Mr. Beale took up his top-coat and umbrella, while the manager picked up a bag. Watts looked all three over very carefully inside and out, his superior lending a casual hand. When the police officers were alone they rapidly finished the undressing of the young man. He seemed barely thirty. “Done no manual work,” Watts laid a hand down gently, “or—I'm not so sure. But at any rate not a dandy. No manicuring.” “Has been in the habit of wearing a ring for years, judging by that oval mark, very likely a signet ring. Found one in his pockets?” But nothing was found in the young man's pockets except a handkerchief marked R.E., a fountain pen, a pencil—at whose point the Superintendent gazed meditatively—the keys of the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, and a watch and chain. The Chief Inspector held the inside pocket of the waistcoat to the light. “Look at that shiny place. He's been in the habit of carrying a note-book there.” “Very poor watch, and most expensive chain,” Watts remarked significantly, “wonder if he's some kind of a hotel-rat?” “His clothes aren't flashy,” Pointer pointed out, “good material and cut, though well-worn. Ah, here's the doctor!” The surgeon took but a few minutes before he straightened the sheet again. “Dead not less than four hours—and not more than five.” He put his thermometer away. “Died between four-thirty and five-thirty,” wrote the police officers. “Cause of death, doctor?” “Morphia, as far as I can judge at present, and he didn't make the mistake of taking too little. Everything points to a tremendous dose. He drank it probably; so far I've seen no punctures. Autopsy will tell more on Monday,” and the Doctor bustled off. The two detectives turned to the wardrobe. “Those back panels have been screwed on very badly, sir, and as for this little brass bolt on the door inside—it's a shocking sight.” Watts' father was a cabinetmaker and he spoke as an expert. “Just so. The odd thing is that both seem done by the same bungler!” Pointer was looking carefully at the two specimens of handicraft. “Now Mr. Eames is obviously to be held responsible for the addition of the bolt which was to serve instead of locking the door on the inside, but he could hardly have been interested in the back panels, one would think.” It was quite half an hour later, when, leaving his subordinate at work, the Chief Inspector stepped out into the little corridor. Miller rose to his feet and pointed at the next door but one to the room the Chief Inspector had just left. “That door was ajar, sir, when I came out. It's stayed shut since.” Pointer glanced at it. “Number eleven,” he registered to himself. The room he had just left was number fourteen. There was no number thirteen in the hotel.