Boyd reddened. “Oh, don’t josh, sir. What I mean is, here are we with as clear a case as ever there was, and yet there are you, a gentleman who’s no amateur, still searching around and—and trying to make another criminal, so to speak.” “It’s not a bit of good trying to get me to explain what I’m doing, Boyd, because I don’t know myself. I’m groping—and it’s devilish dark. There is a little light, but I don’t know where it’s coming from—yet. But I will.” He fell silent; then added in a different tone: “Look here: we’ll take it that I’m mad and that the law is sane. But will you help me in my madness? Just one or two little things?” “As far as I can, sir,” Boyd said solemnly, “of course I will.” “You’re a good fellow, Boyd,” said Anthony warmly, “and you can start now.” He stopped the car and turned in his seat. “Where’s the Bow—I mean the wood-rasp?” “At present it’s at the station. Where we’re going. To-morrow it’ll be taken up to the Yard.” “Can I see it this evening?” “You can, sir, seeing that you’re an old friend, if I may say so.” “Excellent man!” “Look here, sir,” Boyd took a wallet from his pocket; from the wallet some photographs. “You might care to see these. Enlargements of the finger-prints.” Anthony took the six pieces of thin pasteboard and bent eagerly to examine them. They had been taken, these photographs, from three points of view. They showed that the handle of the rasp had been marked by a thumb and two fingers—all pointing downwards towards the blade. “And these were the only marks?” Anthony said. “Enough, aren’t they, sir?” “Yes,” murmured Anthony. “Oh, yes. What lovely little marks! How kind of Archibald!” “What’s that, sir?” “I was remarking, Boyd, on the kindly forethought which Mr. Deacon showed for Scotland Yard. He couldn’t bear to think of you wasting your time detecting all the wrong people, so he left his card for you.” “I don’t know what you’re getting at at all, sir.” Boyd shook his head sadly. Anthony handed back the photographs and started the car. In less than a minute they had finished the descent and turned the corner into the village of Marling. Boyd caught his breath and clung to his seat. The High Street streamed by them. At its far end Anthony pulled up, outside the little police station. Marling was proud of its police station, an offensive affair of pinkish brick. To Anthony, coming upon it in the midst of the little leaning houses, the low-browed shops and thatched cottages, it was like finding a comic postcard of the Mother-in-law school in an exhibition of pleasing miniatures. He shivered, and dragged Boyd inside. Here he was received by the local inspector. At a word from Boyd the inspector produced keys, opened locks and at last laid on the table the wood-rasp.