It was not until seven o’clock in the morning that he gently shook the sleeping form. Mr. Copperdock woke with a start, and stared about him with puzzled eyes. “I’ve got a cup of tea ready for you, Mr. Copperdock,” said the herbalist. “I thought it was time to wake you, as Mrs. Cooper will be here presently, and if she found you here she might talk. We don’t want that, do we?” The tobacconist rose stiffly to his feet and shook himself. “Very kind of you, I’m sure, Ludgrove,” he said. “Yes, I remember. What did you do with that counter?” “I have it here,” replied the herbalist. “You are still quite sure that you found it on your bed last night? It wasn’t by any chance slipped into your pocket by somebody at the Cambridge Arms?” “As sure as I live. I found it on my bed, same as I told you,” affirmed Mr. Copperdock earnestly. “I wasn’t tight last night, if that’s what you’re getting at.” “No, no, of course not,” replied Mr. Ludgrove soothingly. “Now, shall we go across and see if your son heard anything during the night?” Mr. Copperdock agreeing, they crossed the road to the tobacconist’s shop, and let themselves in. Ted was still asleep, and they had some difficulty in waking him. When they had done so, he reported that he had had a good look round the place before he went to bed, and had found nothing unusual. After that—well, he had gone to sleep, and had heard nothing until they had awakened him. The light of morning appeared to have instilled rather more courage into Mr. Copperdock’s heart. He announced his determination to carry on business as usual, but insisted that Inspector Whyland should be communicated with and told of his discovery of the numbered counter. It was about ten o’clock when Whyland arrived in Praed Street, but instead of going straight to Copperdock’s shop, he went first to the herbalist’s. “What’s this story about Copperdock having found a numbered counter?” he asked, as soon as they were safely hidden in the back room from prying ears. Mr. Ludgrove recounted his experiences of the past night, and as he came to a conclusion Whyland laughed contemptuously. “Is this another of Copperdock’s hallucinations, like that meeting of his with the black sailor?” he enquired. “Not altogether,” replied Mr. Ludgrove with a smile. “The counter is real enough, at all events. He left it here last night. Here it is.” Whyland examined the counter in silence. He had very little doubt that Mr. Copperdock had staged the whole affair, had written the figure VI upon it in red ink himself, and had placed it on his bed. But why? What was his game? Was this a feeble scheme to draw suspicion from himself? The series of murders appeared to have come to an end. What was the point of reviving the memory of them like this?