Out of sight of the library, Clegg touched the Inspector on the coat-sleeve. “What I wanted to tell you was this. I wanted you to come into it fresh—with no suspicions so to speak—so I didn’t tell you everything till you’d had a bit of a look round.” He gazed round warily to make sure that they were not overlooked or overheard. Then he thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his tunic and handed Goodall a dainty lace handkerchief. “I found that caught in the curtains hanging by those French doors yesterday morning,” he explained breathlessly. “Do you see the initials? That belongs to the dead man’s ward—Miss Lennox.” Goodall handled it with great interest. “Now that’s very curious, Clegg,” he observed. “Miss Lennox—eh? And I understand that Butterworth, the butler, accuses her of having been with the dead man at ten minutes past ten on the night of the murder—h’m. She, in her turn, puts the rough edge of her tongue round Mr. Morgan Llewellyn—h’m! Clegg—where the hell are we getting to?” Clegg coughed discreetly. “There was the other point I mentioned, Inspector, on top of all that,” he pointed out steadfastly. Goodall considered for a second. Then he remembered what Clegg meant. “She attempted to get into the library you mean, don’t you, when you left your man on duty there?” “Not a doubt about it,” replied the Sergeant. “Before I see her or this secretary fellow—I’m going to have a few words with some of the servants——come along with me—we may perhaps pick something up that may be valuable.” Clegg fell into step. Goodall went on to outline his difficulties. “There’s one feature of the case that’s rather strange, Clegg. Nothing appears to have been stolen from here at all—no search seems to have been made for anything—there’s not a drawer ransacked or disturbed. Now in this other affair that I told you about—this Hanover Galleries murder—three objects that the dead man here was desperately keen on getting hold of were stolen—they were apparently the motive for the murder. Yet nothing’s gone from here.” He turned to Clegg somewhat impatiently. The Sergeant wagged his big head solemnly. “Aye,” he conceded—“that’s the very identical point that struck me. But”—he thrust his face very close to Goodall’s—“is it certain that the two murders _are_ connected—have you never heard tell of the long arm of coincidence?” He pronounced the last word to rhyme with “guidance,” much to Goodall’s professional disgust. “No,” affirmed the latter, “there’s no doubt in my own mind that there is a connection somewhere, and it’s up to me to find it—I can’t agree with your coincidence theory, Clegg.” The latter pushed his chest out and accepted Goodall’s statement as final, registering at the same time a mental resolution that for the future he would emit no theories. He would listen!