Just before six o'clock I alighted from a taxi in Scotland Yard, and, ascending in the lift, soon found myself sitting with Inspector Edwards.
At that moment I deemed it judicious to tell him nothing regarding my night adventure in the country, except to say:
"Well, I've had a strange experience—the strangest any man could have, because I have dared to investigate on my own account the mystery of Harrington Gardens."
"Oh! tell me about it, Mr. Royle," he urged, leaning back in his chair before the littered writing-table.
"There's nothing much to tell," was my reply. "I'll describe it all some day. At present there's no time to waste. I believe I am correct in saying that the name of the murdered girl is Marie Bracq."
Edwards looked me straight in the face. "That's not an English name, is it?" he said.
"No, Belgian, I should say."
"Belgian? Yes, most probably," he said. "A rather uncommon name, and one which ought not to be difficult to trace. How did you find this out?"
"Oh, it's a long story, Mr. Edwards," I said. "But I honestly believe that at last we are on the scent. Cannot you discover whether any girl of that name is missing?"
"Of course. I'll wire to the Brussels police at once. Perhaps it will be well to ask the Préfect of Police in Paris if they have any person of that name reported missing," he said, and, ringing a bell, a clerk appeared almost instantly with a writing-pad and pencil.