cuments, the piles of labelled papers; there
was nothing personal here, nothing that conveyed any sense to him but
that of a vast machine of which he had become a part.

In the pen tray lay a collection of pen-holders and pencils, a knife
he had seen his father use, and a smaller knife. He picked this up and
looked at it.

It was rather a unique little knife, with a green jade handle, and the
initials A. A. were plainly engraved on the label. He had recognised
it at once and he stared at it as it lay in his hand, trying to
comprehend what its presence there might mean. He had lent it one day
to Peter Masters, who had asked him where he had got it. And he had
answered it had belonged to Aymer Aston, but he had found it as a boy
and Aymer had given it to him. Peter had given it back without the
further explanation that he had originally given it to Aymer. A day or
so later Christopher had missed it, and he told his host regretfully
it was lost. Again Peter failed to explain he was the finder. Yet
here was the knife on the desk where he had sat day after day.

Perhaps it had not seemed worth returning. Yet Christopher was
curiously loath to accept that simple answer. It seemed to him as he
fingered the smooth green sides, as if other fingers had done this in
this precise spot before, a strange aching familiarity attached itself
to the simple action. For someone's sake Peter Masters _had_ so
touched and handled this cool green thing, he was sure of it, and
suddenly he was conscious here was the message he sought. Here in the
mere sensation of touch lay the thread of recognition that linked him
with the dead man, so slight and intangible that it would bear no
expression in heavy words.

There was a knock at the door. Christopher laid the little green knife
back in its place before he answered it. Mr. Clisson entered with a
handful of letters.

"This is a very good sample, sir. As many as you will get through at
first, I expect," he said apologetically.

He sat down opposite Christopher and handed him letter after letter,
giving such explanations as were necessary. Christopher made few
comments. He put the letters into two separate piles. Presently there
was one concerning the sale of some land in the neighbourhood of the
Stormly Foundry.

"It is only just started, sir. I think we shall get a good price if we
hold out."

"I am not going to sell any land at all. You will write and say I have
altered my mind."

He