And so, with Margot Vernee's consent, I sought the aid of Inspector Thomas Drake, of Scotland Yard. In half an hour Drake stood beside me, in the quiet of my study. When he had heard Margot's story, he asked a single significant question. It was this:
"You say you have a desire to go back to a man who was once intimate with you. Who is he?"
Margot looked at him dully.
"It is Michael Strange," she said slowly. "Michael Strange, of Paris. A student of science."
Drake nodded. Without further questioning he dismissed my patient; and when she had gone, he turned to me.
"She did not murder her sweetheart, Dale" he said. "That is evident. Have you any idea who did?"
And so I told him of that other young man. Sir John Harmon, who had come to me the night before. When I had finished. Drake stared at me—stared through me—and suddenly turned on his heel.
"I shall be back, Dale," he said curtly. "Wait for me!"
Wait for him! Well, that was Drake's peculiar way of going about things. Impetuous, sudden—until he faced some crisis. Then, in the face of danger, he became a cold, indifferent officer of Scotland Yard.