Inspector French was in a distinctly pessimistic frame of mind as he sat in the corner of a smoking compartment of the last train from Reading to town, and next morning as he put the facts he had learnt before his chief, he was but slightly more sanguine. Two of the stolen notes had been discovered; that was really all that could be stated with certainty. That Colonel FitzGeorge had paid them into the bank was by no means sure, still less that he really had received them from a hotel manager in Chamonix. But even assuming the Colonel’s recollection was accurate, it did not greatly help. It was unlikely that the manager could state from whom he in his turn had received those particular notes. Indeed, even were he able to do so, and by some miracle were French able to trace the giver, in all probability the latter also would turn out to be innocent, and the goal would be no nearer. The whole episode seemed to French, as he expressed it to his chief, a wash-out. But the great man took a different view. He replied in the same words which French himself had used in another connection. “You never know,” he declared. “You miss this chance and you’re down and out, so far as I can see. But if you go over and see the manager you don’t know what you mayn’t light on. If the thief stayed in that hotel, he must have registered. You might get something from that. Mind you, I agree that it’s a thin chance, but a thin chance is better than none.” “Then you think, sir, I ought to go to Chamonix?” “Yes. It won’t cost a great deal, and you may get something. Have you ever been there?” “No, sir.” “Well, you’ll enjoy it. I’d give a good deal to take your place.” “Oh, I shall enjoy it right enough, sir. But I’m not hopeful of the result.” The chief gave a dry but kindly smile. “French, you’re not usually such a confounded pessimist. Get along, and hope for the best.” French had looked up the positions of Chamonix and Kandersteg on the previous evening, and he had seen that by taking a comparatively slight detour it would be possible for him to visit the latter place on his way to the former. He decided, therefore, that he might as well set his mind at rest on the question of Colonel FitzGeorge’s whereabouts on the night of the murder. He did not suspect the man, but it would be better to be sure. But to do this, some further information was necessary. He must, if possible, obtain a photograph of the Colonel and a sample of his signature. It was not yet ten o’clock, and he thought it would be possible to get these and catch the afternoon train for the Continent.