“He is elusive, our friend Rand,” Reggie murmured, wandering about the room. “Smoked rather a showy cigar. Drank a fair whisky. Doesn’t tell us much about him. Do the servants come here every day?” The manager was embarrassed. “Well, sir, in point of fact, we’re short-handed just now. Not unless they’re rung for. Not unless we know the tenant’s using the rooms.” “Don’t apologize, don’t apologize. In point of fact, they haven’t been here since”--he looked critically at some dust upon a grim bronze--“since when?” “I should say some days,” said the manager, with diffidence. “I should say a week. No matter. Many thanks.” Superintendent Bell with some urgency ushered the manager out. When he had done that he turned upon his inspector. “Confound you. Warren, what do you want to stare at the waste-paper basket for? That chap would have seen it if Mr. Fortune hadn’t got interested in the smokes and drinks.” Reggie laughed and the inspector abased himself. “Very sorry, sir. Didn’t know I stared. But it is so blooming odd.” Bell snorted and lifted the basket on to the table. It was nearly full of black burnt paper. “Why did they burn it in the basket?” said the inspector. “Because the fireplaces are all gas stoves, I suppose,” said Bell. “But I don’t know why they couldn’t leave the stuff on the hearth.” “Because this is a tidy crime,” said Reggie. “Nice, quiet, middle-class crime. No ugly mess. I told you that.” The Superintendent gazed at him. “Now what can you know, you know?” “I don’t know. I feel. I feel the kind of man that did it. Don’t you? I’ll lay you odds he came of a neat, virtuous, middle-class home.” The Superintendent started. “Who are you thinking of?” “You are so hasty to-day, Bell. I haven’t got a ‘who’. Still anonymous is the slayer. But I’ll swear I’ve got his character.” “Have you, though!” said Bell. “Tidy fellow! Don’t make a mess! Remember that face?” “Oh, I said he was mad.” “Well, I’m not yet. I’m only feeling what I can feel.” He began to examine the burnt paper. “Letters mostly. Some stoutish paper. Some stuff looks a bit like a notebook. That’s all we’ll get out of that.” “Well, except the one thing. Whoever did that was clearing up. Clearing up something that might have left traces that might have been dangerous. Same like he cleared up the dead man’s face. Don’t you see? Somebody and some affair had to be absolutely abolished.” “Yes. What was it?” “We mayn’t ever know that,” said Reggie slowly. “I believe you,” said Bell, and laughed. “I feel that, sir.” The inspector and he began to examine the room in detail, opening drawers and cupboards. But except for tobacco and spirits they found no trace of Mr. Rand. Nothing had been broken open, but nothing was locked. “No keys on the deceased, were there, Mr. Fortune?” said Bell suddenly. “And that’s a point, too. Very few men go about without any keys.”