“And did you give evidence, Mr. Moorman? Did you have to say you had seen him leave this office with that stick in his hands? It must be a terrible ordeal to be a witness—terrible.” “I didn’t have to give evidence, and in any case I didn’t see the stick when Mr. Brooklyn left the office.” “Oh, I see. He hadn’t the stick with him when he left. Then, of course, it wouldn’t go so much against him, it being found. Why, it might have been my stick”—and Mr. Porter gave a curious high laugh. “Well, Mr.—is it Moorman?—thank you. You’ve told me just what I wanted to know—about my mortgage. I will write in, sending all the documents. _Good_-morning.” Safely out of earshot and eyeshot of Woodman’s office, Superintendent Wilson had a quiet laugh. “A little diplomacy does it,” he said to himself. “Now I know all about the stick. And next for another little exploration.” The superintendent’s next visit was paid in his proper person. Driving to Liskeard House, he asked to be shown up to Prinsep’s room, where everything was still just as it had been when the murder was discovered. There he made a careful examination of the room and all its contents, seeking for any weapon with which the murder could possibly have been done. His search was fruitless; and, after a while, he passed to the window and gazed out thoughtfully into the garden below. The roof of the antique temple showed over the intervening trees; but the place where the murder of George Brooklyn had taken place was completely hidden by the trees and the bushes growing around them. The superintendent cast back in his mind to discover whether the bushes had been searched for possible clues. He assumed that they had—it was an elementary precaution—but he had best have a hunt round himself. Something might have been overlooked. He went down the private staircase into the garden, and began his search. Nothing rewarded his efforts, though he spent a good hour searching; and it was with a puzzled expression that he went upstairs again to Prinsep’s room, resuming his stand at the window and gazing out. Suddenly something seemed to catch his attention. Leaning as far out of the window as he could, he studied intently what he could see of the roof. “It’s just a possibility,” he muttered, as he closed the window, and crossed the room. What Superintendent Wilson had remarked was that almost on the level of Prinsep’s window was the roof of that part of the house which projected over the stable-yard. It was not near enough for any entry to the room to be effected by its means; but it was easily within reach of a throw, and an object cast away upon it would be completely invisible and safely disposed of until some day, probably distant, when the roof might need repair. It was an admirable place for the bestowal of any inconvenient piece of property.