“Nothing unusual. We talked a bit, had a whisky and soda, lighted a fresh cigar, perhaps——” “Ah!” remarked Blick. “That reminds me of another question. Were you all smoking cigars?” “No,” replied Lansbury. “Von Eckhardstein was smoking a pipe. He said cigars made his insomnia worse.” “Well—you left at about three o’clock, I think?” suggested Blick. “About that. Markenmore was going across country to a station called Mitbourne: we said we would walk a little way with him. We left by the French window: it was then beginning to get grey in the sky—you could see things. We walked up the road, past the village cross and the old church. A little further on, I remembered that I had bought a local railway time-table at Selcaster on arriving there the previous evening. I pulled it out, and on consulting it, found that I could get a train at Selcaster soon after four o’clock which would get me to Southampton and Salisbury, and thence on to Falmouth. I decided to catch it, and said I shouldn’t bother about returning to the inn. Markenmore then pointed out a footpath which, he said, led across the meadows to Selcaster, and advised me to take it; he himself, he remarked, was going by another, exactly opposite, on the other side of the road, which made a short cut over the downs to Mitbourne station. We then bade each other farewell, and parted. I took the footpath to Selcaster; Markenmore took the other, up the hillside; von Eckhardstein went with him, observing that he would walk a little more before turning in. The last I saw of them they were rounding the corner of a high hedge, together, in close conversation.” “And that’s all you know?” said Blick. “That is all I know,” answered Lansbury. “All!” A pause in the conversation ensued: Blick began to pace the room again, thinking. The Chief Constable, who, during the whole of Lansbury’s narrative, had occupied himself in drawing apparently aimless lines on his blotting-pad, laid down his pen, sat back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling; he, too, was apparently in deep thought. But it was he who first broke the silence. “I suppose von Eckhardstein is a wealthy man?” he said, turning to Lansbury. “He enjoys that reputation in financial circles,” replied Lansbury. “You may safely say he is!” “Not likely to murder another man for a couple of thousand pounds?” “I should say not!” “Well,” remarked the Chief Constable, with a glance at Blick, “it now looks as if Guy Markenmore was murdered for—not two, but three thousand pounds! Anyway, according to you, Mr. Lansbury, he’d that sum on him when you left him at, say, half-past three, and it wasn’t on him when his clothing was examined by Blick there, a very few hours later! Who got it? Where is it?” Blick turned in his walk and came back to the hearth by which they were talking. “Have you got the numbers of the notes you gave to Markenmore?” he asked. “I suppose you have, of course!”