"Chettle and I," he said, "have, in the presence of the manager and manageress of the Pompadour, made a thorough examination of the room and the belongings of the young lady who resides there under the name of Miss Slade. There is not a jot or tittle of anything there to show that she is also Mrs. Marlow--except one thing. That, Mr. Allerdyke, is the all-important photograph of your cousin James, which is hanging, in a neat silver frame, over her mantelpiece. What do you think of that, gentlemen?" "Odd!" said Appleyard, after a moment's reflective silence. "Very queer!" said Allerdyke frowning. "Very queer, indeed--considering." "Queer and odd!" assented the chief. "As to considering--well, I don't quite know what it is that we are considering. If Miss Slade, alias Mrs. Marlow, is a member of the gang--if there is one--which killed and robbed James Allerdyke, it's a decidedly odd and queer thing that she should frame the victim's portrait and hang it where she'll see it last thing at night and first thing in the morning. Most extraordinary! And it's made me think a good deal. I believe you once said, Mr. Allerdyke, that your cousin was a bit of a ladies' man?" "Bit that way inclined, was James," replied Allerdyke laconically. "Yes--he fancied the ladies a bit, no doubt. In quite a proper way, you know--liked their society, and so on." "Just so!" assented the chief. "Well, I wonder if he and Miss Slade, alias Mrs. Marlow, knew each other at all--outside business? But it's not much use to speculate on that just now--we've more urgent matters to attend to. And first--this!" He had put a copy of a morning newspaper round the small brown paper parcel, and now took it off and showed the parcel itself to the two wondering men. One of them at any rate uttered a sharp exclamation. "Brown paper, sealed with black wax!" said Allerdyke, remembering what Chettle had told him. "Good Lord--what--" "I don't suppose this is the original brown paper, nor these the original dabs of black wax," remarked the chief as he produced a pocket pen-knife. "But this parcel, gentlemen, was recently confided by Miss Slade to the care of the manageress of the Pompadour, to be put in the hotel safe--from which it was produced to me twenty minutes ago. And--I am now going to see what it contains." The others sat in absorbed silence while the chief delicately removed the wrappings of the mysterious parcel. A sheet of brown paper, a sheet of cartridge paper beneath it--and within these very ordinary envelopings an old cigar-box, loosely tied about with a bit of knotted string. "Now for it!" said the chief. "The box contains--" He raised the lid as the other two leaned nearer. A stray ray of sunlight, filtering through the swaying boughs of the hawthorn, shot down on the box as the chief lifted a wad of soft paper and revealed a glittering mass of pearls and diamonds.