“And what is more, I found him at home,” he said grimly, and related all that had happened in the flat. “I’ll come along and see the damage, though I don’t think it will help us much,” said Carver slowly. “So he tore up your photographs, did he? That is rather interesting.” “I guess he didn’t like me,” said Tab. “I have been trying to remember all the crooks I have annoyed, Carver. It can’t be young Harry Bolton, because he must be still in prison and it can’t be Lew Sorki because, if I remember rightly, he got religion in prison and he is now conducting a mission to the submerged. They are the only two people who expressed their intention of cutting short my young life.” “It is neither of these.” Carver was emphatic on this point. “Tell me again, Tab, from the moment you opened the door to the moment you lost interest in the proceedings, just what happened. First, did you close the flat door behind you?” “Yes,” said Tab surprised. “And then you went into the sitting-room and he caught you a whack with the chair? There were no lights?” “None whatever.” “No light on the landing outside the flat door?” asked Carver eagerly. “None.” “And he just rushed past you and was gone. You remember that very well, I suppose, although you were knocked out?” “I remember his going and hearing the door slam,” said Tab wondering. Carver was making notes on his blotting pad in that strange system of shorthand which nobody understood but Carver. “Now Tab, think very carefully before you reply, was there anything in Lander’s box, any reference to his uncle, any document respecting his uncle, anything, indeed, that had to do, even remotely, with Trasmere, in that box of Lander’s? Because I am perfectly certain that there was the objective and that the search of your room was an after-thought. In fact, it is proved by the circumstances of the thief in your room when you arrived--he had evidently left that search to the last.” Tab concentrated his mind upon Rex and all Rex’s belongings. “No,” he confessed. “I can’t remember anything.” Carver nodded. “Very good,” he said rising, “and now we’ll go along and look at this trouble of yours. When did it happen?” “About half-an-hour ago; maybe a little more,” he looked up at the clock, “yes, it was nearer an hour ago. I tried to get you on the ’phone--” “The machine is out of order, it always is out of order,” said the fatalistic Carver, “when there is real trouble around. In fact, if I obeyed my impulse, I should double the men on duty every time that ’phone falls down.” They were in front of the station, and the cab that Carver had called was pulling up to the curb when another cab came dashing toward them, swerved to the side-walk and stopped dead. Out of the cab’s interior tumbled a man who was sketchily attired, and whose pyjama coat showed where his shirt should have been. Mr. Stott had arrayed himself hurriedly and for once in his life, was careless of appearance.