Pointer glanced at the last note on Harris's pad of the afternoon. Mr. Cockburn had telephoned the result of his efforts to crack the count's alibi. The Chief Inspector looked pleased.
"Good! We'll get him to find out more about the count for us."
Next morning, the morning after the funeral, Pointer received a very austere reply from Mr. Bellairs at Windsor Castle.
The artist stated that he was at a loss to understand the communication which he had just received. He had been indisposed on Thursday evening, and had kept to his rooms, even cancelling a dance engagement. He had not been in Medchester for some time, a fortnight or more, he thought.
Pointer raised a reflective eyebrow, and filed the letter. Then he went to Stillwater House to take a few soundings.
In the lounge sat Sibella, a note open on her knee. Pointer put on a pair of very special glasses. Their action was that of short-range field-glasses. Stepping noiselessly nearer, he read over her shoulder, in di Monti's sharp, black characters:—
"Egregia Signorina."
The letter was in Italian. Translated it ran:
"I shall be on the grass tennis-courts at twelve to-day. Would you be so kind as to meet me there?
"With the most perfect esteem and the most exquisite respect.
"CANGRANDE GIULIO di MONTI."
Sibella shivered, as though chilly.
Pointer would have liked to witness the interview, but he was due in town to give some evidence in an International forgery case which was being tried.
Harris telephoned him an account of the meeting during the lunch interval, and Pointer decided from its brevity that it had been used to settle the time of another appointment. Harris had not been able to hear anything. But he said that only the briefest of sentences on the count's part, and even less on Miss Scarlett's side, had passed.
Pointer was detained. The Bank of England was involved, and he saw that he must confide to Harris and Rodman the watching of events, and trust for the best.
Sibella kept to her rooms all the afternoon. Her father was up in town for the night, closely watched.
One of Pointer's best men from New Scotland Yard was shadowing the count. Rodman, who was proving himself quite good, was ready to take up the chase if Sibella stirred. Her car, Rose's car it had been, was left turned in the garage. The inspector had noted the full tank.
At eight a door creaked. Down the stairs stole Sibella, wrapped in a motoring cloak, with a dark veil wound closely around cap and face, leaving only a mica slit for her eyes. She looked like a rather bulky mummy, but the mummy could see all right, for she made her way swiftly into the grounds.
At the first sound of her, Rodman was out of the lounge where he and Harris had installed themselves behind a couple of easy-chairs. When she reached the garage he was through the front gates, bending over his bicycle.
Hanging on behind, the inspector was driven by Sibella into town and up to a well-known Italian restaurant near Victoria station.
Here she slowed up preparatory to stopping. He fell behind, and getting off, stood with his back to her, talking to a match seller.
"The count's been in here half an hour, sir," the plain clothes man reported, "wrapped up like a conspirator. I think he feels a draught, if you ask me. He's engaged a couple of private rooms. Dinner for one was ready when he came. It's just been cleared away. Coffee for two's been upstairs three minutes. Luigi tells me there's an Aberdeen terrier of the proprietor's on guard outside the door who growls at every foot-fall."
"Did the Chief Inspector give you any further instructions?"
"Yes, sir. To follow the count afterwards. If he goes back to his flat I'm off for home, too. There's another chap watching his rooms all night."
"Good. I'll follow the lady."
It was not a long wait, an hour at most, before the two reappeared in the door. Rodman watched the Alfa Romeo glide away into the darkness. Then he attached himself again to the back of Sibella's car, and was driven home to Stillwater once more.
Close to the main gate he dropped behind. After some minutes he slipped through, stacked his bicycle behind a potting shed, and crept into the house.
Behind his arm-chair sat Harris.
"Gone up yet, sir?" whispered Rodman.
"Hasn't come in yet."
They waited a little longer. Then Rodman rose. "I'm going to the garage to see if anything's up."
Sibella's cubicle was empty. The inspector dared not switch on the light. She might be waiting outside on the drive. He crept forward foot by foot along its winding curves, the awful truth rising higher with every step.
Sibella had gone.
She must have nosed the car down the drive, lights out, and passed on into the road again through one of the two other gates.
He went indoors and asked Harris in a whisper to come out.
"Did you follow her all right?" asked the superintendent.
"All wrong!" groaned Rodman, and he told of his failure.
"Too bad," sympathised the kindly Harris. "Would have happened to any one. But not to Alf," he said privately. "Alf never gets left. Never did. Wherever do you think she's gone to?" he asked aloud.
Rodman wisely refused to start a list of the towns and villages of England.
"Well, when you feel like tackling an early worm, come around to my house. I'm off for bed, as there seems nothing doing here that one man can't handle."
And Rodman certainly did not, and could not, consider himself overworked for the remainder of the night.
It was nearly six in the morning when, like music to the tired ears of the detective, came the sound of the little two-seater again. The front gates opened once more. This time Sibella left her car in the garage, and walked rapidly towards the house. By the light of early day, Rodman had traced the marks of last night quite easily. They ran as he had expected.
At the police station he found the Chief Inspector in possession of the news. Pointer greeted him with at least outward calmness, though he looked very thoughtful. Poor Rodman could hardly swallow a morsel of food.
Half-way through the meal Briggs's voice sounded outside, all eagerness.
"The report's come in from the man who's watching the count's rooms, sir. This is a rum go, and no mistake!"
Pointer lingered to finish his cup of tea. It must serve him at a pinch instead of a night's sleep. Harris shook his head as he led the way into the station.
"A little more of what the chief calls 'tenew' wouldn't harm you, Briggs. You might be an old maid receiving her first proposal. Why, you're all of a twitter. Now let's learn the damage."
Harris took the receiver, and listened with a slowly opening mouth.
"You don't—not Miss—not—well, I'm blowed!" And the upholder of tenew dropped into a chair, then looked at Rodman.
"Some one's drunk. Either you, or me, or that chap who's just reported. Didn't you follow Miss Scarlett all the way back from the restaurant here?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Well, the Yard 'tec says she left Count di Monti's rooms at exactly ten minutes past five this morning."
Pointer, who had come into the room, stared