"It is the last cheque I drew," said Carton, handing me the book. I glanced at it, saw that the bank was the National Provincial Bank of England, and the number of the cheque 134,178. Then I obtained a telegraph form, and at my instruction Carton wrote the following telegram: "To the Manager, National Provincial Bank of England, 112 Bishopsgate Street, London. Has my cheque for two thousand pounds (No. 134,178), drawn by me on Saturday, and made payable to bearer, been cashed, and how was it paid, in notes or gold? Reply paid. Urgent. Waiting here for answer. From Richard Carton, Nayland Rock Hotel, Margate." "I will take this myself to the telegraph-office," I said, "and you will wait here for the answer. I will be back as quickly as possible, but it is likely I may be absent for an hour or more." With that I left him, Devlin accompanying me at my request. I could have sent the telegram from the railway station, but I chose to send it from the local post-office, for the reason that I expected to receive there a telegram from my wife, whom I had instructed to wire to me, before eight o'clock, whether there was anything fresh in the London newspapers concerning the murder of Lizzie Melladew. I mentioned this to Devlin, and he said, "You omit nothing; it is a pleasure to work with you. Command me in any way you please. My turn, perhaps, will come by and by." It was early morning, and our way lay along the Marine Parade, every house in which was either a public or a boarding house. From every basement in the row, as we walked on, ascended one uniform odour of the cooking of bacon and eggs, which caused Devlin to humorously remark that when bacon and eggs ceased to be the breakfast of the average Englishman, the decay of England's greatness would commence. All along the line this familiar odour accompanied us.