“Exactly—a blue-tinted emerald, I believe—stated to be unique as far as _individual_ possession goes. If there are others floating around nobody has seen them. Now we come to a most extraordinary chain of events. Extraordinary and yet ultimately with quite a simple explanation. According to my investigations the stolen notes—or some of them—were first traced to a Captain Willoughby—a guest at the ‘Cassandra’ Hotel, Seabourne. This Captain Willoughby, I may say, has a connection—through his fiancée—with no less a person than Miss Daphne Carruthers. Mark that! When I got here I felt I was nearly home. Not so likely! Willoughby got the notes from a Hebrew bookmaker! Who is a patient of Branston, the very dentist concerned with the murder! Still on the track, say I. Morley, the bookmaker—the dentist’s patient—got them from Branston himself! There I am again—just like ‘Felix.’ Would you believe it? Branston turns up—he got them from his housekeeper, who released him—so they say, the pair of them—from his surprising imprisonment when Miss Delaney was being murdered! And the housekeeper found the notes on Branston’s premises after the murder! Or says she did. Some little kettle of fish, don’t you think, sir? Some little mayonnaise—eh?” He wiped his lips with his handkerchief. It was easy to see that Bannister was amazed. “Let the ‘Bugle’ have a blow at that. Nevertheless, I’ve got a stray theory—I’m very hopeful, as I told you earlier. I’ve almost decided to arrest Branston and the housekeeper—Mrs. Bertenshaw—I can make out a strong ‘prima-facie’ case against them.” He paused—waiting for his Chief’s comment upon this last statement. Sir Austin drummed upon the table with the finger-tips of his left hand—apparently uncertain. “Can’t see it myself,” he interjected. “Not on what you have given me so far. What about this ‘Peacock’s Eye?’ Where’s that?” Bannister shrugged his shoulders rather impatiently. “I can’t trace any attempt to dispose of that—so far. All the notorious ‘fences’ have been and are still being—very carefully watched—by some of our best men. In my opinion not more than four of the known ‘fences’ would look at the proposition.” “And they are?” put in Sir Austin. Bannister thought for a moment. “Levigne and Kharkoff in Paris—Stefanopoulos in Amsterdam—and Schneitzer here in London. Personally—of course, I may be wrong, I know—but I wouldn’t consider anybody else.” To Anthony, of course, the four names were entirely unfamiliar. He docketed them in the pigeon-hole of his memory and was just in the midst of the requisite mental process when Sir Austin Kemble turned to him and addressed him. He noticed that the Commissioner was smiling again. “And you, Mr. Bathurst—what have you got to tell me? Is your story on all fours with Bannister’s? Are you in agreement with him? Or have you formed a different opinion?”