ed as if it had been the work of a raw beginner. Then
there was another suspicious circumstance. Modelling clay is not exactly
as cheap as dirt, Mr. Narkom. Why, then, should this man, who was
confessedly as poor as the proverbial church mouse, plunge into the wild
extravagance of buying half a ton of it--and at such a time? Those are
the things that brought the suspicion into my mind; the certainty,
however, had to be brought about beyond dispute before I could act.

"I knew that George Carboys had returned to that studio by the dry marks
of muddy footprints, that were nothing like the shape of Van Nant's,
which I found on the boards of the verandah and on the carpet under one
of the windows; I knew, too, that it was Van Nant who had sent that
pigeon. You remember when I excused myself and went back on the pretext
of having forgotten my magnifying glass the other day? I did so for the
purpose of looking at that fifth pigeon. I had observed something on its
breast feathers which I thought, at first glance, was dry mud, as though
it had fallen or brushed against something muddy in its flight. As we
descended the stairs I observed that there was a similar mark on Van
Nant's sleeve. I brushed against him and scraped off a fleck with my
finger-nails. It was the dust of dried modelling clay. That on the
pigeon's breast proved to be the same substance. I knew then that the
hands of the person who liberated that pigeon were the hands of someone
who was engaged in modelling something or handling the clay of the
modeller, and--the inference was clear.

"As for the rest; when Van Nant entered that studio to-night, frightened
half out of his wits at the knowledge that he would have to deal with
the one detective he feared, I knew that if he approached that statue
and made any attempts to examine it I should have my man, and that the
hiding-place of his victim's body would be proved beyond question. When
he did go to it, and did examine it--Clarges Street at last, thank
fortune; for I am tired and sleepy. Stop here, Lennard; I'm getting out.
Come along, Dollops. Good-night, Mr. Narkom! 'And so, to bed,' as good
old Pepys says."

And passed on, up the street, with his hand on the boy's shoulder and
the stillness and the darkness enfolding them.

CHAPTER XXVII

For the next five or six weeks life ran on merrily enough for Cleek; so
merrily, in fact, that Dollops came to be quite accustomed to hear him
whistling about the