Blick turned over everything that remained on the table. His face curiously set, and he said nothing. “Everybody that went out of the room passed along that side of the table,” remarked the sergeant. “If anybody wanted to pick it up and carry it off, they’d nothing to do but put a hand out. Nobody would notice—in that crush.” “Who should want to carry it off?” asked Blick with asperity. Summers, who had been assisting in the search, suddenly chuckled. “There’s one man in existence who’d have been jolly glad to carry it off!” he exclaimed. Blick looked up, frowning. “What do you mean?” he snapped out. “Who?—what man?” “The man who left it on the supper-table at the Sceptre, of course!” retorted Summers, with another chuckle. “How do you know he wasn’t there amongst the deeply-interested audience? May have been!” Blick threw aside a final mass of papers, and turned to the door. “Well, it’s gone, anyway!” he muttered. “Nice piece of evidence disappeared, too,” soliloquized Summers. “You might have traced it to its rightful owner, Mr. Blick. But I think he’s got it—what? Clever! However, if he’s the person who purloined it off this table, you know one thing—he’s somebody who’s somewhere close at hand. Eh, Mr. Blick?” But Blick was once more in the hall, and the Chief Constable and the other men followed him. “Odd, that, Blick!” said the Chief Constable. “Who can have got it—and why?” “There may be something in what that newspaper chap says,” answered Blick in an undertone. “The man who left it at the Sceptre may have been here this morning, and taken the opportunity to possess himself of it. However——” “Now come across the park to my house, you fellows, and have some lunch,” broke in Chilford. “All ready—come on!” Blick excused himself—he had work to do, he said. On the previous day, finding that his labours at Markenmore were likely to be protracted, he had taken rooms at the Sceptre, and thither he now hastened. He had many things in hand; much to think over. That morning, before going to the inquest, he had sent a messenger into Selcaster with instructions to buy certain matter for him: his first question on reaching the Sceptre was—had the messenger returned? “Parcels on your sitting-room table, Mr. Blick,” answered Grimsdale. “Lunch there, too.” Blick sat down to his lunch, alone, and ate and drank steadily for half an hour. Then, when the table had been cleared, he lighted his pipe, pulled out his penknife, and cut the string of the parcels that had been sent him from Selcaster. CHAPTER XI FIRST STEPS