Goodall turned to his assistant. “Stay here, Waring—I don’t expect to be very long”—then followed the other two upstairs. It was a large room, furnished with wardrobe, dressing-table, wash-hand stand, double bed—half a dozen chairs, one wicker arm-chair and a box-divan. Every piece of furniture was subjected by Goodall to a thorough investigation. But they yielded nothing. He then went to the various ornaments of the china trinket-set that stood on the dressing-table. They were all empty—as was the grate. Anthony went to the wardrobe. “Nothing here, either, Inspector,” he declared. The Inspector came and tried the lower drawers. They also were all empty. “Drawn a proper blank—as I thought,” muttered Goodall. “Everything that might have whispered the words of the chorus to us has been ‘tidied up.’ What have you got there, Mr. Bathurst?” Anthony was standing by the fireplace examining something on the mantelpiece. “What do you make of that, Inspector?” he asked. Holding his right hand to the edge of the mantel, he very carefully swept something into it with his left. Goodall looked at it curiously. “Looks like a few grains of dust of some kind,” he said. “Sort of dried grass—what do you think?” Anthony put his nose to it and smelled it. “Pungent,” he exclaimed. “Not exactly aromatic.” He blew it away from the palm of his hand, Goodall watching him. “Would you care to have a chat with the chambermaid that attends to this room?” inquired Blanchard. “That’s an idea, certainly,” said Goodall. “Have her up, by all means.” Blanchard went out and called down the speaking-tube. “I don’t think we shall find anything more, Inspector,” said Anthony. “I expect——” “_More!_” exclaimed Goodall with evident disgust. “I like the ‘_more_,’ Mr. Bathurst. It seems to me we’ve run across precious little—I don’t know what you think about it.” Anthony grinned, as they both turned to welcome Rabjohns, the chambermaid. “I’m a Police Inspector,” announced Goodall terrifyingly, “so be careful what you say! When you ‘tidied up’ this room after Mr. and Mrs. Stewart left it—did you destroy any papers or letters that you found here?” Rabjohns slowly wiped her hands on her apron. “No, sir—that I didn’t. There was nothing left in here, Mr. Inspector, not even a ‘bob’ on the dressing-table.” Blanchard frowned at her—after all, he thought, it was not seemly that she should obtrude her trivial personal “grouses” at a critical time such as this. “You’re sure of that,” barked the Inspector. “Certain you found and destroyed nothing?” “Positive, sir. You can rely on what I’m tellin’ yer, sir—you can put your shirt—sorry, sir!” She caught Blanchard’s eye and amended her ways. “One question I’d like to ask you before you go,” intervened Anthony. She turned and faced him. “Yes, sir?” “When you have entered this room, first thing in the morning—during Mr. and Mrs. Stewart’s stay here I mean—have you ever detected a peculiar odor in the room?”