French’s work amounted to genius in the infinite pains he took with detail. In twenty minutes his sketches were complete and he effectually banished any suspicion which his actions might have aroused in Gurney’s mind by showing them to him when he rejoined him in the boiler-house. Like an artist he proceeded to establish the deception. “Copies of these sketches sent to the men who are searching for the duplicator will help them to recognise parts of it if it has been taken to pieces,” he explained. “You see the idea?” Gurney appreciated the point, and French, after again warning him to be circumspect, left the works. The problem of what he should do next was solved for French by the receipt of a letter by the early post. It was written on a half sheet of cheap notepaper in an uneducated hand and read: Ashburton. 12th October. Dear Sir, If you would come round some time that suits you I have something I could tell you that would maybe interest you. It’s better not wrote about. Lizzie Johnston. French had received too many communications of the kind to be hopeful that this one would result in anything valuable. However, he thought he ought to see the ex-parlourmaid and once again he made his way to her cottage. “It’s my Alf,” she explained. “Alf Beer, they call him. We’re being married as soon as he gets another job.” “He’s out of a job, then?” “Yes, he was in the sales department in the works; a packer, he was. He left there six months ago.” “How was that?” French asked, sympathetically. “He wasn’t well and he stayed home a few mornings, and Mr. Berlyn had him up in his office and spoke to him something wicked. Well, Alf wouldn’t take that, not from no man living, so he said what relieved his feelings and Mr. Berlyn told him he could go.” “And has he been doing nothing since?” “Not steady, he hasn’t. Just jobbing, as you might say.” “Hard lines, that is. You say he had something to tell me?” The girl nodded. “That’s right,” was her original reply. “What is it, do you know?” “He wouldn’t say. I told him you was in asking questions and he seemed sort of interested. ‘Wants to know about Berlyn and Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn’s goings-on with Pyke, does he?’ he sez. ‘I thought some one would be wanting to know about that before long. Well, I can tell him something,’ he sez.” “But he didn’t mention what it was?” “No. I asked him and he sez ‘Value for cash,’ he sez. ‘He puts down the beans and I cough up the stuff. That’s fair, ain’t it?’ he sez. ‘Don’t be a silly guff, Alf,’ I sez. ‘He’s police and if he asks you questions, why, you don’t half have to answer them.’ ‘The devil I have,’ he sez. ‘I ain’t done no crime and he hasn’t nothing on me. You tell him,’ he sez, ‘tell him I know something that would be worth a quid or two to him.’ And so I wrote you that note.”