Bannister polished his glasses very thoughtfully and carefully. “You’re right, Mr. Bathurst,” he said after a moment or two spent in this thought-stimulating occupation. “I believe the ‘Seabourne Herald’ is on sale in Seabourne on Thursday mornings—but I’ll tell you frankly—I’m damned if I know what to make of it. Why was the car brought back to Tranfield and then left here? Speed would surely be equally important after the search had been made here? What were they after? Again—did they succeed in finding it—whatever it was?” He looked at Anthony. Mr. Bathurst shrugged his shoulders. “Also, Inspector,” he contributed, “there’s another point that I’m considering. Who is ‘X’?” He knitted his brows in thought. “Tell me again,” he said, “what was the exact wording of that postcard we found in the bedroom?” The Inspector fished the card from his pocket and handed it to Mr. Bathurst. Anthony read it for the second time. “Why did Miss Delaney keep a seemingly unimportant card like that? I can only think of one reason. What do you think, Inspector?” Bannister’s reply was in the nature of a half-grimace. “There’s no accounting for what women will do . . . with one it’s a whim . . . with another it’s just temperamental . . . with a third, the caprice of a moment—you can’t generalise. On the other hand this particular card may have escaped destruction by a pure accident.” “That’s all true—to a point,” intervened Anthony, “but many things are kept for years by a woman—entirely valueless in themselves—just because they have certain definite associations. Flowers—a theatre-programme, a dance-programme—a letter—a postcard—because they have sentimental values. They may be relics of long-ago romances. And articles of the nature that I’ve just indicated are usually kept in a very private place—such as a special drawer in the bedroom.” Bannister opened the newspaper again. “I suppose there’s nothing marked anywhere in the paper, is there?” He scanned the columns—without success. “No,” he remarked after a few moments, “I couldn’t imagine the ‘Seabourne Herald’ publishing anything deemed worthy of marking.” “Let’s look at the card again, Inspector, will you?” Bannister handed it to him again and watched him over the top of the newspaper. “The slope of this hand-writing is most unusual and yet . . .” “And yet what, Mr. Bathurst?” “I can’t help a strong feeling that I’ve seen something like it before.” “You have—where?” Anthony shook his head doubtfully. “Can’t place it for the moment—but there’s a decorative flourish about it that at times seems to strike a familiar note. It’s the kind of thing that’s difficult to associate—one’s mind is groping as it were,” he stopped and frowned, as he strove for elusive association. “It will come back to me,” he asserted, confidently.