At last, he stuffed the book into a pocket, completed his scrutiny of the safe, examined the bottles on the shelf labeled “poisons,” and took a sample of the colorless contents of one bottle marked “C10H14N2.” Then he went to the kitchen, replaced all catches and the lock of the door, and let himself out by the way he had come. Winter saw him from afar, and hastened upstairs to the private sitting-room. Furneaux appeared there soon. “Well?” said the Chief Inspector eagerly. “Got him, I think,” said Furneaux. Not much might be gathered from that monosyllabic question and its answer, but its significance in Siddle’s ears, could he have heard, would have been that of the passing bell tolling for the dead. Chapter XVIII. The Truth at Last Not often did Furneaux qualify an opinion by that dubious phrase, “I think,” which, in its colloquial sense, implies that the thought contains a reservation as to possible error. Winter looked anxious. Both he and his colleague knew well when to drop the good-natured banter they delighted in. They were face to face now with issues of life and death, dark and sinister conditions which had already destroyed one life, threatened another, and might envisage further horrors. Small wonder, then, if the Chief Inspector’s usually cheerful face was clouded, or that his hopes should be somewhat dashed when Furneaux seemed to lack the abounding confidence which was his most marked characteristic. “You’ve got something, I see,” he said, trying to speak encouragingly, and glancing at the bundle of clothing which Furneaux had wrapped in a newspaper before dropping from the bedroom window of Siddle’s house. “Yes, a lot. What to make of it is the puzzle. We either go ahead on the flimsiest of evidence or I carry out another housebreaking job this afternoon and restore things in status quo. First, the bundle—an old covert-coating overcoat and a pair of frayed trousers which probably draped Owd Ben’s ghost. They’ve been soaked in turpentine, which, chemist or no chemist, is still the best agent for removing stains. We’ll put ’em under the glass after we’ve examined the book. Siddle keeps a sort of diary, a series of jumbled memoranda. If we can extract nutriment out of that we may have something tangible to go upon. Let’s begin at the end.” Opening the leather-bound note-book, Furneaux stood with his back to the window. Winter, owing to his superior height, could look over the lesser man’s shoulder. Many an occult document affecting the famous crimes and social or dynastic intrigues of the previous decade had these two examined in that way, the main advantage of scrutiny in common being that they could compare readings or suggested readings without loss of time, and with the original manuscript before both pairs of eyes. In the first instance, there were no dates—only scraps of sentences, or comments. The concluding entry in the book was: _“A tactical error? Perhaps. Immovable.”_