“D'ye mean to tell me that the criminal is still at large after all this time—close on twenty-four hours! Let me have the facts, Watson; sure Sherlock Holmes will give you a leg-up with pleasure,” and “Sherlock Holmes” assumed a judicial attitude. Pointer carefully went over the knotty points unearthed during the day. “There's Cox . . .” the Scotland Yard man was evidently telling over his pieces, “who takes a room at the Marvel and uses it for a couple of hours . . . he's in the centre of the puzzle. Yes, he's that little gold ball you can just see.” He glanced up at the Chinese puzzle above his head. “Why d'ye place him there? Because you found that wax vesta in his room?” grunted O'Connor, who was for the moment a profound pessimist. His stamp had just slipped on a valuable piece of leather. “No, partly because the two men who talked with him speak of him as possibly an American. Mr. Beale is an American, and Eames' clothes looked to me like Yankee cut, besides his umbrella. Thank God, to-morrow's Monday. I'm a Christian man, but there are times when I could do without Sundays—here at home. There is where the foreign police score. I shan't forget that Avery case when I was sent to Naples——” “I know,” yawned Jim; “it rained all the time, and as for the famous view of the Bay—why, Plymouth Harbour beat it by ten goals to none.” “I don't wonder there are so many hasty marriages,” Pointer spoke in sad soliloquy; “a man does feel a wish sometimes to come home to something alive, something intelligent.” “She wouldn't have much intelligence if she let you find her at home,” pointed out his friend dispassionately, damping some leather with a hot sponge preparatory to making a fresh start, and for a while there was silence. “When Cox tapped on the window of No. 14 who did he expect would open it for him?” the Irishman asked suddenly. “Eames? Or d'you think he knew that Eames was dead, and wanted to meet an accomplice there? If so, who? Beale?” “I've only one idea about Mr. Beale so far, but it's a fixed one,” Pointer replied slowly. “For some reason he's playing a game of his own. Judging by his eyes, it's bound to be a crafty scheme, and by his mouth, it won't boggle at trifles. However, the shape of his head guarantees that it'll be a clever one.” “You're a wonder, Alf. Since you've gone in for those phrenological and graphological lectures at the Kindergarden there's no hiding anything from you. Can you tell me by the shape of my head what Mr. Grey will say to me when he sees how that tooling has been done? You can't! Well, I can! You might as well continue your sermon by the way. I'm helpless, I must listen to it.” His friend was far too canny to proceed.