“What do you mean?” The manager stared truculently at his inquisitor. “What are you insinuating?” “Then, too,” continued the detective's level tones, “this book is one of a class Straker habitually stock. But this one is twenty pages short. Someone has evidently cut out the pages on which were the entries of July twenty-fifth to August fourth, and the half-pages which correspond further on, and filled in more or less complete copies—more or _less_ complete”—he repeated meaningly—“of the pages as they stood.” There was a long silence. “Here is a copy of the book, sir, but this one I am taking with me, as you have no explanations to offer.” The manager made a gesture towards the door and turned on his heel. Saluting stiffly, Pointer left the room, and after a word to an unobtrusive figure watching outside, swung himself on to a Bayswater bus. O'Connor received the news of the day's work with enthusiasm. The police officer took a more moderate tone and pointed out that they were only now where most cases started—that is, in possession of the name of the victim. “—but I'm not denying it's a step forward, chiefly because it's our best chance of getting at the motive. And the motive will be the only key that will unlock this puzzle.” He spoke with conviction. “If it were a case of circumstantial evidence we might spend the rest of our lives working at it. That balcony, that service-stair practically throw the case open to all London.” “What about Miss Leslie?” The other stared a moment. “Well, what about her? Her alibi is fairly good. May be true, what young ‘what's his name’ says.” “You think it's the manager?” “I wonder if I really do?” murmured Pointer sarcastically. “Looks as though he were certainly in it for something, even if it's only shielding Beale,” O'Connor answered for him. “Then there's Carter-Cox. He has a direct inducement.” “Very direct.” “Curious will that!” O'Connor spoke almost to himself. “But then the whole thing is odd.” Pointer puffed away in silence. “True for you,” O'Connor nodded; “the separate slips—that will sent to his old family solicitor, with whom he had had next to no dealings. And then you spoke of his clothes——” “They struck even the jeweller when he went about his watch,” agreed Pointer. “All well enough in their way, but not at all those of a wealthy young man.” “And a mother with over seven thousand a year, and an uncle worth as much, too—he must have made the money fly!” O'Connor's tone of virtuous horror made Pointer think of Russell.