Harry and Valencia went back to the morning-room, and the others made for the front door. But before they reached it, another interruption in their progress towards Chilford’s hospitable table occurred. A young, alert-looking man, who held a note-book in one hand, and pencil in the other, came up. “Mr. Chief Constable,” he said, with confident assurance, “allow me to introduce myself—Mr. Summers, of the _Daily Sentinel_—specially sent down, sir.” “What do you want?” asked the Chief Constable. He was thinking of Chilford’s cold roast beef, and had a natural dislike of reporters. “Nothing more to tell you than what you’ve heard.” “I should be obliged if you’d show me the five-pound note which the presumed American gave to Grimsdale,” said Mr. Summers, “and the tobacco pipe which was left at the Sceptre.” The Chief Constable turned to Blick. “Any objection to that?” he asked. “I should say that Mr. Blick—from what I happen to know of his great abilities—has no objection,” interposed Mr. Summers, who was clearly one of those young men who leave no stone unturned in the effort to build up good copy. “Mr. Blick, sir, knows the value of publicity—especially in a journal of our immense circulation—as well as I do.” “No objection at all,” said Blick, laughing. “There’s the note—I suppose you want the number? B. H. 887563. The pipe—that’s on the table inside—the police have it. Here, I’ll show it to you.” He went back into the old dining-room with Summers; the others waited, chatting about Valencia’s information respecting the ring. A few minutes passed; then Blick, looking slightly puzzled, put his head into the hall. “Chief Constable!” he called. “That pipe!—have you got it?” The Chief Constable turned around with a suddenly roused alertness. “I?” he exclaimed. “No—I haven’t got it. Isn’t it there?” Blick shook his head, his puzzled look changing to one of vexation. He withdrew into the dining-room again, and the Chief Constable strode after him. The other men followed, each impelled by a curiosity for which they would have found it hard to account. Blick was rummaging about amongst the books and papers on the table. Two or three policemen were there; so, too, were a similar number of solicitors’ clerks, and the Coroner’s officer; at one end of the table a couple of local reporters were busily writing out their notes. “I’ve never seen it—at least since it was held up,” said a police-sergeant to whom Blick was appealing. “I saw Grimsdale produce it, and I saw the Coroner and the jurymen handling it, and I’ve never seen it since.” “Who had it last?” asked Blick. “I had!” answered the barrister. “I took it from the jury, and laid it on the table—just there.” “Well, it’s gone!” said Blick. He turned to the police-sergeant. “Have any of your men gone away who might have been likely to pick it up?” “Nobody’s gone away yet,” replied the sergeant. “We’re all here—all of us that came.”