that thing! No--no!--I'm shot if I did.
My memory never fails. I did not print off more than four. James had
three; I had one. Mine's in my album upstairs. I know what James did
with his. Cousin Grace has one; Wilson Firth has another; he gave the
third to this Mrs. Marlow--and she's got it! Then--how the devil did
that photograph, which looks to be of my taking, which I'd swear is of
my taking, come to be in Lydenberg's watch? Gad--it's enough to make a
man's brain turn to pap!"

He was moodily finishing his lunch when Chettle came in to find him.
Allerdyke, who was in a quiet corner, beckoned the detective to a seat,
and offered him a drink.

"Well?" he asked. "What's been done?"

"It's all right," answered Chettle. "I've told no more than was
necessary--just what we agreed upon. To tell you the truth, our folks
don't attach such tremendous importance to it--they will, of course, when
you tell them your story about the photo. Just at present they merely see
the obvious fact--that Lydenberg was furnished with the photo as a means
of ready identification of your brother. No--at this moment they're full
of the Perrigo woman's story--they think that's a sure clue--a good
beginning. Somebody, they say, must own, or have owned, those pugs!
Therefore they're going strong on that. Meanwhile, I'm going back to Hull
for at any rate a few days."

"You've still got that watch on you?" asked Allerdyke.

"Certainly," answered Chettle, clapping his hand to his breast-pocket.
"Technically speaking, it's in charge of the Hull police--it'll have to
be produced there. Did you want to see it again, Mr. Allerdyke?"

"Finish your drink and come up to my sitting-room," said Allerdyke. "I'll
give you a cigar up there. Yes," he added, as they left the restaurant
and went upstairs. "I do want to see it again--or, rather, the
photograph. You're in no hurry?"

"A good hour to spare yet," replied Chettle.

Allerdyke locked the door of the sitting-room when they were once inside
it, and that done he placed a decanter, a syphon, and a glass on his
table, and flanked them with a box of cigars. He waved a hospitable hand
towards these comforts.

"Sit down and help yourself, Chettle," he said. "A drop of my whisky'll
do you no harm--that's some I got down from home, and you'll not find its
like everywhere. Light a cigar--and put a couple in your pocket to smoke
in the train. Now then, let's see that photograph once more."

Chettle handed