The Crooked House

do—you must be content to follow my guidance and instructions without question, and remain, as you call it, in the dark, until the time comes for all to be told." "You are certainly the most mysterious person I have ever met!" Tranter exclaimed. "It is not that I have the smallest doubt of yourself or your discretion," Monsieur Dupont hastened to explain. "On the contrary. It is simply that my position at this moment is an extraordinary one, and I cannot do what would seem to be the natural and ordinary thing. Will you help me on that understanding?" "I will help you in any case," Tranter agreed, smiling slightly at his companion's intense seriousness. "What is to be my first task?" "Your first task," said Monsieur Dupont gravely, "is to deposit me at the Hotel Savoy, and call for me later on your way back to Richmond." Tranter spoke some instructions through the speaking-tube to the chauffeur. When he turned again, Monsieur Dupont was asleep. He did not open his eyes again until the car stopped at the Savoy. Entering the hotel, he ascended to his room. In it, he mixed himself a whisky-and-soda, sat down at the writing-table, and unlocked a despatch-box. He took out two photographs—each of a remarkably beautiful woman. Under one was neatly written— Colette d'Orsel. Nice. August 1900. And under the other— Margaret McCall. Boston. Dec. 1910. From his pocket he took the photograph which the inspector had allowed him to appropriate, and laid it beside the others. The face that smiled up at him was the most beautiful of the three. He dipped a pen in the ink, and wrote under it, in the same neat handwriting— Christine Manderson. London. July 1919. Without Trace At ten o'clock, Tranter and Monsieur Dupont stood with Inspector Fay in the garden. The Rev. Percival Delamere joined them a few minutes later, and the theatrical manager arrived shortly afterwards. Finally, still in the same half-dazed condition, George Copplestone emerged from the house. " Mon Dieu ," Monsieur Dupont whispered quickly. "Look at that man!" His face was white, with a sickly pasty whiteness. In the few hours that had passed he seemed to have wasted to a startling gauntness. His cheeks were drawn, his sunken eyes dull and filmy. He moved slowly and heavily, as if compelling himself under an utter weariness. "What do you want first?"…