"I was looking over his bill this afternoon and it seems to me he did himself too well to be natural. Rare for a man by himself to order a long dinner like that. Then again he looked at the prices on the menu just as if he meant to spend up to a certain amount. Something odd in that--unusual. But I'm pretty sure it was in his mind, sir." "And you believe he spent the last of his notes." "Certain of it." "What's your idea?" "He was very hungry--eat everything put before him. I should say--'course it's only a guess----" "Well?" "He'd gone a bit short and was wanting that meal." "Did he seem depressed?" "Not a bit. Rather amused. But it struck me when he got up he looked like a man saying goodbye to his mother." "How old should you think?" "Thirty-two or three." "Old Etonian tie?" "Yes." "You're a man of experience, Brown," said Cranbourne. "Ever known a case of a chap who's on the point of going under, blueing the last of his cash on one big dinner?" "I should just think so. There's a type does that sort of thing." "His type?" "Or one very like it." "Many thanks. You've helped me no end. Now I'll get a taxi and drive to Windsor. Goodnight." Just beyond the Ritz he found a taxi willing to undertake the journey. It was a pity he found it so easily for a hundred yards further down the slope the man he sought was sleeping fitfully on a bench facing Green Park. It was not a lucky drive since it included three punctures and some engine trouble. They came into Windsor about 7.30 in the morning. Cranbourne made a hurried breakfast and set out to interview the photographers of the town. The particular one he sought did not arrive until nearly nine but on being questioned proved himself amiable and anxious to help. He produced Eton school groups of fifteen years antiquity and Cranbourne spent an hour anxiously scanning the faces of the boys in the hope of tracing a likeness to Barraclough. But boys are very much alike and very dissimilar from the men they grow into and though there were several dozen who might well have passed for Barraclough in infancy no particular one could have been selected with positive assurance. Cranbourne made a list of twenty names and Frencham Altar's was not among them. Rather despondent he said goodbye to the photographer and entered the taxi. "Think I'll go back by the Bath Road," said the driver, "it's a better surface." "Please yourself," said Cranbourne and settled himself within. He was beginning to feel a trifle done. His eyes had the sense of having been sand papered and his lips were dry and parched from want of rest. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. "Only thirteen hours left," he said and closed his eyes. Sleep comes very suddenly to the weary--like a pistol shot out of the dark. Cranbourne's head pitched forward against his chest and his hands slithered inertly from his knees.