He turned to Beale and laid on the table a piece of paper which had been badly crumpled and which he now smoothed out. It was the top half of a telegraph form, the lower half had been torn away. "'To Belocity, London,'" Beale read aloud. "That's you," interrupted McNorton, and the other nodded. "'To Belocity, London,'" he read slowly. "'Am imprisoned at Deans----'" At this point the remainder of the message had been torn off. CHAPTER XV THE GOOD HERR STARDT "Where is the rest?" said Beale. "That's the lot," replied McNorton grimly. "It's the only information you will get from this source for twenty-four hours." "But I don't understand, it is undoubtedly Miss Cresswell's handwriting." "And 'Belocity' is as undoubtedly your telegraphic address. This paper," he went on, "was taken from a drunken tramp--'hobo' you call 'em, don't you?" "Where?" "At Kingston-on-Thames," said McNorton--"the man was picked up in the street, fighting drunk, and taken to the police station, where he developed delirium tremens. Apparently he has been on the jag all the week, and to-day's booze finished him off. The local inspector in searching him found this piece of paper in his pocket and connected it with the disappearance of Miss Cresswell, the matter being fresh in his mind, as only this morning we had circulated a new description throughout the home counties. He got me on the 'phone and sent a constable up to town with the paper this afternoon." "H'm," said Beale, biting his lips thoughtfully, "she evidently gave the man the telegram, telling him to dispatch it. She probably gave him money, too, which was the explanation of his final drunk." "I don't think that is the case," said McNorton, "he had one lucid moment at the station when he was cross-examined as to where he got the money to get drunk, and he affirmed that he found it wrapped up in a piece of paper. That sounds true to me. She either dropped it from a car or threw it from a house." "Is the man very ill?" "Pretty bad," said the other, "you will get nothing out of him before the morning. The doctors had to dope him to get him quiet, and he will be some time before he is right." He looked up at the other occupant of the room. "Well, Parson, you are helping Mr. Beale, I understand?" "Yes," said the other easily. "Returning to your old profession, I see," said McNorton. Parson Homo drew himself up a little stiffly. "If you have anything against me you can pull me for it," he said insolently: "that's your business. As to the profession I followed before I started on that career of crime which brought me into contact with the crude representatives of what is amusingly called 'the law,' is entirely my affair." "Don't get your wool off, Parson," said the other good-humouredly. "You have lost your sense of humour." "That's where you are wrong," said Homo coolly: "I have merely lost my sense of decency." McNorton turned to the other. "What are you going to do?" he asked.