The chief constable opened a drawer and produced something wrapped up in brown paper. He unwrapped the paper and produced a savage-looking knife with a green shagreen handle. “It is a case knife,” said the chief constable. “The case will be perhaps a clue when we come upon it.” “I believe I have it in my pocket,” said Freyberger, and he produced the sheath he had found in the house in St Ann’s Road. The chief constable took the sheath and fitted the knife into it. It fitted exactly. “But how did you get it?” asked the chief constable in considerable surprise. “We found the knife in the body; it was fixed by such a ferocious blow between the ribs that the murderer could not extricate it. How did you come upon the sheath? You came from London only last night; did you find it here or in London?” “I have not time to tell you, sir, the whole history of the case. I found that sheath more than a month ago in a house in London. If that knife could speak, its tale would, perhaps, turn your hair grey with horror. We must act at once, or the game will escape us. We are after a person who is more than a man, a person infinitely more in the shape of a devil, a person who can change his form. I tell you, I would sooner tackle a tiger than this man; yet I am going to tackle him and take him, too. Have you a map of Sonning?” The chief constable produced an Ordnance map. “This,” said he, “is the field where the murder was committed.” He placed his finger on the spot. “Is there a pathway across the field?” “Yes, here between these two roads.” “There is a cottage here,” said Freyberger, pointing to a spot so marked at the angle where the path met the road. “Yes, Bronson’s cottage. He was murdered a hundred yards away from his home. There is a great heap of refuse in the middle of the field, and the body lay behind it and so was not discovered for some hours. There are no back windows to the cottage and no back door.” “Are there any strangers lodging at Sonning?” “Yes, a few, but no one at all of a suspicious nature, or likely to have anything to do with the crime.” “I imagine,” said Freyberger, “that the murderer is still in the neighbourhood of Sonning. Of course, I may be wrong, still I intend to go there and make some observations. I would prefer to go alone; you are known in the neighbourhood and I am not.” “How shall you go?” “I—Oh, I shall go as if I were going for pleasure, not business. I shall hire a boat and go by river.” “Have you any arms?” “No; if I had a pistol, and if I were so fortunate as to find my man, I might be unfortunate enough to shoot him. Pistols have a habit of going off in struggles. Besides, I have a nervous horror of them.” “I remember you arrested that man in Fashion Street, and he was a pretty tough customer.” “I have met others worse, but I have never had fire-arms about me. A walking-stick is the only weapon I ever carry.” “You have lots of pluck.”