Holmes and Watson stared at the door that had just been slammed shut. Watson started to say something but stopped when the vidphone chimed. It was Chief Inspector Grayson.

"Have either of you seen Lestrade?" the policeman questioned, "She was supposed to be here by five."

Holmes abruptly turned off the phone, not caring if Grayson got mad, and donned his Inverness and deerstalker.

"Where are we going, Holmes?" Watson asked.

"To Lestrade's apartment," Holmes responded, "It may be that she fell asleep and forgot the time, but it is not likely. In any case, that is the first place to look for clues."

On the ride over, they both sat in grim silence. The thought of what they might find occupied their minds, although each had a different idea.

When they reached the street that housed Lestrade's apartment, Holmes pointed out that her hovercar was still there, as was the Yard cruiser.

"Either she has not left," Holmes said, "Or else...." He didn't finish.

As they neared her apartment, they could see that the door was ajar. Stepping inside, they could see that the living room was a mess. Books were strewn everywhere and the furniture was cut to pieces, the stuffing littering the floor.

Holmes studied the tears and pronounced, "These were made by the same knife which cut Lestrade last night." He then went to check the other rooms.

Watson stayed in the living room and surveyed the damage, muttering, "Goodness, was that only last night?"

When Holmes came back he said, "The kitchen and bedroom are the same -- destroyed."

"Do you think that they...." Watson trailed off.

"Killed her?" Holmes asked.

The compudroid nodded.

"No; of that I am certain. There are no bloodstains on any surface. And they would not have had enough time to get her away from her and kill her outside before we arrived. There is fresh mud, and the coffee that was spilled in the kitchen is still hot."

His face became grim. "Whether or not they plan to kill her later, I cannot say."