"Bless my life and soul," said Mr. Beale, stepping back, shocked and hurt, "I call you to witnesh, Detective-Sergeant Peterson and amiable Constable Fairbank and learned Dr. van Heerden, that he has denied me. And it has come to this," he said bitterly, and leaning his head against the door-post he howled like a dog.
"I say, stop your fooling, Beale," said the doctor angrily, "there's been very serious business here, and I should thank you not to interfere."
Mr. Beale wiped imaginary tears from his eyes, grasped Mr. White's unwilling hand and shook it vigorously, staggered back to his flat and slammed the door behind him.
"Do you know that man?" asked the doctor, turning to the detective.
"I seem to remember his face," said the sergeant. "Come on, Fred. Good morning, gentlemen."
They waited till the officers were downstairs and out of sight, and then the doctor turned to the other and in a different tone from any he had employed, said:
"Come into my room for a moment, White," and Mr. White followed him obediently.
They shut the door and passed into the study, with its rows of heavily bound books, its long table covered with test-tubes and the paraphernalia of medical research.
"Well," said White, dropping into a chair, "what happened?"
"That is what I want to know," said the doctor.
He took a cigarette from a box on the table and lit it and the two men looked at one another without speaking.
"Do you think she had the letters and hid them?"
"Impossible," replied the doctor briefly.
White grunted, took a cigar from a long leather case, bit off the end savagely and reached out his hand for a match.
"'The best-laid schemes of mice and men!'" he quoted.
"Oh, shut up," said the doctor savagely.
He was pacing the study with long strides. He stopped at one end of the room staring moodily through the window, his hands thrust in his pockets.
"I wonder what happened," he said again. "Well,
