“Right.” He turned again towards Clegg. “Pardon me for a minute or two, Sergeant. I’ll just transact this little piece of business and on my way back I’ll tell Miss Lennox you would like to speak to her. You will see her in another room, of course.” He looked across at the desk significantly. Clegg showed his agreement. The glorious June sunshine flooded through the French doors and bathed the room with its shimmering shafts. It seemed completely incongruous in that room where so recently tragedy had dwelt. Shadows would have become it more fittingly than sunshine. The presence of the dead man stirred an emotional chord in Clegg’s being and he shivered. He walked away from the desk beside which he had been standing towards the French doors and looked out into the garden. For a moment or two he stood there thinking—his shivery feeling vanishing under the warming and comforting influence of the summer sun. He glanced down at the curtains that hung, one at the side of each door—then started. Bending down quickly, he picked out something that had been lying hidden there—something that nestled a pure white against the creamy-white of the curtains. It was a lady’s handkerchief—fragrant, fragile and delicate. Holding it somewhat gingerly, he opened it! In the corner were embroidered initials—“M. L.”
“By Gum!” said Sergeant Clegg.
CHAPTER VI.
Marjorie Lennox Doesn’t Mince Matters
The Sergeant felt hope surging in his breast. Up to this moment his investigations had yielded little, but this sudden discovery, he felt, had at last set him moving. This “M. L.,” whoever it might be, had undoubtedly an important bearing on the case. Twice this morning previously these initials had confronted him. He subjected the handkerchief to a most careful scrutiny. It was a lace square of about six inches and exhaled a dainty fragrance that in other circumstances even the Sergeant might have found distinctly alluring. For he was something of a Romantic! And in consequence had an inclination towards a leniency to what he himself always described as “the fair sex.” He heard Stewart’s voice outside and hastily pocketed the delicate trifle that the curtains had concealed. When Stewart entered he found the Sergeant engaged in a careful examination of the bookcase.
“I have arranged that you see Miss Lennox in the music-room. Will that suit you, Sergeant?”
Clegg thanked him, but stayed where he was. “That will do very nicely, Mr. Stewart,” he replied. “But would you mind telling the constable on duty at the front entrance to report to me for just a moment—or sending somebody with a message to that effect? Thank you.”
“I want you for a little while, Potter,” he said to the man when he came in. “You’re to keep at this door here and to see that nobody enters! You understand—nobody! If you have any trouble over it—send for me. I shall only be the other side of the hall.”
P. C. Potter saluted smartly. “Right—Sergeant. Is the body in here?”
“You’ve said it! Now you understand.” The constable assumed a bearing of importance. Clegg walked across the hall and entered the music-room. He felt somehow that the approaching interview might prove disturbing. All the same he was anxious to meet the lady in question, for he felt sure that the handkerchief was hers. The possession of this gave him an advantage, he considered. He started with something in his favor—otherwise he might have viewed the position with less complacency. For he had yet to make the acquaintance of the lady in question.
“This is Sergeant Clegg, Marjorie,” announced Charles Stewart as he entered. “He wants to ask you one or two things about my father to see if you can help him in any way to discover the truth of what happened last night—he won’t worry you for long I am sure.”