For once the Scotland Yard man acted like any mere mortal, and bounded from his chair. “What?” “Well, there ain't no sound, and I can't make him answer, though I've hammered and banged like anything on his door.” The boy was evidently thoroughly enjoying himself. “Idiot! Keep your mouth shut! Ask the manager to come here a moment,” was the somewhat contradictory directions he received in a tone which made Pointer's meaning clear. The manager arrived, a trifle breathless, and the two men entered the lobby into which both his bedroom and his sitting-room opened. They tried the sitting-room door. It was locked, and no reply came from within to voice or knock. “There's a door into it from my bedroom. I have the key, and the bolt's on the bedroom side.” The manager, who was very white, led the way, and after a second's wait unlocked the door and flung it open. A burst of fresh air met them. The window stood ajar. The room was empty. The other door locked and bolted. A bag, half-open, stood at the foot of the bed which had been made up on the couch, and which had evidently not been slept in. A half-burnt cigar lay on the carpet by the armchair, together with a novel. The electric lamp was still on. Pointer felt the end of the cigar. “Been out some time. Excuse me, sir, you're standing on a piece of paper.” The manager jumped away as though his companion had spoken of a live coal. Pointer carelessly ran the little wisp of green and white striped paper through his fingers as he looked at the sill, and out on the pavement, which was on a level with the floor. Provided there was the will, there certainly was an easy enough way. But why the will? Why should the editor of an important newspaper leave by the window rather than by the door, even though he were an American? He looked Mr. Beale's bag over. Nothing had been taken. He saw in it no paper to match the little end he had “absent-mindedly” stuffed into his pocket. “I thought I saw a piece of striped paper lying around”—he glanced about him—“did it belong to anything of yours?” The manager shook his head. He was even paler than he had been. “Was it anything of yours, sir?” persisted the officer, peering under the table. “No.” The manager's voice was harsh. “Odd sort of paper, too. Oh, here it is”—Pointer fished it out, “Did you see anything like it in Mr. Beale's hands last night?” “I suppose on a modest estimate I had near a dozen people in this room yesterday.” The manager's voice was studiously level. “I should say that the probabilities are that any one of them dropped that little tag.” “Shouldn't wonder,” agreed Pointer amicably. “Did you and Mr. Beale sit up long together last night?” The manager hesitated for the fraction of a second. “N—no, not beyond saying good-night, after his refusing to let me give him my bedroom.” “You didn't discuss Mr. Eames?” “Not at all. Not at all.” “Kindly look carefully around the room and see if anything is missing.”