half-share in the proceeds of the ‘Twenty-Two Black Pearls of Lorraine’ greatly imperiled, to say nothing of an immediate pension of five hundred pounds a year at stake, _came back_ from the garden with murder in his heart. Fate had placed his weapon handy. He struck! As we know, he cleaned as much of the dirt from the table as he could see—he forgot the proximity of the bowl of ink. He then collected the Museum Room screen, locked the library door on the inside, went out by the French doors, borrowed O’Connor’s bicycle and ’phoned his daughter at Blanchard’s Hotel. Her precious husband—a real product of the Bowery—went on with her to the Hanover Galleries and completed the job. Meanwhile, Butterworth returned, disposed of the screen somewhere, and went to bed.” “Just a minute, Mr. Bathurst,” interposed Goodall. “Why did Butterworth replace the book he was at work on—I can’t understand that?” “It’s hard to say—I question very much if he knew that the bullet was embedded in it—he was probably obsessed with the idea of leaving the room quite normal. Alternatively, Stewart may have replaced it.” “I think it was a mistake,” declared the Inspector. “We all make ’em,” continued Anthony. “That’s why we’re waiting for the perfect crime. Where was I? Oh, I remember. Well, I now began to consider what it was that lay behind it all. M. Réné, Daventry, please?” He pointed to the bookcase. Mr. Daventry took down once again “The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure” and handed it to him. Anthony read the paragraph to them. Goodall’s face was a study, and Michael O’Connor’s black eyes gleamed with excitement. “Pretty vague,” commented Charles Stewart.