At this point the day porter struck in. “I wonder why you’re so curious about that stick,” he said. “That, I am afraid, is my business,” said the inspector. “Now, can you tell me where Mr. Brooklyn usually goes of a night?” “Sometimes to a theatre or variety show. But most often he goes to play bridge at his other club.” “Where is that?” “It’s a small place—the Sanctum, in Pall Mall. Only a few minutes from here.” After a few words more the inspector took his leave _en route_ for Duke Street. The stick he held in his hand had become a clue of the first importance. Its presence in Prinsep’s study seemed to show that its owner had been there on the fatal night. More and more Walter Brooklyn was becoming involved. But how had he got in? That was the mystery still. At the Sanctum, Inspector Blaikie at first drew a blank—a blank which he had expected. Walter Brooklyn had not been to the club on Tuesday. Nothing had been seen of him since the previous Saturday night. “So you’ve heard nothing of him this week?” said the inspector, preparing to take his leave. “Beg pardon, sir,” replied the porter. “It had almost slipped my memory. Mr. Walter Brooklyn rang up one night this week on the telephone. I have a note of the call somewhere.” “What was it about?” “He asked if a registered parcel had come for him, because if it had he wanted it sent round to him at once by hand.” “Sent to his other club?” “No. He wanted it sent to Sir Vernon Brooklyn’s, Liskeard House, Piccadilly. He gave us the name and address over the ’phone.” “Did you send the parcel?” “No. Because we told him no parcel had come.” “Has it arrived since?” “No.” “When was this call you mention?” The porter referred to his book. “It was about 11.30, or a bit before. The call before was at 11.20.” “On what day?” “On Tuesday of this week.” “The night of the murder,” thought the inspector. “And did Mr. Brooklyn say where he was speaking from?” “Yes, he was at Liskeard House, where he wanted the parcel sent.” So Walter Brooklyn, who had apparently failed to secure admittance to the house just before 10.15, had somehow got into it afterwards, and was there at 11.30. He, like George Brooklyn, had slipped into the house unseen. That fact, with the fact of the stick, seemed to the inspector to determine his guilt, or at least his complicity in the crimes, or one of them. The stick and the telephone message, taken together, proved that he had been in Prinsep’s room. The inspector next produced the stick. The porter recognised it at once as the one Walter Brooklyn always carried. He had never seen him with another. He was more sure than the porters at the Byron. He was prepared to swear to the stick. “But,” he added, “you’ve gone and lost the ferrule.” The inspector had noticed that there was no ferrule; but it had not seemed important. It might have dropped off anywhere. He therefore followed up a different line. “When did you see this stick last?”