It was, as Sir Arthur had said, the biggest of its kind—a foot-long bar of serrated iron, looking like a file whose roughnesses have been ten times magnified. To the points of these roughnesses clung little scraps of stained and withered flesh, while in the corresponding hollows were dark encrustations of dried blood. The handle was new, of some light-coloured wood, and was perhaps four inches long and three and a half in circumference. “Now that’s not at all pretty,” said Anthony, with a grimace. “Can I pick it up? Or would that spoil the marks?” Boyd said: “Oh, that’s all right, sir. The coroner’s jury have passed it about. And we’ve got the official record and the photos.” Anthony took it from the table; peered at it; shook it; weighed it in his hand. Boyd pointed to the blade. “Not much doubt that’s what did the trick, is there, C—Mr. Gethryn?” “Never a doubt,” said Anthony, and shook the thing with vigour. There was a sudden clatter. The blade had flown off, struck the table, and fallen to the floor. “Bit loose,” said Anthony, looking at the handle in his fingers. He stooped and picked up the blade, holding it gingerly. “Those blows that broke in the deceased’s skull,” said Boyd, “must’ve been hard enough to loosen anything, so to speak.” “Possibly.” Anthony’s tone was not one of conviction. “Aha! Now what are you doing here, little friends?” He picked, from a notch in the thin iron tongue upon which the handle had been fitted, two threads of white linen. “And you, too, what are you?” He stopped and picked up from the floor a small, thin wedge of darkish wood. “There should be another of you somewhere,” he murmured, and peered into the handle. He shook it, and there dropped out of the hollow where the tongue of the blade had been another slip of wood, identical with the first. He turned to the two men watching him. “Boyd, I give these, the threads and the woods, into your official keeping. You and the inspector saw where they came from.” He took an envelope from his pocket, slipped his discoveries into it and laid it upon the table beside the dismembered rasp. The inspector looked at the man from Scotland Yard, and scratched his head. “That’s all, I think,” Anthony said. “Can I see the prisoner now?” Chapter XII. Exhibits The door of the cell clanged to behind Boyd. From a chair, Deacon unfolded his bulk to greet Anthony. They shook hands. “Wasn’t long before I yelled for you,” the criminal grinned. “Take the chair. I’ll squat on the gent’s bedding.” Anthony sat, running his eye over the cell. There was the chair he sat on, the truckle bed, a tinware wash-stand, a shelf, a dressing-case of Deacon’s, and, in one corner, a large brown-paper parcel.