Anthony realised, with something of surprise, what a vast room it was. Then he banished from his mind everything save his immediate purpose, and turned to the little rosewood table which stood between the door and the grandfather clock. He bent to see more clearly the scar on the table-top, the scar which he had noticed on his second visit to the room and which had, in some vague way he could not define, been persistently worrying him during the day. It was an even more perfect impression of the wood-rasp than he had remembered it to be, an orderly series of indentations which made a mark two inches wide and nearly a foot in length. That something kept jogging in his mind; something about the mark that was indefinably wrong because the mark itself was so undoubtedly right. Beside him the door opened. He straightened his back and turned to see Sir Arthur. “Hallo, Gethryn. Can I come in? Thought you might be in here. Turn me out if you’d rather be alone.” “No, no,” said Anthony. “Come in. I’m here because I wanted to look at something and because it was the best way of escape. What sweetness! I feel quite sticky, I do!” Sir Arthur smiled. “Dodo Mainwaring, eh? I caught a glimpse of her. What d’you think?” Anthony raised one eyebrow. “Exactly,” said Sir Arthur. “If that woman doesn’t go soon I won’t wait for Laura, I’ll pack her off myself.” “Ah, yes,” Anthony said vaguely, looking down at the table. “I say, have you seen the Bow and Arrow?” “Eh? What?” “The wood-rasp.” Sir Arthur shivered. “Oh, yes. Yes, I have. It was an exhibit at the inquest.” “What was the size of it?” “Well, I believe it’s about the biggest made. Usual short, thick handle with a blade of about a foot long and perhaps two inches wide.” Anthony pointed to the table. “Did it make this mark?” he asked. “Of course. Why, all that came out at the inquest. Weren’t——” “I’ve got it!” cried Anthony, and slapped his thigh. “What’s that? What’s that? Have you thought—found something?” “I have and I have. Now, another thing: was the handle of the thing old and battered and worn at the edges and filthy and split?” Sir Arthur smiled. “No; I’m afraid you’re wrong there, Gethryn. It was almost brand-new.” “Exactly!” said Anthony. “Exactly. All polished and convenient. Oh, ours is a nice case, ours is!” “My dear boy, I’m afraid you go too fast for me.” Sir Arthur was puzzled. “That’s nothing,” Anthony said. “I go a damn sight too fast for myself sometimes.” “But what are you driving at? What’s all this about the wood-rasp?” “I won’t give you a direct answer—it’s against the rules of the Detectives’ Union—but I invite you to bring your intellect to bear on the position of this scar here. You’ll see that it’s roughly twelve inches by two and lies ten inches from all four edges of the table—right in the middle, in fact. Then think of the nice new handle on the wood-rasp.” Anthony appeared well pleased. “‘O frabjous day, Calloo callay!’ Rappings from Doyle!”