"Very proper, Miss Cumberly," he said; "very proper and wise on your
part. I don't wish to hurry you in any way, but"--he hesitated, glancing
at the man in plain clothes, who had now resumed a careful perusal of a
newspaper--"but her name doesn't happen to be Vernon--"

"Vernon!" cried the girl, her eyes lighting up at sound of the name.
"Mrs. Vernon! it is! it is! She was pointed out to me at the last Arts
Ball--where she appeared in a most monstrous Chinese costume--"

"Chinese?" inquired Dunbar, producing the bulky notebook.

"Yes. Oh! poor, poor soul!"

"You know nothing further about her, Miss Cumberly?"

"Nothing, Inspector. She was merely pointed out to me as one of the
strangest figures in the hall. Her husband, I understand, is an art
expert--"

"He WAS!" said Dunbar, closing the book sharply. "He died this
afternoon; and a paragraph announcing his death appears in the newspaper
which we found in the victim's fur coat!"

"But how--"

"It was the only paragraph on the half-page folded outwards which was in
any sense PERSONAL. I am greatly indebted to you, Miss Cumberly; every
hour wasted on a case like this means a fresh plait in the rope around
the neck of the wrong man!"