ng here, sir," he said. "Only this bit of red paper."

Tarling took the small square of paper from the man's hand and examined
it under the light of the lamp--a red square on which were written four
words in Chinese: "He brought this trouble upon himself."

It was the same inscription as had been found neatly folded in the
waistcoat pocket of Thornton Lyne that morning he was discovered lying
starkly dead.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SEARCH OF MILBURGH'S COTTAGE

Mr. Milburgh had a little house in one of the industrial streets of
Camden Town. It was a street made up for the most part of blank walls,
pierced at intervals with great gates, through which one could procure at
times a view of gaunt factories and smoky-looking chimney-stacks.

Mr. Milburgh's house was the only residence in the road, if one excepted
the quarters of caretakers and managers, and it was agreed by all who saw
his tiny demesne, that Mr. Milburgh had a good landlord.

The "house" was a detached cottage in about half an acre of ground, a
one-storey building, monopolising the space which might have been
occupied by factory extension. Both the factory to the right and the left
had made generous offers to acquire the ground, but Mr. Milburgh's
landlord had been adamant. There were people who suggested that Mr.
Milburgh's landlord was Mr. Milburgh himself. But how could that be? Mr.
Milburgh's salary was something under L400 a year, and the cottage site
was worth at least L4,000.

Canvey Cottage, as it was called, stood back from the road, behind a
lawn, innocent of flowers, and the lawn itself was protected from
intrusion by high iron railings which Mr. Milburgh's landlord had had
erected at considerable cost. To reach the house it was necessary to pass
through an iron gate and traverse a stone-flagged path to the door of the
cottage.

On the night when Tarling of Scotland Yard was the victim of a murderous
assault, Mr. Milburgh unlocked the gate and passed through, locking and
double-locking the gate behind him. He was alone, and, as was his wont,
he was whistling a sad little refrain which had neither beginning nor
end. He walked slowly up the stone pathway, unlocked the door of his
cottage, and stood only a moment on the doorstep to survey the growing
thickness of the night, before he closed and bolted the door and switched
on the electric light.

He was in a tiny hallway, plainly but nicely furnished. The note of
luxury was struck by the Z