Martin’s white face went whiter as they ascended the stairs, Bannister leading and the Hotel Manager, Maynard, bringing up the rear. The Inspector waited to close the door of the surgery behind them. “Let him have a look at her, Godfrey,” he said, turning to the Sergeant. Godfrey uncovered the face again for Martin to see. The latter gave a low gasp of horror. Then he uttered an exclamation. “I was right, sir! It’s her right enough—as I was afraid it was when I came along. That’s the identical young lady that came to the ‘Lauderdale’ about half-past one this afternoon that I’ve been telling you about. Just fancy—to think of her as she was then in the best of health, as you might say—and now——” Bannister abruptly put a stoppage upon his sentimental reminiscences. “You’re certain—absolutely certain—of what you say?” “Positive, sir—you don’t see two like her every day of the week.” The Inspector turned to Sergeant Godfrey. “You hear what he says? We’ll get along up to the ‘Lauderdale’ at once. What name did she give, Martin?” “I’ve copied the name from the reception-book just as I entered it when she arrived. I thought I’d better do that in case it should turn out as I feared.” He fumbled in his breast pocket for a moment—produced a slip of paper which was far from being clean and handed it to Bannister. The latter read it aloud, “‘Miss Daphne Carruthers.’ This will save you a lot of trouble, Godfrey. Here’s your identification! No need now to broadcast the news or publish a photograph or anything—it’s a great help, this evidence of yours, Martin. It will save the police very valuable time at the most important stage of the case—the very beginning. Just where we looked uncommonly like losing it.” Maynard was obviously pleased at the Inspector’s tribute to a member of his staff. “Are you coming to the ‘Lauderdale’ now?” he inquired. “This very minute—lock the door, Godfrey, put the key in your pocket and station your two men outside.” A matter of a few minutes saw the journey accomplished. “Show these gentlemen the entry you made in the admission register, Martin,” said Maynard with a show of authority. The reception clerk ran his finger along the particular line. The name was as he had given it. Bannister glanced over his shoulder—then turned away—seemingly satisfied. The next step was an inspection of Room Sixty-six. The suit-case that had figured in Martin’s story lay on the floor between the wardrobe and the dressing-table. Bannister lifted it on to the bed. It was of good quality although of common type. There were, in all probability, hundreds similar to it in various places in Seabourne, on that very night. Two labels of the “tie-on” variety were attached to the handle. The handwriting on each of them was the same—suggestive certainly of a girl’s hand—“Daphne Carruthers, 11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington.” He tried the catches. “It’s locked. Where are your keys, Godfrey?” Godfrey produced several bunches of keys—unavailingly.