case is in that queer name of yours—Mortover!"
The girl looked her astonishment.
"But—why should anybody murder Mr. Wraypoole because my name happens to be that?" she asked. "Why?"
"Ah!" said Wedgwood, smiling at her ingenuous manner. "Now you are asking me something. Don't know—can't tell. But there it is—that name of yours has all to do with it, but in what way I can't imagine, at present. Now listen to me—you've said nothing of this to anyone but the manageress? No one? Very good. Now you go straight to her, tell her you've seen me, and beg her, from me, Detective-Sergeant Wedgwood, not to breathe a word of what you told her to anybody. And don't you breathe a word more yourself—till I see you again. You understand?"
"You're going to find things out?"
"That's my job at present, my dear!" answered Wedgwood, with a smile. "Who knows? I may find out what it was that John Wraypoole was going to tell you, and if I do you may depend on me not to keep you waiting."
When she had gone he remained some time alone thinking matters over: eventually he sought the company of the inspector with whom
