“Thought you hadn’t,” he said. “Her Serenity called me on the phone five minutes ago, and said she’d read in one of the newspapers that something very valuable had been found on Druze’s person. I haven’t seen all the newspapers, but those I’ve read make no mention of the emerald, and I don’t see why they should, unless they are psychic. The princess suggested, rather than said, that you had confirmed this mythical newspaper report.” Leslie shook her head in admiration. “That woman is certainly a quick worker,” she said. “What did you tell her?” Mr. Coldwell relit his cigar with the exasperating deliberation of his age. “I told her that we _had_ found something valuable--a packet of money. She seemed kind of disappointed.” The telephone bell shrilled; he picked up the receiver, listened in silence for a time, and then: “All right, I’ll come down,” he said. “The Lambeth police have got a quaint clue--a kind of ready-made one, but it should be investigated, as it has to do with your Peter. Would you like to come along?” She looked at him steadily. “If you refer to him as my Peter again, I shall be very offensive to you, Mr. Coldwell,” she said, and Coldwell scratched his chin. “Somehow he seems to belong to you; I don’t know why I get that impression.” Her eyes wandered to a corner of the room and for the first time she saw the two big travelling trunks. They were new and bore the label of the Cunard Steamship Company. “Druze’s,” he said laconically. “We’ll go through those when we come back.” It was at the corner of Severall Street that the taxicab stopped. The local subdivisional inspector was waiting, and with him a detective. “Let me have a look at that paper,” said Coldwell immediately, and Leslie, who had not heard the one-sided conversation on the telephone, wondered what was coming next. The inspector took a dirty slip of paper from his pocketbook and placed it in Coldwell’s hand. He fixed his glasses and read, then passed the slip to the girl. The message was written in pencil and in an illiterate hand: Dawlish keeps his gun under a loose board in his bedroom just as you go inside the door. “Where did this come from?” asked Coldwell. “It was delivered at the station just before I telephoned to you. A street lad brought it along. He said it had been handed to him by a man, who gave him a few coppers for his trouble. I thought it best that you should know.” They walked down the street toward Mrs. Inglethorne’s house and the door was opened immediately by that lady, who was surprisingly clean and spruce. She seemed surprised, but was certainly not agitated by the appearance of the police officers. “Yes, sir, Mr. Dawlish has just come in. Shall I call him down?” “No, thank you; we’ll go up.”