But Inspector Blaikie still lingered in talk with the two porters, asking further questions which produced quite unilluminating answers. Soon they found a common interest in the cricket news, and plunged into a discussion of the respective chances of Surrey and Middlesex for the County Championship. The night porter, who was a north-countryman and a partisan of Yorkshire, cut in every now and then with a sarcastic comment. He was especially scornful of the day porter’s pride in the number of amateurs included in the Middlesex eleven. “Call them gentlemen,” he said. “They get paid, same as the players, only they put it down as expenses.” But at this point the argument broke off; for the day porter suddenly changed the subject. “Let me have a look at that stick, will you?” he said to the inspector. Inspector Blaikie, who had been twirling the stick about rather obtrusively, at once handed it over. It was the stick found in Prinsep’s room, and he was carrying it about with him solely with the hope that some one might recognise it, and enable him to discover to whom it had belonged. It was a peculiar stick, and likely to be noticed by those who saw it. The shaft was of rhinoceros horn, linked together with bands of gold; and it had a solid gold handle. “What do you make of it?” the inspector asked. “I was going to ask you how you got hold of it,” answered the porter. “Why do you ask?” “Only because it is surely Mr. Walter Brooklyn’s stick. I have often seen him carrying it.” “Take a good look. Are you quite certain it is his?” “Either it is, or it’s one just the same. It’s a most unusual pattern, too.” “Yes, rhinoceros horn, I should say. Could you swear to it?” “Hardly that. There might be two of them. But I’ve not seen Mr. Brooklyn with his for a day or two.” “Try to remember—was he carrying this stick when he went out on Tuesday?” The porter paused a minute. “Yes, I think he was,” he said. “But, no, you mean in the evening. You’ll have to ask the night porter here that. He was on duty from nine o’clock.” The inspector turned to the night porter. “Do you recognise this as Mr. Brooklyn’s stick?” “Yes, I’m pretty sure it’s his.” “And do you remember whether he was carrying it on Tuesday night when he went out?” The man hesitated some time before replying. Finally, “No,” he said, “I can’t say. Maybe he was—I rather think he was. But I’m not sure.” “And when he came in?” “He had a stick, I remember. He rapped at the door with it. I expect it was this one. No, I don’t think it was. It was a plain stick, I’m almost sure.” “Remember that this may be of the utmost importance. You can’t remember whether or not Mr. Brooklyn had a stick when he went out?” “Not for sure. I think he had.” “But you can’t say whether it was this stick?” “No, not for certain.” “And when he came in?” “He had a stick; but I’m almost sure it wasn’t this one.” “Would any one else be likely to know?” “I don’t think so. There was no one else about.”