It was a bit of luck, Frankie thought, that the clerk had not wished to accompany her, but perhaps they only did that when it was a question of a furnished tenancy.

The musty smell of a closed-up house assailed Frankie's nostrils as she unlocked and pushed open the front door of No. 17. It was an unappetizing house, cheaply decorated, and with blistered, dirty paint. Frankie went over it methodically from garret to basement. The house had not been cleaned up on departure. There were bits of string, old newspapers, and some odd nails and tools. But as for anything of a personal nature, Frankie could not find so much as the scrap of a torn-up letter.

The only thing that struck her as having a possible significance was an A.B.C. railway guide* which lay open on one of the window seats. There was nothing to indicate that any of the names on the open page was of special significance, but Frankie copied the lot down in a little notebook as a poor substitute for all she had hoped to find. As far as tracing the Caymans was concerned she had drawn a blank.

She consoled herself with the reflection that this was only to be expected. If Mr. and Mrs. Cayman were associated with the wrong side of the law they would take particularly good care that no one should be able to trace them. It was at least a kind of negative confirmatory evidence.

Still, Frankie felt definitely disappointed as she handed back the keys to the house agents and uttered mendacious statements as to communicating with them in a few days.

She walked down toward the park feeling rather depressed and wondering what on earth she was going to do next. These fruitless meditations were interrupted by a sharp and violent squall of rain. No taxi was in sight and Frankie hurriedly preserved a favourite hat by hurrying into the tube which was close at hand. She took a ticket to Piccadilly Circus and bought a couple of papers at the bookstall.

When she had entered the train — almost empty at this time of day — she resolutely banished thoughts of the vexing problem and, opening her paper, strove to concentrate her attention on its contents.

She read desultory snippets here and there. Number of Road Deaths. Mysterious Disappearance of a Schoolgirl. Lady Peterhampton's Party at Claridge's.* Sir John Milkington's convalescence after his yachting accident on the Astradora, the famous yacht which had belonged to the late Mr. John Savage, the millionaire. Was she an unlucky boat? The man who had designed her had met with a tragic death — Mr. Savage had committed suicide — Sir John Milkington had just escaped death by a miracle.

Frankie lowered the paper, frowning in an effort of remembrance. Twice before, the name of John Savage had been mentioned — once by Sylvia Bassington-ffrench when she was speaking of Alan Carstairs, and once by Bobby when he was repeating the conversation he had had with Mrs. Rivington.

Alan Carstairs had been a friend of John Savage's. Mrs. Rivington had had a vague idea that Carstairs's presence in England had something to do with the death of Savage. Savage had — what was it? — he had committed suicide because he thought he had cancer.

Supposing — supposing Alan Carstairs had not been satisfied with the account of his friend's death? Supposing he had come over to inquire into the whole thing? Supposing that here, in the circumstances surrounding Savage's death, was the first act of the drama that she and Bobby were acting in?