The Chief Inspector gave no sign that he felt the dig. “He declared that the box would contain plans and signals in cipher for the use of the gang. Would I let him have a look at it? I finally—well, I refused at _first_”—the bitterness of the manager's voice told the whole story—“but you know what a way Mr. Beale has with him. He claimed to recognise the plan of his own house in the note-book, and then—I'd just been letting myself go a bit about what a blow the suicide would be to the hotel, which was having its work cut out to keep its head above water—he referred to that. Said that he wanted a scoop for his paper. Finally he offered me one thousand pounds down on the table for the box, and I let him take it for another five hundred. Mind you, I'm not trying to clear myself, but I believed his story. And of course when you arrested Carter I thought what a Quixotic fool I should have been to have acted differently.” He stopped and had another drink. “But that isn't all that you have to tell.” “You mean the pages torn out of the receipt-book. You know about them.” “No, I don't mean them. I know all about that, as you say. I mean something else.” “Do you want my confession as to how I killed Eames?” asked the manager sardonically. “I want to know first who the man was you showed over the balcony rooms, including No. 14, at midday on Saturday, August third?” “That was Sikes. He lends money strictly on the q.t. and at only seven hundred per cent. But the mere idea that his little hobby might get about infuriated him so that after you sent that blundering chap of yours down to investigate he broke the whole thing off. He's aiming to get into Parliament: that's why he's Sykes with a ‘y’ now.” “Humph! And had you never seen Erskine before?” “Never.” “Nor Mr. Beale?” “No. I assure you, Inspector, that I had never seen either man before.” “And now about those 'phones on Saturday at five o'clock?” But the manager could only repeat that he knew nothing more than he had already told the police. He could not recollect 'phoning at all about five o'clock; but if he had, it had been a vain attempt to get through to his hatter. The police-officer asked him to sign his statement. “We _may_ not have to use it——” The manager drew a deep breath. “—but, of course, you must keep yourself within touch of our people. And now, Mr. Manager, what can you tell me about what has become of the occupants of rooms eleven and twelve?” The manager looked over his papers. “Mrs. Willett left an address in Devonshire to which her letters were to be forwarded. The hall-porter has it, I suppose.” “Yes, but Mrs. Willett did not go there. The Devonshire hotel has no knowledge of her whereabouts beyond the fact that she wrote from here, and engaged a room on August 16th.” The manager was unable to help.