He went into his study and examined the thing. It was of common make, the head being a ball of black glass. A million such are sold in cheap shops.
He had no doubt as to the owner. She had spied upon him craftily, bided her time, and had then struck. He had not seen her since the day they had met in Maida Vale and he had unceremoniously packed her home, and for the last few months she had not molested him. Now came this unforeseen, dastardly attack.
He rang for Phoebe, gave a message for Miss Lindon, and went out with an ugly look on his face. A taxicab whirled him swiftly across London to Amelia Mansions in the Fulham Road. Mrs. Bence answered his ring. He stepped into the hall, and in his blundering way strode down the passage. The woman checked him.
“Mrs. Rawlings is n't in, sir. She is with Mrs. Oscraft, the lady down-stairs.”
He turned abruptly.
“Has she been out this afternoon?”
“She went out to lunch with Mrs. Oscraft and came back with her an hour ago.”
He drew the hat-pin from the inside of his overcoat, where he had stuck it. “Do you recognize this?”
The woman looked puzzled. “No, sir,” she said. “Mrs. Rawlings has n't any like it?”
Mrs. Bence inspected the pin. “No, I'm sure. If she had, I would have known.” She saw the trouble in his face. “What has happened, sir?”