She remembered their talk after lunch about Snub Higginbottom, a useful man in a tight corner. In a frenzy, she picked up the newspapers and spread them out over the bed. If she couldn’t consult the police, she must talk to someone. She went through paper after paper, looking for headlines about a murder trial. It took a long time, and she was in her own light, her shadow darkened the pages. She might have missed

There it was!

In evidence, Mr. James Higginbottom said . . .

She skimmed what he had said as she searched for his address; she did not find it, but there was an address further down the page.

The Hon. Richard Rollison, of Gresham Terrace, W.I., gave evidence of finding the body. Mr. Rollison . . .

She didn’t trouble to read on from there, but went into the hall and looked for “Higginbottom” in the directory. There were several, but she couldn’t be sure which was James or “Snub”. She looked for Rollison. The entry was there all right, “Rollison, R. The Hon., 55g, Gresham Terrace, Mayfair . . .

CHAPTER THREE

HELPING HAND

IT was some time before a man with a deep voice announced: “Rollison here.”

“I—I’m sorry to worry you,” said Barbara. “Can you please tell me where to find Mr. Higginbottom? Mr. James Higginbottom? I think—you once——”

“I know Mr. Higginbottom,” said the man with the deep voice, “and I can give you his address, but you won’t find him in to-night, I’m afraid.”

“Oh no,” said Barbara.

All her dismay and despair sounded in that single exclamation.