thing that had to do with a murder. However, if this particular thing was abstracted by the murderer, or by somebody acting on his behalf it looks as if he, or they, were on the spot. And then—that affair of Mr. Cazalette's pocket-book!"
"Well, Scarterfield," said I. "There's another way of regarding both these thefts. Supposing tobacco-box and pocket-book were stolen, not as means of revealing a secret, but so that no one else—Cazalette or anybody—should get at it! Eh?"
"There's something in that," he admitted thoughtfully. "You mean that the murderers had already got rid of the Quicks so that there should be two less in the secret, and these things stolen lest outsiders should get any inkling of it?"
"Precisely!" I answered. "Closeness and secrecy—that's been at the back of everything so far. I tell you—you're dealing with unusually crafty brains!"
"I wish I could get the faintest idea of whose brains they were!" he sighed. "A direct clue, now—"
Before he could say any more one of the hotel servants came into the coffee-room and made for our table.
"There's a man in the hall asking for Mr. Scarterfield," he announced. "Looks like a seafaring man, sir. He says Mrs. Ormthwaite told him he'd find you here."
"Woman with whom Baxter used to lodge," muttered Scarterfield, in an aside to me. "Come along, Mr. Middlebrook—you never know what you mayn't hear."
We went out into the hall. There, twisting his cap in his hands, stood a big, brown-bearded man.
