At the door of the flat he rang, and a smart maid answered.
"I want to see Mrs. Pollen," he said with his best smile.
"Mrs. Pollen isn't at home, sir," the girl replied.
"Dear me!" he said, deeply disappointed. "I've come up from the country specially to see her. When will she be back?"
"I don't know. Perhaps not till the evening, sir."
Emery paused. He was arriving at an estimate of the maid's loyalty to her mistress.
"Well," he said, "my business is most important—upon money matters. May I come in and write her a note?"
"Madam has forbidden me to allow anyone inside during her absence," replied the good-looking, dark-eyed girl.
"Of course, she fears thieves. But I'm a solicitor," and he showed her his card. "Please don't think I'm a thief—eh?" and he laughed merrily.
The girl looked at the card and then allowed him in, showing him into the dining-room, upon the table of which was a great bowl of La France roses—the room in which his client, Mrs. Augusta Morrison, had been entrapped and done to death so insidiously.