Pointer spent the rest of the afternoon apparently gossiping with all and sundry. Each conversation, however, resembled all others in that, though it might begin with the weather or cricket, it invariably finished up with the manager's whereabouts yesterday afternoon. He had been seen about half-past three, and he had been seen just after five, but in the intervals it seemed impossible to locate him exactly. Pointer wished heartily that Eames' death had occurred at midnight. It would have made no difference to Eames but a great deal to the detectives. Of Eames himself he learnt but little. The young man had apparently made no clear impression on those with whom he had come in contact, save that they all ascribed to him unusual powers of silence. The maid had nothing to report beyond that “the gentleman of No. 14 left his room always at eight o'clock regular.” A couple of books lay always on his table—not novels—thick, solid-looking books. Pointer showed her two,—“yes, those were the very identical ones.” They were works on dentistry, very new and unused, with “Reginald Eames” neatly written in each. To Pointer they did not look as though their late owner had spent much time poring over them. The maid went on to say that any remarks of hers had been met with a brevity she evidently considered amounted to silence. “Don't think he knew how to open his mouth, but there, what with meaning to take his life it's no wonder,—what I mean to say, you couldn't expect him to go on like an ordinary young man, could you?” Pointer agreed that to a woman of her keen perceptions a difference might be discernible. Had she ever seen any letters lying around? “Not lying about, no; but she had twice seen Mr. Eames standing by the window reading letters. No, they hadn't looked like old ones—in fact, once she had seen him opening the envelope. On each occasion it had been shortly after breakfast, when she had brought in a carafe left to be cleaned with the others on the floor. Each time Eames had looked around as though not relishing the interruption. He certainly was that sunk in his letters, though it was only a couple of those large square sheets. What I mean to say, not real letters—_you_ know.” The last time she had heard him lock the bedroom door after her had been on Saturday morning. Yes, she was quite sure that it was yesterday, because directly she heard of the suicide she had thought of that letter. The time before might have been a Wednesday or Thursday—she couldn't be sure. “Had he looked worried when she saw him?” No, only awfully keen, and eager, and though he wasn't smiling exactly, he had looked distinctly pleased—this was on Saturday. She had heard him whistling later on as she swept next door. “Were the sheets typed or written?” “Written in very close, tiny lines.”