So far, so good; but the other matter gave the inspector far more serious trouble. Try as he would, he could get no clue that would tell him whether Walter Brooklyn had really left his walking-stick in Carter Woodman’s office. His first thought had been to see Woodman’s confidential clerk, and to find out, if possible without putting Woodman on his guard, what the man might know. He had scraped an acquaintance with Moorman in the course of his investigations, and had several times talked to him about the case. Moorman, he was fairly well convinced, had not the least suspicion of his employer’s guilt, and the inspector was sure that he had said nothing to make him suspect. Indeed, he could hardly have done so; for only since he last saw the man had he himself begun to suspect Woodman. Now, accordingly, Inspector Blaikie, watching for an opportunity when he was certain that Carter Woodman was not in his office, went to see Moorman. He asked for Woodman, and, receiving the answer that he was out, fell easily into conversation with the old clerk. It was quite casually that he asked after a while, “By the way, Walter Brooklyn was here on the day of the murders. You don’t happen to remember whether he had his walking-stick with him, do you?” Moorman looked at him sharply, as if he realised that there was a purpose in the question. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “’Tisn’t a thing I should notice, one way or the other. I’m too short-sighted to notice much.” The inspector tried a little to jog his memory, but with no result. Moorman either did not remember, or he would not tell. To ask the young clerk in the vestibule seemed too dangerous; for to do so would almost certainly be to put Woodman on his guard. The inspector could only report to the superintendent that he had failed to trace the stick. “Look here, Blaikie,” said Superintendent Wilson, “this will never do. We know perfectly well who committed these murders, and we’re as far off bringing it home to him as ever.” The inspector could only reply that he had done his best. “Yes; and I’m not blaming you,” his superior rejoined. “But it won’t do. I see I shall have to take a hand in the game myself. We must find out about that walking-stick, and there’s another point I’ve reasoned out to-day. Where’s the weapon with which Prinsep was killed?” “Why, you’ve got the club.” “Yes, yes; but you don’t tell me that the murderer carried that immense unwieldy thing up two flights of stairs, when he might easily have been seen. No, Prinsep wasn’t killed with that club. George Brooklyn was; but it was some other weapon that killed Prinsep.” “There’s the knife,” suggested the inspector. “But you have that too.” “Really, inspector, you are unusually thick-headed this morning. The man wasn’t killed with a knife. He was killed with a blow on the back of the head, delivered with some heavy blunt instrument. Isn’t that what the doctors said?”