At the hotel, Sir Clinton was met by a message from Cargill asking him to go up to his room. Wendover accompanied him, and when they had inquired about his wound and been reassured by a good report from the doctor which Cargill was able to repeat, the Australian plunged into the matter which he wished to lay before the chief constable. “It's that thing I told you about before,” he explained. “This is how it happened. I was so sore last night that I forgot all about it.” He felt under his pillow, and drew out a crumpled envelope. “I was in the writing-room one day lately, and Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux—that French high-stepper—was writing something at one of the tables. She made a muddle of her addressing of the thing, and flung a spoiled envelope into the waste-paper basket beside her. Then she addressed another envelope, sealed up her letter, and went out. “I happened to have some jottings to make; and, as her waste-paper basket was just at my elbow, I leaned over and fished out the old envelope, to save myself the bother of getting out of my chair for a piece of paper. I scribbled down the notes I wanted to make, put the envelope in my pocket, and left it there. It wasn't for a while after that—yesterday—that I needed the jottings I'd made. I fished the envelope out, and was reading my notes, when suddenly my eye was caught by the spoiled address on the envelope.” He handed the paper across to Sir Clinton, who read: Monsieur Nicholas Staveley, Flatt's Cotage, Lynden Sands. “You see, she'd spelt ‘cottage’ with one ‘t,’ ” Cargill pointed out unnecessarily. “That's what made her throw away the envelope, I expect.” Sir Clinton took the envelope and examined it carefully. “That's extremely interesting,” he said. “I suppose I may keep this? Then would you mind initialling it, just in case we need it for reference later on?” He handed Cargill a pencil, and the Australian scribbled his initials on one corner of the envelope. The chief constable chatted for a few minutes on indifferent matters, and then retired, followed by Wendover. “Why didn't you tell him he was a day after the fair?” Wendover demanded, as they went down the stairs. “The only value that envelope has now is that it further confirms Mme. Laurent-Desrousseaux's evidence. And yet you treated it as if it were really of importance.” “I hate to discourage enthusiasm, squire,” Sir Clinton answered. “Remember that we owe the second cartridge-case to Cargill's industry. If I had damped him over the envelope, he might feel disinclined to give us any more assistance; and one never knows what may turn up yet. Besides, why spoil his pleasure for him? He thought he was doing splendidly.” As they reached the first floor, they saw Paul Fordingbridge coming along the corridor towards the stairs. “Here's someone who can perhaps give us more valuable information,” Sir Clinton added in a low tone. He stopped Paul Fordingbridge at the head of the stairs.