Looking his man up and down, he noted, as the inspector had noted before him, the powerful physique, the straining vitality, the false geniality of Woodman’s manner. But he could see also that the man was seriously worried. There was, for all his appearance of heartiness, a harried look about him, and he seemed preoccupied as, with an excellent assumption of business incapacity, his visitor began to unfold a long story about a lease and a mortgage which he wished to negotiate. Woodman listened with growing impatience, as the superintendent meant that he should. At length he interrupted, saying that the details could be dealt with later. His visitor was most apologetic—never had a head for business, but positively must get the matter dealt with that day. He lived away in the country—Mr. Amos Porter of Sunderling in Sussex was his description for the nonce—and he would not be in town again for weeks. Woodman finally suggested that, as there was other work he must do, Mr. Porter should settle the details with his clerk—an excellent man of business, who would be able to tell him all he wanted. Mr. Porter, after a perfunctory attempt to go on with his explanation to the principal, agreed; and he was soon back in the other office with Moorman. Mr. Porter had left his hat, coat, and stick in the outer office when he went in to see Woodman, laying the stick on a chair and covering it with his coat. His business with Moorman was soon done, and he crossed the room to get his things. By a curious accident, while he was struggling into his coat, he dropped his stick at Moorman’s feet. Moorman picked it up, but as he was passing it back to its owner, he started violently and almost dropped it. “A queer old stick, is it not?” said Mr. Porter. “I value it highly for its associations.” Moorman peered at him, oddly. “I beg pardon, sir, but isn’t that the stick a gentleman I know used to carry?” “No, no. I’ve had this stick for years. I bought it in—let me see, where did I buy it? Never mind. I had no idea there was another like it. That is most interesting. May I ask who uses such a stick?” “The gentleman’s name is Brooklyn—Mr. Walter Brooklyn. He had one very like yours.” “God bless my soul! Not the fellow whose name has been in all the papers? Dear me, what was it about? I know it was in the papers.” “Mr. Brooklyn was suspected—wrongly—of murder.” “Oh, yes, I remember now. And you know Mr. Brooklyn? How interesting.” Moorman lowered his voice. “He was in the office with that stick on the very day on which the murders were committed.” “Dear, dear. It is coming back to me. There was something about the stick in the papers. How odd it should be like mine.” “It was found in the room where one of the murders took place.” “And you saw Mr. Brooklyn with the stick when he left this office the same day. Dear me, that must have looked very bad for him. But he was released, wasn’t he?” “Yes, the police let him go.”