“Yes, here's the rest of the glass,” the chief constable reported. “And there's a faint scrape on the rock surface to show that he must have come down with a bit of a thud. Thanks, inspector, you can let him down again.” When Armadale had let the body drop back into its original position, Sir Clinton knelt down and unstrapped the wrist-watch, after which he wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief. The fragments of glass he handed to the inspector, who stowed them away in an envelope. Meanwhile Wendover had made a discovery. “Come here, Clinton. That yellow thing was the brass case of a discharged cartridge.” Sir Clinton stepped across the rock and picked up the tiny object, marking its position as he did so by scoring a cross on the stone with his penknife. “It's a .38 calibre, apparently,” he commented, after a glance at it. “You'd better keep it, inspector. Hullo! Here's the boat coming in.” A rowing-boat manned by the two fishermen was approaching Neptune's Seat. “That's good. We can finish our examination on the spot now. The tide won't rise to the level of the rock for a while yet; and it doesn't matter if we do get cut off, now that the boat's here. Bring her close in, please, if there's water enough.” The fishermen, nothing loath to get a closer view of the proceedings, brought the boat's bow up to the natural quay formed by the rock; and then, shipping their oars, they sat down to watch what was going on. “We may as well go through his pockets next,” Sir Clinton suggested, returning to the body. “Go ahead, inspector.” Armadale began his search, reporting each object discovered. “Raincoat pockets—nothing in either. Left-hand breast pocket of jacket—a handkerchief. Right-hand breast pocket—a note-case.” He handed this over to Sir Clinton, who opened it. “Fifteen-ten in notes. Nothing else. Well, it wasn't a case of robbery, apparently. Go on, inspector.” “Right-hand upper waistcoat pocket,” the inspector droned obediently, “a pocket diary.” Sir Clinton took it, skimmed over the pages, and put it down. “It's a calendar diary—blank. A book of stamps, with some stamps missing, in the cover. Not much help there. Go ahead.” The inspector continued his search. “Other upper pocket—a pencil and fountain-pen. Lower waistcoat pocket, left hand, a silver match-box with monogram—S and N intertwined. Right-hand pocket—a penknife and a cigar-cutter. Trouser side-pockets—some money, mostly silver, and a nail-trimmer, and a couple of keys. Hip-pocket—a cigar-case.” He handed the various articles to the chief constable. “Nothing in the ticket-pocket. Outside jacket pockets. Left-hand pocket—there's a pipe and a tobacco-pouch. Right-hand pocket—ah, here's something more interesting! Letter-card addressed to ‘N. Staveley, Esq., ℅ Billingford, Flatt's Cottage, Lynden Sands.’ So his name was Staveley? That fits the S on the monogram. And here's another bit of paper; looks like a note of some sort. No envelope to it.”