The driver of the car, after a swift glance at the new-comer, would have driven off, but an unmistakable detective-officer had jumped on to the step by his side.
"I am sorry," said T. B. Smith, for he it was who had detained the young doctor, "but I will explain. Don't bother about the taxi driver; my men will see after him. You have had a narrow escape of being kidnapped," he added.
He drove the puzzled doctor to Scotland Yard, and piece by piece he extracted the story of one George Doughton who had died in his arms, of a certain box containing papers which the doctor had promised to deliver to Lady Constance, and of how that lady learnt the news of her sometime lover's death.
"Thank you," said T. B. when the other had finished. "I think I understand."
CHAPTER VIII
It was the morning after the recovery of Farrington's body that T. B. Smith sat in his big study overlooking Brakely Square. He had finished his frugal breakfast, the tray had been taken away, and he was busy at his desk when his man-servant announced Lady Constance Dex. T. B. looked at the card with an expressionless face.
"Show the lady up, George," he said, and rose to meet his visitor as she came sweeping through the doorway.
A very beautiful woman was his first impression. Whatever hardness there was in the face, whatever suggestion there might be of those masterful qualities about which he had heard, there could be no questioning the rare clearness of the skin, the glories of those hazel eyes, or the exquisite modelling of the face. He judged her to be on the right side of thirty, and was not far out, for Lady Constance Dex at that time was twenty-seven.