The barrister vaguely wondered whether the man of method would note the missing portion of the iron "dog." "Surely," he thought, "he will see it now," as Mr. White bent to examine the ashes, and actually took the poker from the very support itself in order to rake among the cinders. The other even scrutinized the fire-irons, but the too obvious fact that, so to speak, stared him in the face, escaped notice. He was quite wrapped up in his theory that Lady Dyke had been killed at Putney, and not in Sloane Square. At last he quitted the room, and walked off to the small apartments at the end of the main corridor. Instantly Bruce sprang forward, fell on his knees, and intently examined the iron rest with a strong lens. It bore no unusual signs in the locality of the break. Taking some wax from his pocket, he took a slight impression of the fracture. When Mr. White returned, he found the barrister sitting in his chair, still smoking, and with set face and fixed eyes. Soon afterwards they quitted the flat, carefully leaving all things as they found them. They said little on their way to Victoria Street, for Bruce was trying to explain Mensmore's attitude at Monte Carlo, and the detective was considering the best use to which he could put that all-important letter. Besides, Mr. White attributed his companion's silence to annoyance. Had not he, White, laid hands on the only direct piece of evidence yet discovered as to Corbett's identity, and this in defiance of Bruce's spoken philosophy? He could afford to be generous and not to worry his amateur colleague with questions. Thus they reached the barrister's chambers. Bruce asked the other to sit down for a moment while he obtained a model of the small lump of iron. He took it into his bedroom, fitted in into the wax impression obtained at Raleigh Mansions, and noted that the two coincided perfectly. He handed the bit of iron to White without comment. The latter said: "It had better remain in my keeping now, sir, but if you want to see it again, of course I will be glad--" "I shall never want it again," said Bruce, and his voice was harsh and cold, for he had seldom experienced such a strain as the last hours had given him. "It is an accursed thing. It has caused one death already, and may cause others." "I sincerely hope it will cause a man to be hanged," cried the detective, "for this affair is the warmest I have ever tackled. However, I'll get him, as sure as his name's Corbett, if he has forty aliases and as many addresses." Smith let Mr. White out. The latter, halting for a moment at the door, said quietly, "Is your name Corbett?" "No, it ain't, any more than yours is Black. See?" Each man thought he had had his joke, so they were better friends thenceforth, but Mr. White was thoughtful as he passed into the street.