Cranbourne thanked them and spent the rest of the day passing in and out of every well known grill room in London. It was sound enough reasoning but it brought no results. At twelve o'clock the same night he paid a flying visit to all the dancing rooms--Murray's, Giro's, Rector's, The Embassy, Savoy and half a dozen others. At three o'clock he rang up Daimler's, hired a car and drove to Brighton because many men come up from Brighton by day and bring no evening clothes. Besides the time of his departure from the Berkeley plus a walk to Victoria Station more or less synchronised with the down train to Brighton. He spent the best part of the following day racing through hotel lists and looking up visitors at Brighton, Eastbourne, Hastings and Folkestone. He was back in Town again by 7.30, at the Theatre Library, where he bought a single ticket for twelve musical plays and revues selecting them from the class of entertainment Barraclough himself would have been likely to attend. It was a restless evening, dashing from one place to another and sorting over the audiences in the narrow margin of time allowed by intervals. Afterwards he spent an hour by the fountain in Piccadilly Circus keenly examining the thousands of passers-by. It was very late indeed when he struck one hand against the other and cried out, "Oh, my Lord, what a fool I am." A new significance had suddenly suggested itself as a result of Brown's repetition of the mysterious diner's remark, "I repeat I have no evening clothes." Cranbourne had taken it to imply that there had been no time to dress but why not accept it literally. Two whole days wasted looking at men in white shirt fronts and black coats! "Lord, what an idiot I am. Alter your line of thought and alter it quick." He began to walk briskly, muttering to himself as he strode along. "No dress clothes--deuce of an appetite. Chap who had scraped up a few guineas perhaps to do himself well--on the bust. No, that won't do. Ordered his dinner too well for that. Had the air of a man accustomed to the best places. Brown said so. A shilling and five coppers to the porter. Queer kind of tip! What in blazes was the fellow doing? What sort of company does he keep?" Cranbourne jumped into a taxi and returned to the Berkeley. It was closed but a night porter admitted him. "Look here, I want to get hold of Brown," he said. "You're in luck, sir," the man returned. "One of our visitors 'as been giving a supper and Mr. Brown was in charge. If 'e 'asn't gone I'll try and get him for you." He returned a moment later with Brown following. "Tremendously sorry," said Cranbourne, "but I want to ask you a few more questions about that fellow I spoke of." "I've been thinking about him myself, sir, and one or two things have come to mind. Remembered his tie for instance." "Yes." "Old Etonian colours," said Brown. Cranbourne nodded enthusiastically. "Anything else?"