He got off his bed at that, and going over to a chest of drawers, unlocked one, and took out a writing-case, from which he presently extracted a sheet of cardboard, whereon he had mounted a photograph, beneath which, on the cardboard, were some lines of explanatory writing in its fine, angular style of caligraphy. This he placed in my hand without a word, watching me silently as I looked at it. I could make nothing of the thing. It looked to me like a series--a very small one--of meaningless scratches, evidently made with the point of a knife, or even by a strong pin on the surface of the metal. Certainly, the marks were there, and, equally certainly, they looked to have been made with some intent--but what did they mean? "What d'ye make of it, lad?" he inquired after awhile. "Anything?" "Nothing, Mr. Cazalette!" I replied. "Nothing whatever." "Aye, well, and to be candid, neither do I," he confessed. "And yet, I'm certain there's something in it. Take another look--and consider it carefully." I looked again--this is what there was to look at: mere lines, and at the foot of the photograph, Mr. Cazalette's explanatory notes and suggestions: I sat studying this for a few moments. "I make nothing of it. It seems to be a plan. But of what?" "It is a plan, Middlebrook," he answered. "A plan of some place. But there I'm done! What place? Somebody that's in the secret, to a certain point, might know--but who else could? I've speculated a deal on the meaning and significance of those lines and marks, but without success. Yet--they're the key to something." "Probably to some place that Salter Quick knew of," I suggested. "Aye, and that somebody else wants to know of!" he exclaimed. "But what place, and where?" "He was asking after a churchyard," said I, suddenly remembering Quick's questions to me and his evident eagerness to acquire knowledge. "This may be a rude drawing of a corner of it." "Aye, and he wanted the graves of the Netherfields," remarked Mr. Cazalette, dryly. "And I've made myself assured of the fact that there isn't a Netherfield buried anywhere about this region! No, it's my belief that this is a key to some spot in foreign parts, and that there's those who are anxious to get hold of it that they'll not stop--and haven't stopped--at murder. And now--they've got it!" "They've got--or somebody's got--your pocket-book," I answered. "But really, you know, Mr. Cazalette, this, and the handkerchief, mayn't have been the thief's object. You see, it must be pretty well known that you go down there to bathe every morning, and are in the habit of leaving your clothes about--and, well there may be those who're not particularly honest even in these Arcadian solitudes." "No--I'm not with you, Middlebrook!" he said. "Somewhere around us there's what I say--crafty and bloody murderers! But ye'll keep all this to yourself for awhile, and----"