“That scrap of green and white paper”—Pointer seemed to see it before him: “the manager isn't particularly quick-witted, but he certainly was quick-footed, for he was standing on it before you could say Jack Robinson—on the one and only piece of evidence the room contained. By the way, a jeweller to whom I showed Eames' studs says they're unusually fine pearls—for their size. Question is shall we ever learn what other things of value he may have had with him?” There was a pause. “Our analyst reports that there were the ashes of two cigars and twelve cigarettes in the little lot I took him. That amount couldn't have been smoked in five minutes.” O'Connor had risen and laid an old copy of the _Era_ before him. “I thought I vaguely remembered something of the kind, so I hunted these up. What d'ye think of them?” he asked in would-be careless tones. Pointer examined them. They were pictures of Miss Leslie taken four years back, in the character of an old man. Chapter V It was late on the afternoon of Thursday that the Chief Inspector again went meticulously over every article of Eames' which he had in his safe. The watch he lingered over longest. His advertisement had brought in no helpful replies. He had taken the watch to a neighbouring goldsmith, who had only been able to tell him that the maker, a very poor one, had long ago given up work and life itself. Pointer laid it on one side for a moment and took up the waistcoat. It was a well-worn garment, with very small pockets, one of which—the watch-pocket—had a permanent bulge. He fitted the watch into it. As he looked at it attentively it struck him that the watch did not conform at all to the outline supposed to have been made by it. An idea came to the police officer. He put on a pair of magnifying glasses and scrutinised the inside of the back of the case long and minutely. Finally he rose, with a faint flush in his cheek, and took a taxi to the largest watchmakers and goldsmiths in London. “Sorry,” the manager said patronisingly when Pointer, after asking for a private room, had shown him the watch; “it's not the kind of article we ever deal in. Not our class at all.” He handed back the watch contemptuously, and endeavoured to look over the other's head. Pointer, unruffled as ever, opened the case again. “Then you don't know that mark? Those crossed semicircles?” He pointed to two almost invisible pin scratches. The manager started, and took the watch again quickly. “Two semicircles crossed? By Jove, so there are! The marks are so old and worn that I didn't notice them. You've good eyes, Inspector.” “I look at what is before me,” was the quiet reply, which the salesman greeted as a sally of wit. “Ha, ha! We all do that, I suppose. Well, to tell you the truth, that happens to be an old private mark of our own.” “Just so. You changed it some twenty years ago.” “Oh—ah! You certainly are well up in your work! If you sit down again for a moment I'll make inquiries.”