g and dissipation. Consequently, I expect he is
pretty short of funds at present."

"And in appearance?"

"I only saw him once," replied Mr. Curtis, "and all I can remember of
him is that he is rather short, fair, thin, and clean-shaven, and that
he has lost the middle finger of his left hand."

"And he lives at?"

"Eltham, in Kent. Morton Grange, Eltham," said Mr. Marchmont. "And now,
if you have all the information that you require, I must really be off,
and so must Mr. Curtis."

The two men shook our hands and hurried away, leaving Thorndyke gazing
meditatively at the dingy flower-beds.

"A strange and interesting case, this, Jervis," said he, stooping to
peer under a laurel-bush. "The inspector is on a hot scent--a most
palpable red herring on a most obvious string; but that is his business.
Ah, here comes the porter, intent, no doubt, on pumping us, whereas--"
He smiled genially at the approaching custodian, and asked: "Where did
you say those houses fronted?"

"Cotman Street, sir," answered the porter. "They are nearly all
offices."

"And the numbers? That open second-floor window, for instance?"

"That is number six; but the house opposite Mr. Hartridge's rooms is
number eight."

"Thank you."

Thorndyke was moving away, but suddenly turned again to the porter.

"By the way," said he, "I dropped something out of the window just
now--a small flat piece of metal, like this." He made on the back of his
visiting card a neat sketch of a circular disc, with a hexagonal hole
through it, and handed the card to the porter. "I can't say where it
fell," he continued; "these flat things scale about so; but you might
ask the gardener to look for it. I will give him a sovereign if he
brings it to my chambers, for, although it is of no value to anyone
else, it is of considerable value to me."

The porter touched his hat briskly, and as we turned out at the gate, I
looked back and saw him already wading among the shrubs.

The object of the porter's quest gave me considerable mental occupation.
I had not seen Thorndyke drop any thing, and it was not his way to
finger carelessly any object of value. I was about to question him on
the subject, when, turning sharply round into Cotman Street, he drew up
at the doorway of number six, and began attentively to read the names of
the occupants.

"'Third-floor,'" he read out, "'Mr. Thomas Barlow, Commission Agent.'
Hum! I think we will look in on Mr. Barlow."

He stepp