ope, used to hold a
few pins--the pins stuck in and the paper rolled up, you know. There was
just enough of it to guess the address by--that of the office next door;
and it was the only clue they had. So they came along here at once and
knocked up the housekeeper. He went with them and instantly recognised
Denson, disguised in labourer's clothes, but Denson, he says,
unmistakably."

"And the mark on the forehead?"

"That is very odd. It is an outlined triangle, rather less than an inch
along each side. It is quite red, he says, and seems to be done in a
greasy, sticky sort of ink or colour."

"Was anything found--the diamonds?"

"No. He says there was money--two or three five-pound notes, I believe,
some small change, a watch, keys and so forth; but there's not a word
of diamonds."

I paused in my dressing. "Does that mean that the murderer has got
them?" I asked. Hewitt pursed his lips and shook his head. "It _may_
mean that," he said, "but does it look altogether like it when
five-pound notes are left? On the other hand, there is the disguise; the
only reason that we know of for that would be that he was bolting with
the diamonds. But the really puzzling thing is the mark on the forehead.
Why that? Of course, the picturesque and romantic thing to suppose is
that it is the mark of some criminal club or society. But criminal
associations, such as exist, don't do silly things like that. When
criminals rob and murder, they don't go leaving their tracks behind them
purposely--they leave nothing that could possibly draw attention to them
if they can help it; also, they don't leave five-pound notes. But I'm
off to have a look at that mark. Inspector Plummer is in charge of the
case--you remember Plummer, don't you, in the Stanway Cameo case, and
two or three others? Well, Plummer is an old friend of mine, and not
only am I interested in this matter myself, but now that it becomes a
case of murder, I must tell the police all I know, merely as a loyal
citizen. I've an idea they will want to ask our friend Mr. Samuel some
very serious questions."

"Will you go now?"

"Yes, I must waste no more time. You get your breakfast and look out for
me, or for a message."

Hewitt was off to Vine Street, and I devoted myself to my toilet and my
breakfast, vastly mystified by this tragic turn in a matter already
puzzling enough.

* * * * *

It was not a messenger, but Hewitt himself, who came bac