The Chief Inspector, stepping up to the table, smoothed out carefully the rag of blue cloth. He had picked it up from the repulsive heap in the mortuary, because a tailor’s name is found sometimes under the collar. It is not often of much use, but still—He only half expected to find anything useful, but certainly he did not expect to find—not under the collar at all, but stitched carefully on the under side of the lapel—a square piece of calico with an address written on it in marking ink.
The Chief Inspector removed his smoothing hand.
“ I carried it off with me without anybody taking notice,” he said. “I thought it best. It can always be produced if required.”
The Assistant Commissioner, rising a little in his chair, pulled the cloth over to his side of the table. He sat looking
