“That’s easily done. Let’s be sure it’s the exact length—ah—we must take half an inch off it. If you’re going to palm it off on anyone as the original, it’s a hint to remember that nothing would give it away so much as a difference, however small, in length. Half a minute. My tools are at the back of the shop.” When he returned with the two sticks he said: “You’ve noticed yours is chipped a bit in the handle?” “I know. I’ll make the other all right.” “Rub some dirt in when you’ve done, with a touch of oil. But, there, I expect you know your own job, Mr. Colson. Won’t you stay and have tea?” “I’m busy, thanks.” Colson’s next rendezvous was his own home, a pleasant little house a few minutes’ walk outside the city walls. And the pleasant little house contained a pleasant little wife, who bustled about to get tea. “I was wondering if you’d be home to-day, Bob,” she said. “I shall have to be away to-night, my dear. This is going to be a big case, I think.” “Any progress?” He nodded. “A little,” he said; “tell you all about it when I’ve finished tea.” No one else knew it, but Colson always took his wife into his confidence. He knew the value of a woman’s intuition. And many a time she had helped him at his work with her quick wit. So, seated by the fire, carefully cutting the stick he had just bought with his knife, he told her all that had happened. “Have you any idea who did it, Bob?” “Not the slightest. But there are one or two strong suspicions, eh?” She nodded. “You think robbery was the motive?” “Looks like it—if that little bag had more diamonds in it.” “But why should the thief not take the bag itself—and why should he put it back in Mr. Templeton’s waistcoat pocket?” “Ask me another,” he replied. “Well, here’s another, then, Bob. Suppose we grant that the murderer carried this stick. Why was it in the dinghy. You yourself say he must have taken another boat to get to the yacht, because the dinghy was fast to her. How came that stick in the dinghy then?” “I know,” he said slowly. “And it’s puzzled me, too.” “Unless——” “Unless what?” “Unless Mr. Templeton took someone on board first, someone who laid his walking-stick in the boat while Mr. Templeton rowed him out, and left it there when he was brought back to shore.” Colson brought his hand down on his knee with a smack. “Good!” he ejaculated. “There may be something in that. It might not belong to the murderer at all. But I’ll test it, all the same.” “By the way,” went on his wife, “which side of the path were the prints of the stick?” The detective looked at her with admiration. “You see that, do you? Well done! They were on the right-hand side as I walked into Frattenbury. That’s what made me think—what I’ve proved from Canon Fittleworth—that Templeton carried it. A man generally carries his stick in his right hand.” She smiled a little as she gazed into the fire, pleased with the compliment.