BEFORE we pursue further the psychic adventures of our hero and heroine, it would be well to see how the British law dealt with that wicked man, Mr. Tom Linden.

The two policewomen returned in triumph to Bardsley Square Station where Inspector Murphy, who had sent them, was waiting for their report. Murphy was a jolly-looking, red-faced, black-mous¬ tached man who had a cheerful, fatherly way with women which was by no means justified by his age or virility. He sat behind his official table, his papers strewn in front of him.

“ Well, girls,” he said as the two women entered, “ what luck ? ”

“ I think it’s a go, Mr. Murphy,” said the elder policewoman. “We have the evidence you want.”

The Inspector took up a written list of questions from his desk.

“ You ran it on the general lines that I suggested?” he asked.

“Yes. I said my husband was killed at Ypres.”

“ What did he do ? ”

“ Well, he seemed sorry for me.”

“ That, of course, is part of the game. He’ll be sorry for himself before he is through with it. He