come--gradually--more and more so, Mr. Brent," said Peppermore. "You
see, he only got elected Mayor by one vote. That meant that half the
Council was against him. Against his policy and ideas, you know. Of
course he was a reformer. Those who didn't like him called him a
meddler. And in my experience of this place--ten years--it's a bad thing
to meddle in Hathelsborough affairs. Too many vested interests, sir!
Certainly--amongst some people--Mr. Wallingford was not at all popular.
But--murder!"

"There are plenty of people who don't stick at that," remarked Brent.
"But you wanted information. I'll give you some." He went on to tell how
he and Bunning had found Wallingford, and of the difficulties of access
to the Mayor's Parlour. "The thing is," he concluded, "how did the
murderer get in, and how did he get away?"

"Queer!" admitted Peppermore, scribbling fast in his note-book. "That's
a nice job for the detectives. Looks like a skilfully-planned,
premeditated job too----"

Hawthwaite came in again, carrying something in his hand, concealed by a
piece of brown paper. His face betokened a discovery.

"Look here!" he said. "No secret about it--you can mention it,
Peppermore. Just after you and I had gone out of the Mayor's Parlour,
Mr. Brent, Bunning picked something out of the hearth, where it was
half-burnt, and what's left charred, and gave it to Dr. Wellesley. See!"

He laid the brown paper on his desk, turned back the edges, and revealed
part of a fine cambric pocket-handkerchief, crumpled and blood-stained,
charred and blackened.

"Without a doubt," he whispered confidentially, "this belonged to the
murderer! He got blood on his hands--he wiped them on this, and threw it
away on the fire, to burn. And this half is not burned!"

CHAPTER III

THE TANNERY HOUSE

During a moment's impressive silence the three men, standing side by
side at Hawthwaite's desk, stared at the blood-stained memento of the
crime. Each was thinking the same thought--there, before them, was the
life-blood of the man who little more than an hour previously had been
full of energy, forcefulness, ambition. It was Peppermore who first
spoke, in an awe-stricken voice.

"You'll take care of that, Mr. Superintendent?" he said. "A clue!"

"I should just think so!" exclaimed Hawthwaite. He picked up a box of
letter-paper which lay close by, emptied it of its contents, and lifted
the fragment of handkerchief by a corner. "That goes int