated himself at a table, and opened his note-book.

“We fully sympathize with you, Mr. Copplestone,” he said quietly, “and I am afraid it is poor consolation to promise you that justice shall be done on the inhuman criminal, whoever it may be.”

“Justice?” Copplestone returned, in the same weary, monotonous voice. “Of what use is Justice? Can it call her back or mend her broken body?”

“Unfortunately, it cannot,” the inspector admitted. “But it is all humanity can do. Will you answer a few questions, as clearly and briefly as possible? The great thing in a case like this is to lose no time at the beginning.”

Copplestone sat down, and passed an unsteady hand across his forehead.

“Go on,” he said dully.

“Where and when did you first meet Miss Manderson?”

“She came over from New York two months ago, to play in a new piece at the Imperial. I have an interest in the theater, and saw her there for the first time about a week after her arrival.”

“Do you know anything of her life and associations in America?”

“Very little. She was not communicative. She only told me a few of her theatrical experiences.”

“So far as you know,” the inspector proceeded, “had she an enemy in this country or was there any one who could have wished to harm her?”

“Apparently there was,” Copplestone returned. “I did not know it until to-night.”

Mechanically, in the manner of one repeating a lesson, he described the visit of the young millionaire, and his threat against Christine Manderson.

“And the name of this young man?” the inspector asked, bending over his note-book.

“James Layton.”

Inspector Fay looked up sharply.

“Layton? The man they call the Mad Philanthropist?”

“I don’t know,” Copplestone replied wearily. “He may be.”

“James Layton is very well known to us,” the inspector said slowly. “He is a charitable fanatic, who does more good in the East End than all the Royally Patronized Associations put together. But how in the world did he come to know Miss Manderson?”

“She never mentioned him to me,” Copplestone stated. “I had not heard of him until he burst into this house to-night.”

The inspector made several notes.

“He has educated and trained as his assistant a particularly wild specimen of a coster girl, who is madly in love with him....” He closed his note-book with a snap. “You say the words he used were that rather than allow Miss Manderson to become engaged to you, he would tear her to pieces with his own hands, and utterly destroy her?”

“So they told me,” Copplestone answered heavily. “I was not in the room. I refused to see him.”

“And he left quite quietly?”

“Yes.”

“Did Miss Manderson show any particular fear of the threat?”

“She was very much upset, and fainted when she came into the room. I should have sent for the police at once, but she begged me not to, and insisted that he didn’t mean what he said. I wish to God I hadn’t listened.”

“So there was no doubt that she knew him?”

“No. She certainly knew him.”

“Afterwards, you say, he was seen in the garden when you were all out after dinner?” the inspector continued.

“Yes.”

“Who saw him?”

“Mr. Bolsover, the theatrical manager, found him sneaking about the house, and chased him out in the direction of the crime.”

“Did any one see him, besides Mr. Bolsover?”

“Apparently not. He says he called to me but I had gone into the house to fill my cigarette-case, and did not hear him.”

“He escaped from Mr. Bolsover, and was not seen again?”

“Yes.”

“Was there any one else,” the inspector asked slowly, “who might, for any reason, have entertained unfriendly feelings towards Miss Manderson?”

Copplestone’s glance sharpened a little under the question.

“I suppose there was,” he admitted, with some reluctance.

“Who was it?”

Copplestone paused, frowning.

“Please do not hesitate,” the inspector pressed firmly. “We must know everything.”

“Perhaps,” the tired voice confessed, “it wasn’t altogether playing the game to announce my engagement so unexpectedly to to

“Well?” the inspector insisted “to whom?”

“To Phyllis Astley-Rolfe.”

There was silence for a moment. The inspector waited quietly. With an effort, Copplestone continued.

“I am afraid it was rather cruel. She’d annoyed me lately, and I put up some decorations, and announced the news in a dramatic way ... to mock her.” He broke off, staring at the remains of the decorations on the floor. “But I tore them down. I shall never decorate again....”

The inspector watched him closely. He seemed to be on the verge of sleep.

“Then Mrs. Astley-Rolfe had reason to be jealous of Miss Manderson?” the inspector demanded briskly.

“I suppose ... she had.”

“Good reason?”

“Possibly.”

“Had you given her definite cause to believe that you intended to ask her to marry you?”

“Perhaps so. At any rate ... I had not given her definite cause to believe that I didn’t.”

His voice sank to a whisper. He leant back limply in his chair.

“There is only one more question I need trouble you with at present,” the inspector said. “Who was the last person to be with Miss Manderson before the crime was discovered?”

Copplestone scarcely opened his eyes.

“Mr. Tranter was with her near the river. She left him to go back to the house, and asked him to find me, and tell me she was not well.”

“Did he find you?”

“Yes. And I at once went into the house.”

“Where were you when Mr. Tranter found you?”

“I was crossing the second lawn towards the tennis courts.”

The inspector was busy with his note-book.

“Were you alone?”

“Yes. I had just come out of the house after filling my cigarette-case, as I told you. I was looking for Miss Manderson, and wondering where she had got to. If only I had gone in the right direction ... I might have been in time....”

“After Mr. Tranter had spoken to you, you say you went into the house at once?”

“At once. I waited nearly ten minutes for her, and came out again just as Mr. Delamere gave the alarm. I’m afraid I handled him roughly....”

The words trailed off into silence. A convulsive shudder passed through him.

“Then we all ran off ... to where she lay,” his voice shook. “Something seemed to give way ... here....” he pressed his hands to his head. “Is there ... anything more ... you want to know?”

The inspector rose.

“Only one thing. Will you kindly give me the names of your guests in the other room?”

Copplestone complied slowly. Inspector Fay wrote the names down.

“Thank you,” he said, laying down his book. “I am sorry to have had to give you the pain of answering so many questions. I am afraid you are quite overwrought. I should advise you to try to get some sleep.”

“Sleep,” Copplestone murmured, rising weakly from his chair. “Sleep.... Good God.”

The inspector himself made a gesture of fatigue.

“I only got back from another heavy case as your message came in,” he apologized, stifling a yawn. “Tobacco is the only thing that keeps me going. Could you give me a cigarette?”

Without answering, Copplestone languidly produced an elaborately jeweled gold cigarette-case, and handed it to the inspector.

There were two cigarettes in it.

Inspector Fay took one, with a perfectly impassive countenance, and returned the case. Copplestone replaced it in his pocket.

“Please give whatever instructions you like to my man,” he said dully “and let me know if you want me. I shall be in my room.”

He turned, and moved away with slow heavy steps, disappearing between the same curtains through which, a few hours before, he had presented Christine Manderson to his guests.

The inspector stood looking after him, fingering the cigarette thoughtfully, a very curious expression on his face. He showed no further signs of fatigue.

“I wonder why you lied to me,” he muttered and laid the cigarette on the table.

He glanced down the list of names, and went to the door. The constable had mounted guard over his prisoners with extraordinary dignity. The voice of the danseuse was still raised in lamentation.

“Monsieur Dupont,” the inspector called.

The constable passed on the summons and Monsieur Dupont instantly obeyed it.