The outer door of the offices on the first floor above the garage bore a brass plate: Margery Fawkham, Domestic Registry Office. At a few minutes before eight in the evening of Wednesday, September 14th, Mrs. Margery Fawkham herself was sitting in her private room. She was a handsome woman, just turned forty, smartly dressed and with diamond rings on her fingers. A woman, one might gather, of forceful purpose and considerable strength of character. She was sitting at her desk, facing the door of the room, and was intent upon the entries in a large book, the leaves of which she turned at intervals. It was after sunset, and the room was growing dark. The only illumination was a reading-lamp with a green shade on the desk. The evening was warm and sultry, and the sash window on Mrs. Fawkham’s right was wide open at the bottom. It opened upon Dennington Place, but no sound was to be heard from there. Only the subdued roar of distant traffic penetrated into the room.There was a second occupant of the room. Seated on a table standing against the wall, on Mrs. Fawkham’s left, was a man in his late twenties. He was good-looking enough, and remarkably spruce in his appearance. But his features, especially his nose and chin, betrayed a certain weakness of character. He was swinging his legs idly, and smoking a cigarette in an amber holder. His expression was one of boredom, concealed with difficulty.The silence was broken by the ringing of a telephone in an adjoining room. Mrs. Fawkham raised her head from the book. “You never switched the extension through, Claud!” she exclaimed sharply. “Go and see who it is and what they want.”

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