And, after all, what could he do? There was no proof likely to indicate any one as the assassin, and since Leonard kept silent on the point of the front door having been opened after eleven, it was impossible to say that the criminal had entered the house. Had Mr. Inspector known of this he might have made further inquiries; but he knew nothing and departed extremely perplexed. The Amelia Square crime was one of those mysterious murders which would have to be relegated to obscurity for sheer want of evidence.
"When are you going back to Duke Street?" asked Brendon as he took his leave of Train.
"This very day," replied the young man, gloomily. "I don't want to stop a moment longer than I can help in this awful house."
"I expect many of the others are of your way of thinking, Train. But, so far as I can see, there is no hope of learning who killed the woman."
"If you had only allowed me to tell Quex about the door being opened he might have traced the assassin."
"I don't think so." Brendon shook his head. "It was a foggy night, and whosoever entered would be able to slink away without being seen."
"I am not so sure of that. There is only one outlet to the square, and there stands a policeman on guard."
"The policeman would not be there all the time," argued Brendon, "to say nothing of the fog, which would hide any one desirous of evading recognition, as the assassin assuredly must have wished."
"All the same, I wish I had told Quex."
"Well, then, tell him if you like," said George, vexed with this pertinacity.