He smashed a window-pane with his pistol-butt; put his hand through the hole and slipped the catch; then, lifting the sash, he climbed in. Armadale and Wendover followed close on his heels. Sir Clinton produced a flash-lamp from his pocket and threw its light hither and thither until he found the oil-lamp which served to light the room. Armadale struck a match and lit the lamp. Then he followed Sir Clinton into the other parts of the house. Wendover, left to his own devices, glanced round the sitting-room in search of he knew not what. His eye was caught by the large filing-cabinet which stood on one side of the fireplace; and he pulled out a drawer at random, lifted one of the cards, and examined it. “11–2–16.—Left for France. At dinner: Cressida, J. Fordingbridge, P. Fordingbridge, Miss Kitty Glenluce (age 23, fair-haired, dispatch-rider; told some stories about her work). . . .” He picked out another card at random and read: “15–4–17.—Staveley's wedding. Bride dropped bouquet when signing register. Wedding march Mendelssohn. Bride given away by P. Fordingbridge. Bridesmaids were. . . .” He had no time to read further. Sir Clinton and the inspector were back again, having found no one else on the premises. The chief constable had a bottle in his hand, which he handed to Wendover, pointing to the label. “Amyl nitrite?” Wendover asked involuntarily. “So that's where the stuff came from that killed Peter Hay?” Sir Clinton nodded. His eye fell on the table, on which a manuscript book was lying. He picked it up and opened it, showing the page to his companions. “Derek Fordingbridge's diary, isn't it?” the inspector inquired. “Yes. And there's their card-index, with everything entered up in chronological order—every bit of information they could collect about the Foxhills crowd from any source whatever. That made sure that if they had to meet any questions from a particular person about _his_ dealings with the real Derek Fordingbridge, they could turn up their index and know exactly what to say. It was far safer than trusting to any single man's memory on the spur of the moment. I expect they've been copying out entries from the stolen diary and putting them into the filing-cabinet. We haven't time to waste. Come along. The police, next. Sapcote must collect them for us and bring them along, inspector.” As Wendover drove, it was hardly more than a matter of seconds before Sapcote had been instructed to collect all the available constables and bring them to the hotel. “That's our next port of call, squire. Drive like the devil,” Sir Clinton ordered, as he ended his instructions to the constable. But they had hardly cleared the village before he gave a counter-order. “Stop at the cottage again, squire.” Wendover pulled up the car obediently, and all three jumped out. “Get the oars of that boat,” Sir Clinton instructed them. “And hurry!”