The proprietor himself, who was aware that a police search was in progress, answered the call, and, at the detective’s request, hurried down to the kitchen and returned in a few minutes with a pair of scales, which he placed on the table. He was obviously curious to know the purpose for which they were intended, but Inspector Meadows did not enlighten him, standing pointedly by the door until the gentleman had gone. The figure was taken from under the cloth where it had been hidden whilst the scales were being placed, and put in one shallow pan on the machine. “Ten pounds seven ounces,” nodded Manfred triumphantly. “I thought that was the one!” “One what?” asked the puzzled Meadows. “Look at this list.” Manfred found the hotel bill with the rows of figures and pointed to the one which had a black cross against it. “10/7,” he said. “That is our little fellow, and the explanation is fairly plain. Barberton found some treasure-house filled with these statues. He took away the lightest. Look at the figures! He weighed them with a spring balance, one of those which register up to 21 lbs. Above that he had to guess—he puts ‘about 24,’ ‘about 22.’” Meadows looked at his companion blankly, but Manfred was not deceived. That clever brain of the detective was working. “Not for robbery—the trunk is untouched. They did not even burn his feet to find the idol or the treasure-house: they must have known nothing of that. It was easy to rob him—or, if they knew of his gold idol, they considered it too small loot to bother with.” He looked slowly round the apartment. On the mantelshelf was a slip of brown paper like a pipe-spill. He picked it up, looked at both sides, and, finding the paper blank, put it back where he had found it. Manfred took it down and absently drew the strip between his sensitive finger-tips. “The thing to do,” said Meadows, taking one final look round, “is to find Miss Leicester.” Manfred nodded. “That is one of the things,” he said slowly. “The other, of course, is to find Johnny.” “Johnny?” Meadows frowned suspiciously. “Who is Johnny?” he asked. “Johnny is my private mystery.” George Manfred was smiling. “You promised me that I might have one!” _Chapter VI_ _In Chester Square_