When the others, having searched painfully every inch of ground, joined the inspector in the front room, Harborne, taking up the silk-lined caped overcoat, observed something lying on the polished walnut beneath. He uttered a hasty exclamation. "Damn!" cried Duquesne at his elbow, characteristically saying the right thing at the wrong time. "A white _odontoglossum crispum_, with crimson spots!" Across the table all exchanged glances. "He is very handsome," sighed the little Frenchman. "That is an extreme privilege," said his chief, shrugging composedly and lighting a cigarette. "It is so interesting to the women, and they are so useful. It was the women who restored your English Charles II.--but they were his ruin in the end. It is a clue, this white orchid, that inspires in me two solutions immediately." M. Duquesne suffered, temporarily, from a slight catarrh, occasioned, no doubt, by his wetting. But he lacked the courage to meet the drooping eye of his chief. They were some distance from Laurel Cottage when Harborne, who carried the caped coat on his arm, exclaimed: "By the way, who _has_ the orchid?" No one had it. "M. Duquesne," said Lemage calmly, "of all the stupid pigs you are the more complete." Sheffield ran back. Dawson had been left on duty outside the cottage. The inspector passed him and climbed back through the broken window. He looked on the table and searched, on hands and knees, about the floor. "Dawson!" "Sir?" "You have heard or seen nothing suspicious since we left?" Dawson, through the window, stared uncomprehendingly. "Nothing, sir." The white orchid was missing. CHAPTER XIX THREE LETTERS Sheard did not remain many minutes in Downing Street that night. The rooms were uncomfortably crowded and insupportably stuffy. A vague idea which his common sense was impotent to combat successfully, that he would see or hear from Severac Bablon amidst that political crush proved to be fallacious--as common sense had argued. He wondered why his extraordinary friend--for as a friend he had come to regard him--had been unable to keep his appointment. He wondered when the promised news would be communicated. That one of the Americans, or two, to whose presence he was becoming painfully familiar, had followed him since he had left the office he was well aware. But, as he had thrown off the man who had tried to follow him to Finchley Road, he was untroubled now. They had probably secured the Dulwich address; but that was due to no fault of his own, and, in any case, Bablon seemed to regard all their efforts with complete indifference. So, presumably, it did not matter.