“Doubtless. But as he isn’t here, what can we do? Just bumble along to the best of our poor abilities. That’s what I’m doing, Squire.” They entered the tiny enclosure of Helen’s Bower, and Wendover’s eye was at once caught by a sparkle from the grass near one of the chairs. He stepped across and picked up a silver cigar-case. Sir Clinton held out his hand for it and glanced at the outside. “It’s got a monogram, E.S., engraved on it,” he said. “This is obviously friend Ernest’s. You remember he said something about smoking a cigar here. He may have laid the case on his knee and jerked it off without noticing it when he started on his Marathon for safety.” He held the case in his hand and seemed to give careful consideration to some point. At last he came to a decision and turned to Wendover. “I think we’ll say nothing about this for a day or two, Squire. I may want to send this case up to London to have it examined, perhaps. I can’t say yet. But in the meanwhile we’ll not mention that we found it. Friend Ernest can take his cigars from the box, in the meantime. That’s no great hardship for him.” “You think the murderer may have picked it up, and you’ll get his finger-prints from it? It’s a nice smooth surface.” Sir Clinton looked up from the case with a gleam of amusement on his features. “You’re in charge of the Speculation, Surmise, and Conjecture Department of this firm, Squire. I’m only a humble clerk in the Mum and Dumb Section—telegraphic address: ‘Tongue-tied.’” Wendover accepted the tacit rebuke without protest. “Oh, have it your own way,” he said, “I forgot I wasn’t to expect anything from you.” Sir Clinton wrapped the cigar-case carefully in his handkerchief and stowed it in his pocket before doing anything further. “Now I think we’d better go and have a look at the loophole again,” he suggested. “Though I hardly think it’s likely to have changed much since I saw it last. But I have a sort of feeling that Sherlock would have found something there, and perhaps you might be able to spot it, even if I can’t. That’s the worst of this detective business: one needs an eye for detail and I never had it.” With an air of deep solemnity he led the way to the outer side of the hedge, approached the loophole, and peered into it for a time. “No,” he admitted finally with a crestfallen air, “it seems just the same as it was when I saw it last.” He put his hand into the hole. “Not even a bird’s nest or any little thing of that kind,” he announced disconsolately. “Ah, we need Sherlock; we need Sherlock. He’d have found some cigar-ash or something of that sort, no doubt. I can’t see it. Have a look yourself, Squire.” Rather irritated by the chaff, Wendover stooped and stared into the loophole. He had to confess, however, that he saw nothing in the slightest degree suggestive.