“Let's hope for all our sakes it won't be that! If there's one thing that's calculated to break a policeman's heart first, and his career afterwards, it's a political case.” The mere suggestion covered the Chief Inspector's face with gloom. “Tails all over the place you mustn't step on,” he added, after a long pull at his pipe. “Seen the picture of Eames in the late editions, sir?” asked Watts, laying one before him. “I don't call it a good likeness myself.” “As unlike him as they could make it,” agreed Pointer. “We've asked the Colonial papers to copy the picture, but much good a smudge like that will do.” “Something unforeseen may turn up from it, though,” suggested Watts. “Not in this case,” corrected Pointer with conviction. “Everything unforeseen will have to be looked for with a searchlight, in my opinion;” and Watts was too much impressed by the medicine-bottle clue which Pointer had picked out to answer. “Now, then, Watts”—the Chief Inspector turned to business again—“I want you to find out whether Beale, or the manager, or anyone corresponding to the description of Cox, has been buying any morphium in London. Take Eames' snapshot, too, though that's hardly likely to be needed.” He went into careful details of the men and taxis he could have to help him. For two days Watts searched London, but found nothing to prove that any of the three men had ever been near a chemist save Cox, that one time when he had bought the fatal bottle. Meantime nothing transpired at the Yard about Eames. Letters flowed in by the score purporting to recognise the printed likeness, but all the patient investigations of the police only proved that the recognition was mistaken. In Canada a terrific forest fire was raging, and under the circumstances the Yard could hardly press for larger space to be given to the picture of an unknown Englishman. At the Enterprise there had been practically no changes—at least from the first floor, and nothing had as yet transpired which could give the casting hither and thither police any definite trail. “How's the manager developing?” O'Connor asked the night of Watts' return. “Been getting any deeper into your black books?” “I've had a man look up his record——” “Ah, well, that would be about the same thing with a policeman. Heaven help us all!” “The report came in this afternoon. About a year ago he bought rather heavily of securities which are to-day a mere fraction of what he gave for them. He's slightly in the hands of money-lenders, and is altogether by no means as happily placed as might have been expected; for though the hotel is full, the running expenses are higher under him than were allowed for, and as his salary is only paid on net profits he must be pretty badly put to it sometimes. However, we've not been able to trace any previous acquaintance between him and Mr. Beale—not as yet.