The eye was more immediately challenged by the evidences of a recent visitor’s presence. One expected a rude pallet of straw; a simpler resting-place had been contrived with three cushions obviously looted from the club lounge. There was a candle-end stuck in an empty claret-bottle, and two candles in reserve. There were numerous cigarette-ends thrown carelessly on and around the dust-heap at the corner; all these were of a common and undistinctive brand. There was a rather crumpled copy of Friday’s _Daily Mail_, probably derived from the same source as the cushions. There was a tin of boot-polish and a brush, as if the stranger had been careful about his appearance even in these singular surroundings. These relics Reeves quickly reviewed with absorbed interest, and then turned to Gordon in despair. “All these traces,” he said, “and not one that you could call a clue. If the man has escaped us, he has escaped us without leaving a solitary hint of his identity.” “That hardly surprises me,” said Gordon. “Of course the man has been in a sense your guest, but you could hardly expect him to sit down and write you a Collins.” “One might have expected one crow of triumph.” “Perhaps that was one in the billiard-room.” “In the billiard-room?” “Yes, somebody had left you a miss in balk.” “Do you really think . . .” “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s go on exploring.” All this time, except for their own whispers, there had been no noise in the secret passage. Through the little window sounds came from a distance, rarefied as sounds are when they come through a small opening. A motor-cycle hooted several times: somebody shouted “Fore!” on the links: far below (as it seemed) somebody was filling a bucket. They crept out again into the passage, the torch switched on again: for some twenty paces they were on the level, then they began to descend, and almost immediately the ceiling grew higher above them—they were in a wall-space instead of a floor-space once more. Just as they reached the foot of the steps, an unforeseen development threw all their plans into confusion—the passage branched in two directions, one branch going straight on, the other turning off sharply to the right. “What do we do here?” whispered Reeves, flashing the torch up either corridor in turn. “Whichever way we go, it seems to me, we may be taken from the rear.” “I know; we must chance it. We can’t separate, because we’ve only got one torch. We’ll try the branch that goes straight on, but be ready to turn round at a moment’s notice.” This passage, after a short distance, seemed to terminate in a blank wall. But there was a crack in the wall and Gordon, bending down, saw through the crack the billiard-room as they had left it a quarter of an hour ago, the balls still in position, the door still shut behind which Carmichael and Marryatt were on guard. “Switch the light higher up,” he whispered.