ecords of what appeared to
be passages from letters or conversations. The detective read, and
read, referring back and forth, absorbed in his task, no doubt, but
evidently puzzled.

At last, he stuffed the book into a pocket, completed his scrutiny of the
safe, examined the bottles on the shelf labeled "poisons," and took a
sample of the colorless contents of one bottle marked "C10H14N2."

Then he went to the kitchen, replaced all catches and the lock of the
door, and let himself out by the way he had come.

Winter saw him from afar, and hastened upstairs to the private
sitting-room. Furneaux appeared there soon.

"Well?" said the Chief Inspector eagerly.

"Got him, I think," said Furneaux.

Not much might be gathered from that monosyllabic question and its
answer, but its significance in Siddle's ears, could he have heard, would
have been that of the passing bell tolling for the dead.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE TRUTH AT LAST

Not often did Furneaux qualify an opinion by that dubious phrase, "I
think," which, in its colloquial sense, implies that the thought contains
a reservation as to possible error.

Winter looked anxious. Both he and his colleague knew well when to drop
the good-natured banter they delighted in. They were face to face now
with issues of life and death, dark and sinister conditions which had
already destroyed one life, threatened another, and might envisage
further horrors. Small wonder, then, if the Chief Inspector's usually
cheerful face was clouded, or that his hopes should be somewhat dashed
when Furneaux seemed to lack the abounding confidence which was his most
marked characteristic.

"You've got something, I see," he said, trying to speak encouragingly,
and glancing at the bundle of clothing which Furneaux had wrapped in a
newspaper before dropping from the bedroom window of Siddle's house.

"Yes, a lot. What to make of it is the puzzle. We either go ahead on the
flimsiest of evidence or I carry out another housebreaking job this
afternoon and restore things in status quo. First, the bundle--an old
covert-coating overcoat and a pair of frayed trousers which probably
draped Owd Ben's ghost. They've been soaked in turpentine, which, chemist
or no chemist, is still the best agent for removing stains. We'll put 'em
under the glass after we've examined the book. Siddle keeps a sort of
diary, a series of jumbled memoranda. If we can extract nutriment out of
that we may have something