“What am _I_ looking for, you mean? Come on, you lazy blighter. This is the waste-paper basket heap, over here. You won’t find anything among those tins and newspapers. I don’t know what I’m looking for.” “There won’t be anything here,” Alec urged earnestly. “Let’s chuck it, and go off to make those inquiries.” “I’m afraid you’re right,” said Roger reluctantly. “I’ve gone back about a week here, and haven’t struck anything of the faintest interest. Below this everything pretty well rotted away, too. Still, I’ll just—— Hullo! What’s this?” “What?” Roger had straightened up abruptly and was scrutinising with bent brows a grimy piece of paper he held in his hand. The next moment he whistled softly. “Here is something, though!” he exclaimed, and scrambled to dry land. “Here, what do you make of this?” He handed the paper to Alec, who studied it carefully. It was very wet and limp, but a few traces of writing in pencil could still be made out on its surface, while here and there an isolated word or phrase stood out fairly legibly. “It looks like a letter,” Alec said slowly. “Hullo, did you see this? ‘Frightened almost out of my . . .’ Out of my life, that must be.” Roger nodded portentously. “That’s exactly what caught my eye. The writing’s Stanworth’s; I can recognise that. But I shouldn’t say it was a letter. He wouldn’t write a letter in pencil. It’s probably some notes; or it may be the rough draft of a letter. Yes, that’s more likely. Look, you can make that bit out—see? ‘Serious dang—’ Serious danger, my boy! Alec, we’re on the track of something here.” He took the paper from the other’s hands and studied it afresh. “Can’t see who it’s addressed to, can you?” Alec asked excitedly. “No, worse luck; the first line or two has absolutely gone. Wait a minute, there’s something here. ‘This n-e-i-’ and the last two letters look like o-d. A long word. What’s that?” He pointed with a quivering finger. “N-e-i-g, isn’t it?” said Alec. “And that’s an r. Neighbourhood!” “By Jove, so it is! ‘This neighbourhood.’ And here’s something else. ‘That br-u-t . . .’ ‘That brute——’” “Prince!” “Prince?” “The next word. See? You can make it out quite distinctly.” “So it is! Good for you, Alec. ‘That brute Prince.’ Good Lord, do you realise what this means?” Roger’s excitement was showing signs of becoming uncontrollable; his eyes were sparkling and he was breathing as if he had just run a hundred yards in eleven seconds. “It’s jolly important,” Alec concurred, beaming. “I mean, it shows that——” “Important!” Roger almost howled. “Don’t you see, man? It means that we know the murderer’s name!” “_What?_” “It’s put the game right in our hands. Stanworth was murdered by a man called Prince, whom he knew to be in the neighbourhood and—— But let’s go somewhere rather more secluded and study this document some more.”