In the taxi outside John Steadman looked at the inspector.
“Is this the work of the Yellow Dog, inspector?”
“It is the work of Mr. Bechcombe's murderer, sir,” the inspector replied evasively.
“You have some grounds for this conviction, I presume,” John Steadman rejoined. “At first sight it looks as though it might be an entirely independent affair. An attempt to steal any jewels that Mrs. Carnthwacke might be wearing. Or her money.”
“You wait until you have talked to Mrs. Carnthwacke, sir. You won't feel much doubt as to her assailant's identity then.”
“But is Mrs. Carnthwacke able to speak?” John Steadman questioned in great surprise. “I understood from what you said——”
The inspector looked him full in the face and solemnly winked one eye.
“It suits our purpose that the outside world and particularly Mrs. Carnthwacke's assailant should think her dying. But, as a matter of fact, when Mrs. Carnthwacke had rallied from the effects of the strangulation, except that she feels weak and ill from the shock, she was practically as well as you or I. She is perfectly able to discuss the matter with us, though by my advice she is keeping to her own rooms and it is being given out that she is still unconscious, lying between life and death.”
At No. 15 Blanden Square, they were received by Cyril B. Carnthwacke himself. He was looking pale and worried, but he greeted John Steadman warmly.
“Say, this is all right of you, Mr. Steadman,” he exclaimed. “Come right away to my sanctum and I will tell you what I can about this affair.”