Ernest drank some more whisky and soda thoughtfully, then put his hand into his pocket and seemed to feel for something. “I’ve lost my cigar-case,” he announced disconsolately. “Really, everything seems to be going wrong together, these last few days.” Wendover opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again as he caught Sir Clinton’s frown and remembered the Chief Constable’s caution to him about the case. “Lost your case?” Sir Clinton inquired. “That’s a nuisance.” Ernest was still feeling vaguely in his pocket as though he expected to unearth the cigar-case in some remote corner. “It’s been missing for a day or two,” he complained. “I can’t think what’s become of it. I’ve hunted through all my other suits, and it isn’t there. And I’ve searched all over the house, too; and yet I can’t find it. I suppose I’ll have to buy another. And that’s such a nuisance, you know. One gets accustomed to the thing one uses. A new one won’t feel the same for long enough.” “You can’t remember where you put it down last, I suppose?” Sir Clinton asked. “It’s always a good plan to go back to the time you can remember using it last. If I’m not mistaken, you had it with you in the Maze when you were attacked. You told me you took out a cigar then. Does that suggest anything? You may be able to pick up the thread now and remember using it again after that.” Ernest Shandon’s face lighted up with a certain dull satisfaction. “No. Now I remember quite well. You’ve reminded me of it. Isn’t it funny how one can forget a thing and then, if one gets a jog to one’s memory, the whole thing comes back again? I often find that, quite often.” “So you know where it is now? Well, that’s always a relief.” Ernest’s face fell again. “Yes, I remember where I dropped it. But I can’t get it to-night, that’s the worst of it. I dropped it in the Maze when I was shot at. I was sitting there in Helen’s Bower, and when I jumped up the thing fell off my knee. It must be lying there yet. I’d forgotten all about it. Those cigars won’t be much good now,” he ended, regretfully. “Why not go and get it?” Wendover asked, with a tinge of malice. He had not forgiven Ernest for his pusillanimous display on the night that Sylvia was shot. Ernest looked round at him, wide-eyed in astonishment. He took off his glasses, polished them carefully, replaced them on his nose, and continued his staring examination of Wendover. “Well, really,” he managed to say at last, “that’s a very strange suggestion, Wendover, very strange. Do you imagine that I’d go out in the dark, down to the Maze, and hunt about for my case? Why, it would be foolhardy, positively tempting Providence, to do that. This murderer fellow may be lurking outside the house-door, for all we can tell; and you calmly propose that I should walk straight out and put myself in his way! Well, really . . .” He turned to the decanter at his side and poured out a fresh stiff glass.