“No, sir. He has taken a suitcase with him, a brown leather one of medium size. I got the description from Mrs. Welsh. She says she noticed it here yesterday afternoon and it’s gone now. And he has taken all his outer clothes, his suits and overcoats and shoes, but most of his socks and underclothing are here in these drawers. I’ve been through everything, but I’ve not found anything useful.” “Let’s have a look.” French hastily ran through the missing man’s effects. “Most of this stuff is foreign,” he observed, as he glanced over the clothes. “You see the Argentine marking on the collars and shirts. No, I don’t think there’s much to help us there. No books or papers?” “None, sir. But there’s a big heap of burnt paper in the grate.” “So I saw. We’ll go through it later on. Now ask the landlady to come here. Just sit down, Mrs. Welsh, will you? I want to know if you can tell me anything to help me to find your lodger. I’m sorry to say he is wanted on a very serious charge—murder, in fact. Therefore, you will understand how necessary it is that you should tell me all you know.” Mrs. Welsh was thunderstruck, declaring again and again that she would not have believed it of so nice a gentleman. She was also terrified lest her rooms should suffer through the inevitable publicity. But she realised her duty and did her best to answer French’s questions. For a long time he gained no useful information, then at last an important point came out, though not in connection with his immediate objective. Having given up for the moment the question of Pyke’s destination, French was casting around to see if he could learn anything connecting him with the crime, when he chanced to ask, had Mr. Pyke a typewriter? “Not lately, he hadn’t,” Mrs. Welsh answered, “but he did have one for a time. I don’t know why he got it, for I never knew him to use it. But he had it there on the table for about three weeks.” “Oh!” said French, interested. “When was that?” “I couldn’t say exactly. Three months ago or more, I should think. But my daughter might remember. Vera is a typist and she was interested in the machine more than what I was. I’ll call her, if you like. She is at home on holidays.” Vera Welsh was the pretty girl with fair hair and blue eyes whom French had already seen. She smiled at him as she appeared in answer to her mother’s call. “We were talking of Mr. Pyke’s typewriter,” he explained. “Can you tell me what make it was?” “Yes. I noticed it when I was dusting the room. It was a Corona Four.” “And when did he get it?” The girl hesitated. “Between three and four months ago,” she said at last, with a reserve which aroused French’s interest. “Between three and four months?” he repeated. “How are you so sure of that? Was there anything to fix it in your mind?” There was, but for some time the girl would not give details. Then at last the cause came out.