I notice that you are advertising for this man Grice. If it will help you, I am willing to offer a reward of £50 for information which may produce him. Pray use your discretion in this matter when you re-advertise. I think I have now succeeded in piecing together the whole of the blotting-pad letter. You have probably arrived at a similar conclusion. Some may be guess-work, but I am inclined to believe that it reads thus: “hand over Ezra Grice’s confession & proof. This is final.” Of course it is only a bit of the whole letter, but it is not without interest. The police were debating as to whether they should take advantage of the lawyer’s offer of the reward, when a tall, weather-beaten individual, with a close-cropped moustache, got out of the London train at Frattenbury and inquired his way to the police head-quarters. He was dressed in a loose knickerbocker suit of excellent West End cut, and walked with the air of a man of resource and authority. He sent in his card and asked to see the superintendent of police. “Sir James Perrivale,” read the superintendent. “The name seems familiar. Show him in, Peters.” “Good morning,” said Sir James. “I’ve called about that advertisement—you know, what?” “Advertisement?” “The what-d’ye-call-it—that fellow named Grice. I saw the thing in my club yesterday.” “Pray sit down, Sir James. We shall be glad if you can give us any information about him.” “Look here, Superintendent, I want to know what you want him for. Anything against him? The poor devil’s gone through enough already. What?” “We don’t know anything against him, but we certainly want to find out about him.” “Wasn’t it down here somewhere that poor Templeton was murdered?” “Yes, Sir James—about two miles off.” “Queer coincidence, what? Perhaps that’s what you want him for?” “I don’t understand, Sir James.” “Eh? Oh, I thought perhaps you knew Grice was with him in South Africa.” “Was he, by George?” exclaimed the superintendent. “We never knew that. We only wish we had more details about Mr. Templeton; it might help us. Do you know anything?” “Oh, Lord, no! Only I knew Templeton—over the water, and Grice too, and I was interested, what?” “Will you tell us what you know?” “Of course I will. Want me to make a statement? All right. Well, I’ve only just got back from South Africa. Been doing a bit of big-game shooting up country—I’m speaking of three or four months ago. I had a camp up beyond the Umbrati river, and Templeton struck it. He was on his way back. Queer chap, you know. Used to go and bury himself for a couple o’ years in the interior—exploring. Well, as I was saying, he struck our camp. He was in a pretty low way, too, only a few of his natives and this chap Grice left—very little ammunition. Clothes like a scarecrow.” “What was Grice doing with him?”