“Is it—is it anything to do with the—the girl in the case?” asked Mr. Foster with palpable uneasiness. Alan was quick on his cue. “Oh, yes. Frightfully! All about her. I should just think it is.” “Do you mean, they—they’ve found out who she is?” “I should think they jolly well have. It’s a hell of a clue.” Alan paused and eyed his victim guardedly, then took his decision. “I say, would you care to have a look at it?” Into Mr. Foster’s mind leapt a wonderful idea. Were it humanly possible he would get hold of this damning clue and, if it could be safely done, destroy it! This might not prevent the police from knowing the girl’s identity, but at least it would stop them from using it in evidence against her. A great and noble scheme, and one calculated to bring him infinite kudos in those pretty gray eyes. “Yes, I would,” he answered, trying to speak naturally. “Could it be done without any one knowing?” “Oh, rather. My sister’s away and my brother-in-law’s out. Come along down to the house, and I’ll show it you.” They walked down the road in almost complete silence, each afraid of saying that superfluous word which may turn incipient success into dismal failure. In the garden of Dell Cottage could be seen two forms bending with a tape-measure over something on the river bank. Keeping as much as possible under cover, Alan led the way in at the front-door (prudently left ajar) and past the kitchen. “It’s in the cellar,” he explained in a whisper. “They put it there for safety.” “Quite, quite,” Mr. Foster whispered back. Two hearts thumped as one as they descended the cellar steps. “You go first,” Alan muttered, as they reached a stout, iron-bound door at the bottom of the steps. Mr. Foster went first, gingerly. The next moment he quickened his pace considerably, for a heavy foot, accustomed to kicking a football at the psychological moment, had caught him just below the small of the back and urged him ungently forward. As he fell on all fours on a damp floor, the door slammed behind him. Chapter XV. Various People Get Busy Colonel Ratcliffe straightened himself up from the last footprint with a sigh of relief; he was no longer as young as he had been, and continuous stooping is a little arduous for a frame, however dapper, that is beginning to stiffen. He threw a thoughtful glance round and his eye kindled. “Not a word about this to anybody, mind, Cottingham,” he remarked now to the Inspector at his side. “No, sir,” said the crestfallen Inspector. The Colonel had been careful not to rub things in too much, but Inspector Cottingham was a disillusioned man. The revenge for which he was thirsting would have surprised the intimates of this hitherto genial policeman; it was nothing less than that the authors of his ignominy should be hanged, drawn, and quartered, and that Inspector Cottingham might be granted official permission to dance on their graves.