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Inspector Firth stepped back, and during a brief flood of moonlight surveyed the house. It was one of those bijou Mayfair residences, smart and labor saving, which had become so popular as a result of the insoluble staff problem. It contained no more than seven or eight rooms and had a total frontage of some four paces. Nestling between larger neighbors, a low parapet enclosed narrow strips of tiled forecourt. The corners of this parapet, flanking the obstinately closed scarlet door, supported square stone flower boxes, filled with soil but displaying no flowers. And now, as Firth stood there looking up, South Audley Street's silence was broken.

A sound of distant chanting arose. The voice was a man's, rich, sweet, and informed with passionate intensity.

As this chanting swelled, diminished, and died away:

"Phew!" exclaimed Sergeant Bluett. "This isn't the tradesmen's entrance to Farm Street, is it?"—for indeed, that fashionable Jesuit Church was no great distance away.

The moon became wholly obscured. Drops of rain made a sound like tapping fingers on the car roof. And some small, furry object darted past Sergeant Bluett and disappeared in darkness.