Meanwhile Colson had rushed over to Marsh Quay. It was not yet six o’clock, so the inn was not open. He knocked at the door and Mrs. Yates let him in. Satisfying himself that there was no one else about, he said to her: “As I told you before, Mrs. Yates, I look upon you as an exceedingly discreet woman. Now, I want you to keep your mouth shut about what I’m going to ask you.” “I will, Mr. Colson.” “You’ve got a good memory, eh?” “I hope so, sir.” “Well, try and remember now. This young man who was lodging with you, what did his luggage consist of?” “It was placed in a holdall he carried on the back of his bicycle. There was a satchel in front, and one of them folding things what they put their pictures on when they paints them.” “An easel?” “That’s it, sir.” “Anything else—an umbrella?” “No, sir.” “Or a walking-stick?” “No, sir.” “Are you quite sure? I want you to be very careful.” “I’m quite sure, Mr. Colson, and I’ll tell you for why. First of all, I helped him undo his luggage when he arrived, and secondly, he borrowed this here stick—what used to belong to my late husband—several times when he went out walkin’. I can swear to that.” The detective glanced at a brown polished walking-stick with a knob at the end. “All right,” he said. “That’s all I want to know. And I’ll give you a bit of information in return. It’s pretty certain _he_ isn’t the man we want.” “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Colson. I liked the young feller.” The detective had turned to go, but paused a minute. “It would be better for him still, Mrs. Yates, if you could prove that he was really in your house all night.” “Well, sir—I’m sure he was here till past one in the morning.” “Why?” “He went to bed just before ten, sir. I had a toothache that night which kept me awake till just after one. And the way that young man snored was enough to keep anyone awake—let alone the toothache.” The detective laughed. “That’s all right, then.” “We’ve eliminated one of the three,” he said to himself as he rode back. “And that’s not a bad bit o’ work, anyhow.” When he arrived at the police station the Canon was still there. The detective whispered a few words to the superintendent and Major Renshaw, and the latter said: “You’ll be glad to know, Canon, that we needn’t detain this young man any longer. Would you like to see him before you go?” “I should, very much.” When Grayson came in, Major Renshaw shook hands with him. “We’re quite satisfied about you, Mr. Grayson, and I must apologise for detaining you. But a stranger who goes off suddenly and mysteriously from the scene of a murder must expect to rouse suspicions—and you certainly did. Let me introduce you to my friend, Canon Fittleworth. You really owe your freedom this evening to him—though he won’t tell you why, because he mustn’t.” “I’m sure I’m most grateful to you, sir,” said the young artist to the Canon.