“Now here,” and the doctor held up the band he had just removed from his own cigar, “here is an innocent enough looking thing, and yet it might hang a man in this case, easily enough. You policemen have to note the merest trifles—well, just as we doctors do sometimes. A tiny symptom, Major—the flutter of an eyelid, a pain in the little finger, so to speak—but we know it points to a fatal disease. And I suppose you attach the greatest importance to this bit of red paper. It’s _the_ clue, isn’t it?” “Oh, come now,” said Sir Peter, “you’re asking leading questions of the police. It won’t do, Doctor.” Major Renshaw removed the cigar from his mouth, puffed a volume of smoke across the table, and said: “Oh, I don’t know. As a matter of fact, I don’t mind saying that we attach very little importance to that cigar band.” “Really?” asked the coroner, sipping his port. “I confess I shouldn’t have thought that—though I don’t wish of course, to give an opinion.” “No,” went on the Chief Constable, “I don’t think there’s much in it. And, as a matter of fact, we’ve tested it already. The brand was more common than Canon Fittleworth led us to suppose, and, after all, very likely had nothing to do with the murder at all. It might have been in the cabin for days.” “Dear me,” said the doctor, who was listening intently. “That’s rather a disappointment to you, isn’t it?” The Major shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not much use following up such a very doubtful clue,” he admitted. Norwood apparently did not care for the subject of the murder to be discussed. In his position as coroner this was natural. He addressed a counter-remark across the table to Carringford: “I’ve just read the speech you made at the Diocesan Conference on Parochial Church Councils, Vicar. You must let me congratulate you.” The clergyman, pleased with the compliment, was launching forth on matters ecclesiastical—to the intense boredom of Sir Peter—when the maid entered. “Please, sir, someone wants to speak to Major Renshaw on the telephone.” “You know where it is, Major—in the hall,” said Norwood. “Thanks.” The Chief Constable went to the telephone. “Hullo—yes——” The voice of the superintendent replied. “Can you come at once, sir? It’s important.” “All right.” “I’m sorry, Norwood,” he said, as he went back into the dining-room, “but I’ll have to go—I’m wanted.” “Anything fresh—about the murder?” asked Dr. Hazell. “I don’t know.” “Ah,” said the doctor, pointing a finger at him, “you and I both get rung up in our professions. Only there’s a difference. They call me up to save lives—and they summon you to help in catching an unfortunate wretch for the gallows, eh?” “Perhaps. Good night,” replied the Chief Constable.