The inspector had been there about an hour. He had made an elaborate, but not exhaustive search in the room. The body was in the position it had been found in. An empty two-ounce bottle had been discovered on the floor. This was the bottle. It was labelled chloroform, smelt of chloroform, and had no cork in it. A cork which fitted it, and which also smelt, although faintly, of chloroform, had been found on the table close by the body. In the pockets of the deceased had been discovered a number of letters, a small sum of money, and a pocket-book. This was the pocket-book. It was thin, and covered with Russia leather; it was old, and had been but little used. It contained several addresses, and on the first leaf was written a date of eleven years ago. It was more than likely this date corresponded with that on which the book became the property of deceased. Most of the memoranda in that book could have no bearing on the present case, as most of them had evidently been made long ago. The last entry but one was dated in what was believed to be the handwriting of the deceased. It was made more than two years ago. After this last entry but one, a leaf was missing. A leaf had evidently been torn out--and clumsily torn out, too--for a jagged portion of the leaf remained behind. Then came the last entry of all. This was also apparently in the handwriting of deceased. The writing was in pencil, and very shaky, and for a long time could not be deciphered. It was headed "Crescent House." The domicile fixed the date, for the night before was the only occasion on which Mr. Davenport crossed the threshold of that house. He had not even seen the house before renting it, but took it on the representation of an agent. The words on this page were: "_Pretended death. Blake gone. He emptied chloroform on me--held me down. Can't stir. Dying_." After reading this the three men stood aghast for a while. They looked at one another. They looked at the inspector. The inspector shook his head. "There's hangman's work here," he said; and he was about to turn away, when a sudden thought struck Pringle. He said to the inspector: "I beg your pardon. Does that pocket-book contain any London address of Mr. Davenport?" "I don't know," said the inspector; "and I am afraid I have already shown you too much." "I'd be very much obliged to you if you'd see. I represent Mrs. Davenport in this matter, and at the moment I don't know where to find her. She omitted to give me her address when she left me this afternoon. I want to write to her, and if you find any London address of Mr. Davenport, I'll chance directing my letter there. That can do no harm to any one." The inspector hesitated, but at length opened the pocket-book, and after a search, said: "There's an address here at Jermyn Street; but it's six years old." "Never mind," said Pringle; "I'll risk it. What is it?" The inspector read it out, and Pringle took it down.