“You know my methods, my dear Deacon. But what d’you know about Vanda? Beyond the fact that she’s the most wonderful dancer of all time.” “I don’t really _know_ anything; but I’ve a shrewd little suspish that she was the boss’s mistress.” “She was. But as you didn’t actually know anything, I gather you can’t help me further there.” “’Fraid not. For one thing my suspicion was founded on something that happened by accident, and for another I’ve not the foggiest idea of what you’re driving at.” “They _will_ all say that!” Anthony sighed. “And it’s just what I want some one to tell _me_. Never mind, we’ll get on with the exhibits. Have you ever seen this?” He took from a swollen hip pocket a small paper package, unfolded it, and handed the contents to Deacon. They were a coil of filthy, black-smeared silk cord. Curiously, the prisoner shook it out, letting one end fall to the floor. He saw now that it was knotted at regular intervals along its length, which was a full sixteen feet. “Never saw it in my natural.” He looked up at Anthony. “What is it?” “Obviously a length of silk cord,” Anthony said, “with, as you would probably say, knobs on.” “I mean, where did you find it? What bearing’s it got?” “I found it,” said Anthony slowly, “in your bedroom at Abbotshall.” “What?” “In your room. On a ledge inside that wonderful old chimney; about six inches higher than the mantelpiece. That accounts for the filth. You can see the rope was white once, and not so long ago.” Deacon frowned at the floor. “Well, it’s either been there up the chimney since I went to the house—last May, that is—or else it’s been planted there. I never set eyes on it before.” “Good!” Anthony coiled up the cord, wrapped it up in the paper, and returned the parcel to his pocket. “But what’s the beastly bit of string _mean_? What’s it got to do with me or you or anything in this business? Tell me that!” “Shan’t,” said Anthony. “I’m not sure yet myself. You’ll have to wait.” Deacon shrugged his great shoulders. “Right-o. Next, please.” Anthony’s hand went to his breast pocket. From a leather wallet he took a bunch of newspaper cuttings. “These,” he said, “I found in a really-truly secret drawer in your late chief’s desk. Know anything about ’em? Or why they were there?” In silence, Deacon read each slip. When he had finished, “Well?” Anthony said. “They mean nothing in my young life. These three rags—_The Searchlight_, _The St. Stephen’s Gazette_, and the weekly one, _Vox Populi_—always were dead agin the boss. I can’t make head or tail of what you’re driving at, Gethryn, I can’t really!” Anthony groaned. “There you go again. Never mind that, but tell me, did you know Hoode was keeping these cuttings?” “No.” “Did he ever mention the persistent attacks of these three papers?” “No.” “No? Pity.” Anthony got to his feet. “I must move. Anything you want? Books? Food? Tobacco?”