A station cloak-room at once occurred to her as a likely place; but the prospect of searching all the cloak-rooms of London was not alluring. Moreover, there were a dozen other places in which he might have disposed of a compromising object with almost equal safety. At the bottom of the river—a stone was all that was needed. In a pawnshop—of course after removing all marks that would serve to identify the article. In a cab, or any of a hundred other places, merely by leaving them behind. The cabman would hardly ask questions, if he found something of obvious value. To hunt for what Woodman had hidden seemed far more hopeless, far worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. It would need an army of men to do the searching. The police might be able to do that sort of thing. She and Ellery certainly could not. Yet, if their theory was right, Woodman had almost certainly returned to the hotel after murdering George and Prinsep, bearing with him at least one very comprising piece of property. He could hardly have got rid of it—or them—safely the same evening. Most likely he would have done them up in a bag or parcel and gone out to dispose of them the next morning, on his way to his office. A bag was the more likely, for, as Woodman habitually carried one, it would attract less notice than a parcel. Assume that he had gone out with the things in a bag. Had he taken them to his office, or had he got rid of them on the way? Either might be the case, and it would not be easy to follow up the clue. Then Joan had a sudden thought; swiftly she got up and again locked the doors. Among the things she had searched there had been a large hand-bag. She had looked into it, and found it empty. As the objects she was seeking were bulky she had not studied it very carefully; but it was Just possible that it might repay further inspection. But, before Joan could make her search she heard steps coming along the corridor. Hastily she unlocked the sitting-room door and hurried into the bedroom. Hardly had she done so when she saw Carter Woodman come into the room. Fortunately, the bedroom communicated directly with the corridor; and Joan, without pausing to make any further examination or to watch Woodman’s movements, let herself out noiselessly into the corridor and sped down the stairs unobserved. A narrow shave, and all, it seemed, for nothing. Then Woodman’s presence in the hotel gave Joan another idea. If he was there, he was not at his office. Why should she not complete the task she had set herself by having a look round there as well? She took a taxi, and, in less than a quarter of an hour, she was in Woodman’s outer office, and in talk with his confidential clerk. She was told that Woodman was not in, and would not be back until after lunch. She told Moorman that she could not wait, but that she would like to go into the inner office and write a note. Moorman at once showed her in, and withdrew to the outer room.