Coldwell mounted the stairs and knocked at the door of the front room, and a voice bade him come in. Over the inspector’s shoulder, Leslie saw that Peter was sitting at a deal table, pen in hand, a stack of addressed envelopes before him. He shifted his chair round and his eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Hello!” he said, obviously taken aback by the character of the call. “Do you want to see me again, Inspector?” Coldwell took in the room at a glance. “I have information that you’ve a gun concealed under this floor,” he said. “If you don’t mind I’ll make another search.” “Fire ahead,” said Peter, without a moment’s hesitation. Coldwell turned back to the door, lifted a corner of the faded carpet and saw the loose board immediately. To lift it up was the work of a second. Thrusting in his hand, he pulled out a long black Browning pistol. Peter’s face went white; his jaw dropped in an amazement that could not have been simulated. “Anything more here?” asked Coldwell, and, kneeling, thrust in his hand and groped about. Presently he found a small package wrapped in cloth and brought it to the light. He unwrapped it slowly. “My stars!” gasped out a hollow voice. Mrs. Inglethorne had crept up the stairs and was an interested spectator. There was reason enough for her astonishment, for in the centre of that dirty rag lay three large diamond rings, the least valuable of which must have been worth a hundred pounds. “Do you know anything about these, Dawlish?” Peter shook his head. “No, I’m not a burglar,” he said, with a return of his old good spirits. “That branch of the profession is not my forte, and that little find has every appearance of being the proceeds of a very old burglary.” Coldwell looked at the wrapper; it was thick with dust. Even as he turned back one corner of the rag, a fine cloud arose. “Do you know anything about these, Mrs. Inglethorne?” She shook her head. “Or the pistol?” The woman was paralyzed; her face had gone a ghastly gray as she realized the enormous significance of that find. There they had lain month after month, at least five hundred pounds’ worth of jewellery, the results of one of her lodger’s little coups, and she none the wiser. “Never--seen--it!” Mrs. Inglethorne found a difficulty in breathing. “This has been used as a hiding place before,” said the inspector, as he laid the pistol and rings upon the deal table. He examined the Browning, noted its make and number, and, having carefully removed the magazine and dislodged the cartridges from the chamber, smelled at the barrel. “It has been fired recently, I should imagine: it still smells of cordite. Is this yours, Dawlish?” “No, sir: I’ve never seen it before.” “Humph!” The inspector sat down on the bed in exactly the place where the girl had sat the night before. He looked round for Mrs. Inglethorne, but that woman had vanished. “Nobody told you about that hiding place?” “No, sir.”