"He can tackle French tragedy now—he is up to the neck in this one."
"You still cling to the shrieking housemaid—to her ravings, I mean?"
"Perhaps I should have mentioned it sooner, sir, but I have come across a taxicab driver who picked up a gentleman uncommonly like Mr. Osborne at 7.20 p.m. on Tuesday, and drove him from the corner of Berkeley Street to Knightsbridge, waited there nearly fifteen minutes, and brought him back again to Berkeley Street."
The Chief Inspector came as near being startled as is permissible in Scotland Yard.
"That is a very serious statement," he said quietly, wheeling round in his chair and scrutinizing his subordinate's lean face with eyes more wide-open than ever, if that were possible. "It is tantamount to saying that some person resembling Mr. Osborne hired a cab outside the Ritz Hotel, was taken to Feldisham Mansions at the very hour Miss de Bercy was murdered, and returned to the Ritz in the same vehicle."
"Exactly so," and Clarke pursed his thin lips meaningly.
"So, then, you have discovered something?"
Mr. Winter's tone had suddenly become dryly official, and the other man, fearing a reprimand, added:
"I admit, sir, I ought to have told you sooner, but I don't want to make too much of the incident. The taxicab chauffeur does not know Mr. Rupert Osborne by sight, and I took good care not to mention the name. The unknown was dressed like Mr. Osborne, and looked like him—that is all."
"Who is the driver?"