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Julius was only too glad to get away. He wanted to satisfy himself on one point, and, his business finished at Guildford, he hurried to London and made straight for the Carlton Hotel.

"No, I don't think so," said the clerk. "I haven't seen Miss Howett all the morning. I'll ring up to her room and find out. Do you want to see her?"

Julius hesitated a moment.

"Yes," he said.

He had decided upon a bold and dangerous move. He waited whilst the clerk 'phoned, and his eyes lit up as he followed the drift of the conversation.

"Sorry, Mr. Savini," said the man, hanging up the receiver. "You won't be able to see Miss Howett. She hurt her foot last night getting out of a cab and she's in the hands of the doctor. That's what her maid says. I remember now that I haven't seen Miss Howett since yesterday afternoon."

Julius was mystified as he came out of the hotel. That "sprained ankle" meant "gunshot wound." But what was she doing at Garre? What object had the daughter of the rich Mr. Howett in masquerading as a green archer? His theory was a fantastic one, built on the identity of Valerie Howett's initials with those on the handkerchief—that and the coincidence of the girl's sprained ankle. There were hundreds of women with the same initials. Still, it was strange.