“My dear,” she said, “he’s a very clever man—I’m sure he is. Do take care, Bob.” “What do you mean?” “When you match your wits against a man like this you have to be careful. And he probably knows you’re doing it.” “That’s all right,” he said; “he’s put me down as a blunderer long ago. Remember, he knows nothing about the walking-stick or the cigar. He can’t suspect.” “Don’t let him, then. Well—let’s follow it up. He walked out with Templeton from Frattenbury.” “What makes you say that?” “It don’t know—just because I’m a woman, and you can’t expect me always to reason things out and say why. But I am going to think now—don’t speak, Bob.” There was a long silence. She suddenly turned towards him, gripped his hand, and said: “Bob!” “What?” “Suppose you’re mistaken again! And by our plan you _are_, you know—because we’re trying everything fresh.” “I don’t see what——” “Don’t interrupt, dear. Suppose those stick marks were not made by Templeton going _into_ Frattenbury, but were made by the murderer walking out with him.” “But that’s not likely. They were on the right side of the path coming in, and——” “You silly dear! But they were on the left-hand side going out. Bob—look out for a left-handed man!” “By Jove!” he exclaimed, “there’s something in that. In that case Templeton _carried_ his stick in with him and didn’t put it to the ground.” “Was he short or tall?” “Medium—inclined to be short.” She clapped her hands. “That’s it, dear!—look out for a tall, left-handed man. If only you could find out whether Templeton _carried_ his stick—for certain——?” “Stop—stop a bit!” He got up and paced the little room, smoking furiously. “I know!” he exclaimed, stopping suddenly. “There _is_ a chance of finding out. If only he remembers.” “Who?” “I won’t tell you till I’m certain. Go on, dear.” She waited a little. “I can’t think of any more, Bob. Is there anything else _new_—anything, I mean, that you haven’t followed up yet?” “There’s that blotting-pad,” he said. “I don’t know that there’s anything in it——” “Then for goodness’ sake follow it up, Bob. That’s what I _mean_.” “Well, the lawyer from London, Mr. Crosby, gave me a hint about that. I’ll tell you.” He produced his copy and showed her what Crosby had pointed out. “Ezra Price—or Ezra Grice,” she said, “let’s take it then. How would you work on it?” After a bit he said: “Well, the only way is this. If we take the letter at all as part of the business, and fit it in with these new theories, we must assume that the man to whom it was written knows something about Ezra. And we are assuming that this man lives—or was at the time—in Frattenbury. But I’ve never heard the name of Ezra—Price or Grice.” “But you’ve only lived in Frattenbury six years, dear. Of course you can’t expect to have heard of him. Can’t you find out if he was ever here, or if anyone knew anything about him?”