“I made a pretty searching examination,” he said, “but I’m afraid there are not many results so far. The lockers and portmanteau mostly contained clothes—and some money. There’s only one letter—and there weren’t many—that seemed to bear on the case, and it isn’t signed. Here it is, in an envelope with the Frattenbury postmark, posted to the G.P.O., Ryde. And it’s typewritten.” The letter proved to be a half-sheet of nondescript notepaper, with the words: “I shall be at home to discuss matters if you will call next Saturday evening after 8.30—not later than 9.” That was all. A grim smile lit up the face of the Chief Constable as he read it, shaking his head. “That’s not much help,” he said. “Of course it’s the appointment Canon Fittleworth spoke of. What next?” The detective produced a blotting-pad. “There’s not much here,” he said, “but if you hold it before a looking-glass you can make out what I think to be bits of two letters.” Across the top of the blotter, by holding it in front of the glass portions of words appeared as follows: e y u on turd ft on, and then the signature, freshly blotted and quite plain: Y rs f ithfully, R. Templeton. “‘See you on Saturday afternoon,’” said the superintendent. “That ought to be plain enough. It looks like his appointment with Moss. We know he went there.” “That’s it,” said the detective. “Now try the other. That’s a puzzler.” For some time the two men scrutinised the blotting-paper. The ink marks were faint and broken, and in most cases only isolated letters, or bits of words. Finally, they agreed with Colson that the result was this: a d ver zr ice s o ion & roo s is nal “Well,” said the Chief Constable, “you’ll be a smart fellow if you make anything out of _that_—even if it’s worth anything. What next?” “I went through his pockets. There were no papers of any kind in them. That looks suspicious. A gentleman in his position would hardly go about without a pocket-book or something. There was loose cash in the trousers pockets—and in the waistcoat pocket I found this.” He produced a very small bag of chamois leather, with a loose string tied to it to fasten it. “Look!” he said, as he shook something out on the table. The two men started. A brilliant coruscation of light flashed before them. It was a diamond the size of a pea. “Uncut,” said the Major, as he took it up to examine it; “in the rough at present, but still brilliant. It’s worth a heap of money. And he came from South Africa? Where are the rest?” “Ah,” said the superintendent, “and where does Moss come in?” “There’s something else,” said Colson, “and I’m not sure whether it may not be the best clue of all—if we can find the owner of it.” And he laid the two walking-sticks on the table.