“Very cold evening, eh, Sheppard?” said Colonel Carter, standing with his back

to the fire. Caroline had taken Miss Ganett to her own room, and was there

assisting her to disentangle herself from her many wraps. “Reminds me of the

Afghan passes.”

 

“Indeed?” I said politely.

 

“Very mysterious business this about poor Ackroyd,” continued the colonel,

accepting a cup of coffee. “A deuce of a lot behind it—that’s what I say.

Between you and me, Sheppard, I’ve heard the word blackmail mentioned!”

 

The colonel gave me the look which might be tabulated “one man of the world to

another.”

 

“A woman in it, no doubt,” he said. “Depend upon it, a woman in it.”

 

Caroline and Miss Ganett joined us at this minute. Miss Ganett drank coffee

whilst Caroline got out the Mah Jong box and poured out the tiles upon the

table.

 

“Washing the tiles,” said the colonel facetiously. “That’s right—washing the

tiles, as we used to say in the Shanghai Club.”

 

It is the private opinion of both Caroline and myself that Colonel Carter has