“I’ve told you who my guests were,” said Mrs. Tretheroe. “Of course, the mere idea that any of them went to the Sceptre at that time of night is ridiculous. No—the meeting at the Sceptre amounts to nothing. You concentrate on Harborough—he did it! He was always a man of mad, unreasonable, ungovernable temper, or perhaps I might have married him, once.” Blick said nothing in reply to this. He rose to go, and Mrs. Tretheroe, with another approving look, gave him her hand. “Come and see me again—to tell me how you’re getting on,” she said. “Of course, I’m awfully interested!” Blick made his way downstairs. The door of the drawing-room was still open, and the Baron von Eckhardstein was still softly singing sentimental ditties. At the foot of the staircase the maid suddenly appeared, and smiled. Blick smiled back. “I haven’t made your mistress’s headache any worse,” he remarked. “The headache’s too much cigarette smoking,” she whispered, with a look. “I say!” “What?” asked Blick, whispering too. “Has anything—been found out?” she asked. “What, yet? No!—too early,” answered Blick. “Why—do you know anything?” “I? Good Heavens, no! Merely curious! being a woman.” “What’s your name?” enquired Blick, with a smile. “Halliwell,” she replied quickly. “Why?” “Miss or Mrs.?” asked Blick. “Miss!—What makes you ask?” “Just wanted to know,” said Blick. “I shall be here some time, most likely, and I’m sure to meet you again.” Then, with another smile, he went away, and once clear of the house dismissed everything but one thought. That was an important one. Von Eckhardstein, on leaving the improvised court-room that morning, after the Coroner’s adjournment, had possessed himself, in passing the table whereon it was laid, of the tobacco-pipe which had been left at the Sceptre. Now then—was von Eckhardstein the man who had left it there? Blick had a trick of imagining possible reasons for anything: he began to invent some now. Von Eckhardstein might be one of those folk who have a mania for collecting objects connected with crime—he, Blick, had come across more than one maniac of that sort, and knew that such would stop at nothing, not even theft, to achieve their desires. Or, he might know the man who had left the pipe, and have quietly abstracted it, in the crush and confusion, with the idea of destroying evidence against a friend. But, anyhow, there the pipe was, in von Eckhardstein’s pocket, where he had slipped it on picking it up from the table—and Blick had seen and identified it. “And if it’s his,” mused Blick, “then he’s the man who went to the Sceptre at two o’clock last Tuesday morning, and left at three-fifteen with Guy Markenmore and the other chap! That’s a dead sure thing!” He strolled back to the Inn, and in due course sat down to his supper. Grimsdale tapped at his door and came in, just as he had finished.