They went on to discuss the valuable clue at some length. Beyond it, the Inspector had no further news. In reply to eager questions he was forced to admit that he had not yet established the identity of the murdered Crown Prince, nor had he any information regarding the Man with the Broken Nose. He was, however, quite confident that the answers to both these riddles would be in his hands before nightfall. “Because some one’s bound to know, you see, gents,” said the Inspector in confidence, “and they’ll send the information along to the officer in charge of the case, you mark my words.” His audience marked them, happily. Finally, with regretful murmurs about duty and reports, the Inspector tore himself away. “We’re all right, we’re all right,” Doyle crooned, as the trio strolled back to the house. “He feeds out of our hands. We’re all _right_.” “But what about Scotland Yard?” demanded George, breaking half an hour’s rigid silence. “You won’t be able to take him in so easily.” Doyle looked at him rather pityingly. “My dear George, there won’t be any Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard has nothing to do with crimes outside the metropolitan area. They only come if they’re sent for and the local police confess themselves baffled. Can you see our Inspector confessing himself baffled?” “Humph!” said George, not altogether convinced. “Have you thought, Nesbitt,” Doyle continued to his host, “in regard to that matter of feeding out of our hands, of feeding him with clues?” “I have, Doyle,” said Guy, and chuckled. “So have I,” grinned Mr. Doyle. “Touching perhaps a certain handkerchief?” “You read my thoughts.” “And you mine. Come, it’s a beautiful morning; let us manufacture a few clues. I’m full of bright ideas this morning. I feel like a veritable clue-factory.” “Wait a minute, though. This needs rather careful handling. We must find out what his movements were last night first, and arrange our results accordingly.” “Nesbitt,” said Mr. Doyle admiringly, “you think of everything. Let us visit the gentleman. I have an idea that he won’t have gone to church this morning. I also have an idea that he’ll have no objection to talking to us—none at all.” “That,” agreed Guy feelingly, “is very probable.” George looked from one to the other in bewilderment. “What are you chaps talking about?” he demanded. They gazed at him pityingly. “I don’t think,” said Mr. Doyle, “that we’ll take George in with us. And we can’t very well tie him up outside. Do you mind if we leave him here?” “Not at all. He can talk to my wife. I think she rather needs somebody to talk to.” “George, you hear? You’re to stay here and talk to Mrs. Nesbitt. She needs somebody to talk to, but you’re the only one available. Good-bye.” They went. George watched them go. Then he went indoors obediently to talk to Cynthia. People were always doing that sort of thing to George.