Tab told him then his chief’s opinion on that matter, and Carver listened with respect and growing interest. “That never occurred to me,” he said, “though it is nevertheless a fact that it would be next to impossible to bring the crime home to the man even if we found him in the passage, with a smoking revolver in his hand.” “In that case,” said Tab, “we shall never find him at all.” Carver was silent. “I wouldn’t go so far as taking that view,” he said at last, “but it is certainly going to be difficult. There are no finger-prints,” he said when Tab looked enquiringly at one of the polished black boxes on the shelf. “Our mysterious Man in Black wore gloves. By-the-way, I am going to keep an officer on duty in the house for a day or two, to discover whether the murderer returns. I have no hope that he will.” He turned the light out, locked the door of the vault, and they went back to the sitting-room. “This lets out Felling. I think I have made that remark before,” said the detective. “Obviously he was innocent, because at the moment this crime was committed, he was under arrest. Incidentally,” he made a little face, “it lets out Brown! In fact, Tab, the only two people who seem to be left in are you and I.” “That occurred to me too,” said Tab with a quick smile. That morning he got up to find a bulky letter in his box. It was unstamped and had been delivered by hand, and recognising the superscriptions, he opened it with an exclamation of surprise. It was dated Hotel Villa, Palermo, and was from Rex. “Dear Tab (it read): I am tired of travel and I am coming home. Loud cheers from Doughty Street! The mails here are very erratic and I have just heard horrific stories of the pilfering that goes on in the Italian post offices, so I am asking one of the stewards of the ‘Paraka,’ the ship on which I came to Naples, and which is leaving here today, to deliver this for me, the enclosed being of some value. I picked it up in a little shop in Rome and knowing how interested you are in crime and criminals, I am sure you will appreciate it. It is a scarab ring, authentically the property of Cæsar Borgia. In fact I have with it a guarantee as long as your arm....” Tab read no further, but took up the ring that had come out of the envelope and examined it curiously. It was even too small for his little finger, but it was a beautiful piece of work, the beetle being cut from a solid turquoise. “Don’t bother tipping the steward,” (the letter went on), “I am tipping like Crœsus, and I have given him enough money to set himself up for life. I haven’t the slightest idea what I shall do when I come back, but I am certainly not going to that charnel-house of Uncle Jesse’s, and as you will not have me, I shall probably live luxuriously at the best hotel in town. Forgive me for not writing before, but pleasure is a great business.