Colson, who had stipulated that at this juncture no mention should be made of the walking-stick—he was emphatic on this point—produced the chamois leather bag, the diamond and the blotting-pad. From the latter he had transcribed the scraps of writing, in print capitals, onto a piece of ordinary paper. The lawyer looked at the exhibits shrewdly. “Wonder what he was doing with diamonds,” he said. “Of course there were more than this one. And the bag was not tied up, you say? H’m—queer! Yes—I see—the first letter you’ve put together very well. Evidently his appointment with Moss. You’ve got your eye on him, eh?” “One of us will probably run up to interview him to-morrow,” said the superintendent. “He’s under observation.” “Of course—good. And this other bit of writing—— Gad! it’s a poser, isn’t it? Have you made it out?” “Not yet,” said Colson. “I’ll take a copy. I’m rather keen on this sort of thing. I’ll see what I can make of it. Of course, as you say, it might be of importance—if in any way it put you on the track of the individual with whom Templeton had an appointment on Saturday night.” He copied it carefully. “You’ve allowed for the blank spaces in the original?” he asked Colson. “Yes.” The lawyer studied the letters for a minute. a d ver zr ice s o ion & roo s is nal “There’s one point about it that strikes one,” he said. “I dare say you’ve noticed it, sergeant. There aren’t many words that have the letters ZR close together. The only one I can think of is ‘Ezra,’ eh?” “I thought of that, too, sir.” The superintendent was looking over the lawyer’s shoulder. He laughed. “Ezra’s ices!” he exclaimed. “Sounds like an Italian Jew and an ice-cream barrow!” CHAPTER XI The Canon’s Cigars One can only suppose that the morbid curiosity which always attracts a crowd of people to the burial of a suicide or victim of a murder repays the onlookers in some sense or other. It is difficult to say how it does so. The utmost they see or hear is a glimpse of an ordinary coffin and the words of the Burial Service. It was a large crowd that gathered on the Tuesday afternoon to witness the funeral of Reginald Templeton, which took place in the cemetery a mile out of Frattenbury. There were few mourners. The Canon’s brother, a retired colonel, had run down for the occasion and occupied the leading mourning coach with the Canon himself and Winnie Cotterill. Crosby and the doctor who had attended the case came in the other. On the return journey to the city, Winnie Cotterill, who was seated next to the Canon, remarked: “It’s a curious thing, Canon Fittleworth, but several times I’ve had the impression that Frattenbury is familiar to me.” “Really?” “Yes,” said the girl. “It’s just come over me now. That view of the Cathedral spire—and the little stream of water we’ve just crossed—it’s just as if I’ve seen them before.” “Perhaps you have,” said the Canon. The girl shook her head.