He pulled a chair up to the table and began to read. When he had finished, he replaced the two little books and the letters. They were, he judged, unimportant. The newspaper-cuttings he retained, slipping them into his wallet. The illegality of the proceeding did not apparently distress him. He replaced the little drawers, careful to leave things as he had found them. On his way to the door, he paused to examine the little polished rosewood table which stood beside the grandfather clock and was the fellow of that which supported the two tall vases he had spoken of to Boyd. A blemish upon its glossy surface had caught his eye. On close inspection he found a faint scar some twelve inches long and two wide. This scar was compounded of a series of tiny dents occurring at frequent and regular intervals along its length and breadth. Anthony became displeased with himself. He ought to have noticed this on his first visit to the room. Not that it seemed important—the wood-rasp had obviously been laid there, probably by the murderer, possibly by some one else—but, he ought, he considered, to have noticed it. He left the room, passed through the still empty hall and so into the garden. Here, pacing up and down the flagged walk outside the study, he became aware of fatigue. The lack of a night’s sleep and the energies of the day were having their effect. To keep himself awake, he walked. He also thought. Presently he halted and stood glaring at the wall above the windows of the study. As he glared, he muttered to himself: “That bit of dead creeper, now. It’s untidy. Very untidy! And it doesn’t fit!” Ten minutes later Sir Arthur found him, heavy-eyed, hands in pockets, still looking up at the wall, heavy-eyed, and swaying ever so little on his feet. “Hallo, Gethryn, hallo!” Sir Arthur looked at him keenly. “You looked fagged out, my boy. This won’t do. I prescribe a whisky and soda.” He caught Anthony’s arm. “Come along.” Anthony rubbed his eyes. “Well, I grow old, I grow old,” he said. “Did you say a drink? Forward!” Chapter VII. The Prejudiced Detective Thornton, Mrs. Lemesurier’s parlour-maid, was enjoying her evening out. To Mrs. Lemesurier and her sister, drinking their coffee after dinner, came Thornton’s second-in-command. “Please, ma’am,” she said, “there is a gentleman.” “What? Who?” Lucia pushed back her chair. “There is a gentleman, ma’am. In the drawing-room. He says might he see you. Very important, he said it was. Please, ma’am, he wouldn’t give no name.” The girl twisted her apron-strings nervously. “Shall I go, dear?” Dora asked placidly. Inwardly she was frightened. She had thought her sister recovered from her attack of the afternoon, but here she was getting ill again. White-faced! Nervy! Not at all like the usual Lucia. Mrs. Lemesurier rose to her feet. “No, no. I’d better see him. Elsie, what name—oh, you said he wouldn’t give one. All right. The drawing-room, you said?” She walked slowly from the room.