The Daffodil Mystery

strolling along behind him; but for the first time in his life the burglar was neither disconcerted nor embarrassed by these attentions.The de

all right, Sam. I know he was a nice fellow. Had he any enemies--he might have talked to a chap like you where he wouldn't have talked to his friends."Sam, red-eyed, looked up suspiciously."Am I going to get into any trouble for talking?" he said."None at all, Sam," said the policeman quickly. "Now, you be a good lad and do all you can to help us, and maybe, if you ever get into trouble, we'll put one in for you. Do you see? Did anybody hate him?"Sam nodded."Was it a woman?" asked the detective with studied indifference."It was," replied the other with an oath. "Damn her, it was! He treated her well, did Mr. Lyne. She was broke, half-starving; he took her out of the gutter and put her into a good place, and she went about making accusations against him!"He poured forth a stream of the foulest abuse which the policeman had ever heard."That's the kind of girl she was, Slade," he went on, addressing the detective, as criminals will, familiarly by their surnames. "She ain't fit to walk the earth----"His voice broke."Might I ask her name?" demanded Slade.Again Sam looked suspiciously around."Look here," he said, "leave me to deal with her. I'll settle with her, and don't you worry!""That would only get you into trouble, Sam," mused Slade. "Just give us her name. Did it begin with an 'R'?""How do I know?" growled the criminal. "I can't spell. Her name was Odette.""Rider?" said the other eagerly."That's her. She used to be cashier in Lyne's Store.""Now, just quieten yourself down and tell me all Lyne told you about her, will you, my lad?"Sam Stay stared at him, and then a slow look of cunning passed over his face."If it was her!" he breathed. "If I could only put her away for it!"Nothing better illustrated the mentality of this man than the fact that the thought of "shopping" the girl had not occurred to him before. That was the idea, a splendid idea! Again his lips curled back, and he eyed the detective with a queer little smile."All right, sir," he said. "I'll tell the head-split. I'm not going to tell you.""That's as it ought to be, Sam," said the detective genially. "You can tell Mr. Tarling or Mr. Whiteside and they'll make it worth your while."The detective called a cab and together they drove, not to Scotland Yard, but to Tarling's little office in Bond Street. It was here that the man from Shanghai had established his detective agency, and here he waited with the phlegmatic Whitesid