A dirty evening shirt and evening socks lay on the chair beside the bed, which was crumpled, and a pair of evening shoes now lay thrown on the top of the rest below the dressing-table. Castle had evidently completed his changing at last. The shoes were those he had worn whilst he had told his story that morning. Humblethorne, after one searching glance round, walked across and picked them up, and turned them over; they were nearly new and the soles smooth and as clean as could be expected. Humblethorne had looked for nothing else; they were not the pair, he was certain, Castle had worn the previous evening. He measured them swiftly and noted the measurements in his pocket-book, laid them down, examined the soles of all the other boots and shoes just to leave nothing to chance, and then swiftly, but methodically searched the room. He found nothing: ten minutes satisfied him that no trace of what he was looking for was in that room. He went first to one window and then to the other, and came rapidly to the conclusion that a very brief search would reveal any package flung out of either, “and this man’s no fool, whatever he may seem,” he concluded; “no, nothing so obvious as that; but I’ll find them yet.” He stepped out and on an impulse turned to the left instead of returning along the passage by which he had come, and opened the door of the adjoining room. He found himself in a small room, neat and plain; on the chest of drawers stood a little folding book-case full of books—a miscellaneous collection composed of a Browning, an anthology of verse, a few small monographs on famous artists, and half a dozen novels: some moderate engravings of country subjects were on the walls and over the mantelpiece a couple of groups of school elevens: boots and shoes were ranged tidily by the further wall. The room produced an odd impression; it was fresh and clean and yet had a curious atmosphere of emptiness. Humblethorne walked straight to the mantelpiece; the groups were what interested him. One look, and he knew his chain of events was founded on no coincidence; the boy under whom was written “J. Penterton” bore an unmistakable resemblance to the stranger of the inn. Humblethorne opened the Browning; on the fly-leaf was written, “John, from his loving Mother;” a date, twelve years old, followed. He went over to the other wall, picked up a boot and compared its measurements with those he had entered in his notebook from the imprint below the drawing-room window: they were practically identical. He had just replaced the boot and was gazing out of the window in a dark reverie when the door was pushed further open and Evelyn looked in at him. She had been returning wearily to her room, and with new unreasoning reluctance to pass those sheeted stains again had come up the little back staircase which passed the door. It was standing ajar and instantly attracted her attention.