Cleek and Mr. Narkom spent a busy fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, the Superintendent learned of the tragedy which had taken place and of what evidence Cleek had got together for him, had a cursory look round the library and at the body itself (which they examined more minutely), and generally took a survey of the whole appalling affair. "Cinnamon!" ejaculated the Superintendent for the thirty-third time since the recital of the thing. "It's a teaser, I swear! If someone in the house hasn't done it, who the dickens _has_? When your wire came for me to run up here, yesterday, I was up to my eyes in work. But I knew you wouldn't send unless you really wanted me, and when _you_ do that----" He stopped speaking and let the rest of the sentence go by default. But Cleek had seen, and Cleek _knew_. The friendliness in their two pairs of eyes deepened to a fellowship which is rare--and good to see. "I know, old chap. But we mustn't go wandering down those particular primrose paths just now. You're a bully old boy, and I'd back you against every other man in the kingdom. And you've been a sort of a guardian angel and a blithering idiot all rolled into one! And that's a combination which I for one, have strong leanings for!... Now, then, what about it?" What, indeed! He swung around in his tracks, hands out-thrown, and surveyed the Superintendent with tilted head and narrowed eyes. "Any ideas, eh?" "Not a single, at the moment. Have you?" "Oh--several. But they're too uncertain at present for utterance. There's one thing I do know: That if I could find out certain items that went to the laundry from this household last week I'd know a great deal more than I do now. And I'd be able to nail--someone--with a good share in this beastly business. Also.... You saw Dollops, of course?" "Yes. Young beggar!--he was on tenterhooks. Afraid some ghostly lady had caught you last night and hugged you to death, or some such rubbish. Until I assured him that your biceps were equal to all the ghosts in the world. Yes, I saw Dollops, all right. And he said he'd got work to do for you, or something. Some constable had called with a note early in the morning...." Cleek looked up quickly from a survey of the window-sill. "Yes--yes. Had he discovered what I asked him to?" There was a sort of dumb tolerance in the Superintendent's unimaginative countenance. He shrugged his shoulders off-handedly. "My dear chap," he responded, "here's his identical message, only I can't imitate his inimitable accent. 'Tell the Guv'ner, sir, as that there "Crahn and Anchor" wot he wants ter know abaht is an inmate of the post-office!...' Now, if you can make any sense out of that, Cleek...."