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           Therewasnothinginthebreast-pocket,andonlyafewloosecoinsandacigar-holderinthewaistcoat.Thetrousersheldalittlepenknifeandsomesilver,andthesidepocketofhisjacketcontainedanoldcrocodile-skincigar-case.TherewasnosignofthelittleblackbookinwhichIhadseenhimmakingnotes.Thathadnodoubtbeentakenbyhismurderer.

           ButasIlookedupfrommytaskIsawthatsomedrawershadbeenpulledoutinthewriting-table.Scudderwouldneverhavelefttheminthatstate,forhewasthetidiestofmortals.Someonemusthavebeensearchingforsomething—perhapsforthepocket-book.

           Iwentroundtheflatandfoundthateverythinghadbeenransacked—theinsideofbooks,drawers,cupboards,boxes,eventhepocketsoftheclothesinmywardrobe,andthesideboardinthedining-room.Therewasnotraceofthebook.Mostlikelytheenemyhadfoundit,buttheyhadnotfounditonScudder’sbody.

           ThenIgotoutanatlasandlookedatabigmapoftheBritishIsles.Mynotionwastogetofftosomewilddistrict,wheremyveldcraftwouldbeofsomeusetome,forIwouldbelikeatrappedratinacity.IconsideredthatScotlandwouldbebest,formypeoplewereScotchandIcouldpassanywhereasanordinaryScotsman.IhadhalfanideaatfirsttobeaGermantourist,formyfatherhadhadGermanpartners,andIhadbeenbroughtuptospeakthetongueprettyfluently,nottomentionhavingputinthreeyearsprospectingforcopperinGermanDamaraland.