and saw me taking my photograph. And men
talk--no matter of what degree they are."

"Mr. Cazalette," said I, "I'd just like to see your results."

He got off his bed at that, and going over to a chest of drawers,
unlocked one, and took out a writing-case, from which he presently
extracted a sheet of cardboard, whereon he had mounted a photograph,
beneath which, on the cardboard, were some lines of explanatory
writing in its fine, angular style of caligraphy. This he placed in my
hand without a word, watching me silently as I looked at it.

I could make nothing of the thing. It looked to me like a series--a
very small one--of meaningless scratches, evidently made with the
point of a knife, or even by a strong pin on the surface of the metal.
Certainly, the marks were there, and, equally certainly, they looked
to have been made with some intent--but what did they mean?

"What d'ye make of it, lad?" he inquired after awhile. "Anything?"

"Nothing, Mr. Cazalette!" I replied. "Nothing whatever."

"Aye, well, and to be candid, neither do I," he confessed. "And yet,
I'm certain there's something in it. Take another look--and consider
it carefully."

I looked again--this is what there was to look at: mere lines, and at
the foot of the photograph, Mr. Cazalette's explanatory notes and
suggestions: I sat studying this for a few moments. "I make nothing of
it. It seems to be a plan. But of what?"

"It is a plan, Middlebrook," he answered. "A plan of some place. But
there I'm done! What place? Somebody that's in the secret, to a
certain point, might know--but who else could? I've speculated a deal
on the meaning and significance of those lines and marks, but without
success. Yet--they're the key to something."

"Probably to some place that Salter Quick knew of," I suggested.

"Aye, and that somebody else wants to know of!" he exclaimed. "But
what place, and where?"

"He was asking after a churchyard," said I, suddenly remembering
Quick's questions to me and his evident eagerness to acquire
knowledge. "This may be a rude drawing of a corner of it."

"Aye, and he wanted the graves of the Netherfields," remarked Mr.
Cazalette, dryly. "And I've made myself assured of the fact that there
isn't a Netherfield buried anywhere about this region! No, it's my
belief that this is a key to some spot in foreign parts, and that
there's those who are anxious to get hold of it that they'll not
stop--and haven't stopped--at murder. An