This appeared to be a new idea to Mr. Shrubsole. He admitted that something of the kind might be done, and calling an assistant, fell to scrutinising the garment. “It’s that brown tweed with the purple line that we sold so much of last year,” the assistant declared. He produced a roll of cloth. “See, if we lift the lining here it shows clear enough.” “That’s right,” his employer admitted. “Now can we get the measurements?” “Not so easy,” said the assistant. “The thing will be all warped and shrunk from the water.” “Try,” French urged, with his pleasant smile. An orgy of measuring followed, with a subsequent recourse to the books and much low-voiced conversation. Finally Mr. Shrubsole announced the result. “It’s not possible to say for sure, Mr. French. You see, the coat is shrunk out of all knowing. But we think it might belong to one of four men.” “I see your difficulty, Mr. Shrubsole, but if you tell me the four it may help me.” “I hope so. We sold suits of about this size to Mr. Albert Cunningham of Twenty-seven, Acacia Street, Newton Abbot; Mr. John Booth of Lyndhurst, Teignmouth; Mr. Stanley Pyke, of East Street, Ashburton; and Mr. George Hepworth, of Linda Lodge, Newton Abbot. Any of those any good to you?” Mr. Shrubsole’s expression suddenly changed. “By Jove! You’re not the gentleman that’s been making these discoveries about Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke? We’ve heard some report that some Scotland Yard man was down and had found out that that tragedy was not all it was supposed to be. That it, sir?” “That’s it,” French replied, feeling that it was impossible to keep his business private. “But I don’t want it talked about. Now you see why I should like to be sure whether that was or was not Mr. Pyke’s coat.” But in spite of the tailor’s manifest interest, he declared that the point could not be established. He was fairly sure that it belonged to one of the four, but more than that he could not say. But French had no doubt whatever, and, well pleased with his progress, he left the shop and took the first bus back to Ashburton. Chapter Fifteen Blackmail “Have you been able to get the pump, Sergeant?” asked French as he reached the police station that afternoon. “I’ve got the loan of one, Mr. French, or at least I’ll get it first thing to-morrow. From a quarry close by. It’s a rotary hand-pump, and Mr. Glenn, the manager, tells me that it will throw far faster than anything we’ll want.” “We shall have to fix it down in the well?” “Yes, the well’s forty-two feet deep. It’s thirty to the water and there’s twelve feet of water. But there’ll be no trouble about that. The beams that carry the old pump will take it, too.” “You think they’re strong enough?” “We’ll just have to try them.” “What about ladders?” “I’ve got a fifty-foot length of rope ladder from the same quarry.” “Good. What time can we start to-morrow?” “I shall have the pump by half past eight.” “Then we should be at the colonel’s shortly after nine.”