The Z Murders by J Jefferson Farjeon

murmured. “I haven’t had any breakfast.” Ridiculous explanation! “A letter Z? Well?”
    â€œLook here, Miss Wynne, what about that breakfast?” he suggested. “Don’t you think it’s time you got it inside you?”
    â€œTell me the rest first.”
    â€œPerhaps there isn’t any rest.”
    She thought for a moment, then replied, “If you say there isn’t, I’ll try and believe you. But if there is , and if you really and truly meant what you said just now about wanting to help me—”
    â€œOf course, it’s true!”
    â€œThen it’s impossible— impossible to help me by keeping anything back.”
    The earnestness of her voice would have convinced him even if the facts themselves had not. Naturally, nothing must be kept back. She must know the full extent of the menace, and must be given her chance of clearing out of the studio until the menace was removed. He wondered where she could go. Suppose she had no sanctuary? As this possibility occurred to him, an idea that was perhaps more intriguing than reasonable flashed into his mind. Why not offer her his sister’s house? Winifred was a good sport. He was certain she would not object, and Miss Wynne would be safe there. No—would she? Inspector James had his sister’s address! Confound Inspector James—what a well-meaning nuisance the fellow was!…Thus Richard Temperley’s thoughts raced, tumbling over each other like an eager schoolboy’s.
    â€œYou’re right—I won’t keep anything back,” he said. “You ought to know everything. But, first, just one thing. What happened, exactly, when you got back here, and found you had lost your key?”
    â€œDoes that matter?” she asked, frowning.
    â€œVery likely not,” he admitted, “but it would be nice of you to humour me.”
    â€œVery well. I—just couldn’t get in.”
    â€œDidn’t know you’d lost your bag until that moment, eh?”
    â€œThat’s right. And I—I started back for it. Then I changed my mind.” She had spoken hesitatingly, but now she ran on quickly, as though to avoid being asked why she had changed her mind. “The back of this studio looks out on another road, you know—or passage, rather. I knew the window didn’t latch properly, so I went round to the back and got in. You saw me do it.”
    â€œYes,” he answered. He refrained from pointing out that she had not accounted fully for her time. After all, was she under any obligation to? “How do you get round to the back?” he inquired abruptly.
    â€œYou have to go out of the street, and then round.”
    â€œOut of Tail Street?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI see. And you didn’t meet anyone?”
    â€œNo. Did you ?”
    He shook his head. “But someone seems to have been here before us, just the same. No, I don’t mean inside,” he added quickly, in response to her fresh look of alarm. “Probably on the doorstep. When I let myself in—yes, I know it was jolly cool, but I couldn’t get any reply to my ringing, and I wanted to make sure that everything was all right—” He stopped, and watched her rather anxiously. “I found something on the ground.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWell, it was another of those darned little letter Z’s.”
    She took it well. He admired her tremendously at that moment. “How funny,” was all she said.
    â€œA bit odd,” he agreed, grimly. “It had probably been slipped through the letter-box slit. Anyway, there it was—and here it is.” He took the unsavoury object from his pocket and held it out. “And, if I may offer advice, Miss Wynne,” he concluded, “you’ll give this spot a wide berth for a while, because it doesn’t seem any too healthy.”
    She did not reply. Was she listening? The momentary