“You're helping me a great deal, constable,” said Sir Clinton encouragingly. “Now, another thing. I suppose he must have saved some money. He seems to have lived very simply—no expenses to speak of?” “That's right, sir. He put all he could spare into the savings-bank at the post office. All he kept in the house was what he needed to buy things in the village.” “So I expected. You see how well you've pictured him, constable. Now where did he keep his money—his loose cash?” “In that drawer in the dresser,” the constable said, pointing to one of the larger drawers which had a lock on it. “He carried the key about with him.” “See if you can get the key, inspector, please. You'll find it in his pocket, I expect.” Armadale produced the key almost at once, and Sir Clinton opened the drawer. As he did so, the constable uttered a cry of astonishment. Wendover, leaning forward, saw that the drawer held more than a little money—some silver articles were in it as well. Sir Clinton warned them back with a gesture. “Don't touch. We may have to look for fingerprints here. These things seem to have a crest on them,” he continued, after scrutinising them. “That's the Foxhills' mark, sir,” the constable hastened to explain. “But it beats me what Peter Hay was doing with these things. That one there”—he pointed it out—“comes from the Foxhills' drawing-room. I remember seeing it, one time Peter and I went round the house when he was shutting the windows for the night. It's valuable, isn't it, sir? Peter told me these things were worth something—quite apart from the silver in them—and I suppose he'd learned that from somebody or other—one of the family, most like.” Sir Clinton left the silver articles alone and picked up the money which lay in one corner of the drawer. “One pound seven and four pence ha'penny. Would that be more or less what you'd expect to see here, constable?” “Somewhere round about that, sir, seeing it's this time in the week.” Sir Clinton idly picked up the savings-bank book, looked at the total of the balance, and put the book down again. Evidently it suggested nothing in particular. “I think you'd better take charge of these ornaments, inspector, and see if you can make anything out of them in the way of fingerprints. Handle them carefully. Wait a moment! I want to have a look at them.” The inspector moved forward. “I may be short of chalk, sir, but I've a pair of rubber gloves in my pocket,” he announced with an air of suppressed triumph. “I'll lift the things out on to the table for you, and you can look at them there.” Slipping on his gloves, he picked up the articles gingerly and carried them across to the table. Sir Clinton followed and, bending over them, subjected them to a very careful scrutiny. “See anything there?” he demanded, giving way at last to the inspector.