At his request, Brampton conducted the detective to the telephone, while Higgs was sent out to look for a policeman.
“Is that Scotland Yard?” Gimblet was asking, as the artist shut the door on him and returned to his wife.
By the time the detective had finished telephoning, Higgs was back with two policemen, the one he had found in the next street having whistled for a comrade. Gimblet went with them to No. 13, and together they entered the silent drawing-room, where the gas was still flaring and the windows stood open to the night like three black doors to a villainous and tragic world. With the help of the new-comers the body of the dead woman was lifted out of the flower box and carried into the house, where, still enveloped in the chintz cover, it was gently deposited on one of the sofas. For a moment they turned back the wrapping, while Gimblet searched hastily for some clue that should have inadvertently been enclosed in it, but there was nothing besides the body and the one garment in which it was clad.
“See,” he murmured in a low voice, pointing to an oblong incision at the edge of the chemise, “they have cut away the linen there. No doubt the name, or initial, was embroidered in that place. What fine linen it is; and this lace trimming is as delicate as a cobweb! If we had nothing else to go by, this would show that the murdered woman was rich and luxury-loving. Most women, if they had such lace, would keep it to adorn their dresses with.”
He drew the covering over her again; and, going back to the balcony, stood looking at the half-empty box and the mound of earth that was heaped upon the floor.
“They must have had a job to clear away the surplus soil,” he remarked to Higgs, who had followed him. “I suspect it was carried down to the garden, bucketful by bucketful, and the last handful or two were swept up into a newspaper. I found some trace of it in a cupboard downstairs.”
Leaving the police to guard the house, they went in search of Sir Gregory, and found him so far recovered as to be sent home in a taxi in the care of Higgs. The clerk also was seen safely started on the way to his lodgings, where, Gimblet thought to himself, he would probably take the brandy bottle to bed with him.
“You will have to attend the inquest, you know,” he said to him as he was departing. “It may be to-morrow or the next day. Good evening, and don’t stay awake all night.”
After renewed thanks and apologies to the Bramptons, Gimblet found another taxi, and, getting in, gave the driver the address of Joe Sidney’s rooms.
“I think,” he said to himself, “it’s just about time I paid that young gentleman a visit.”