ill probably return at once," he concluded "sad part of my
errand here to-day is to see if you will relinquish your lease here in
their favor."

"We would better wait and see if they wish to come," I said. "It seems
unlikely, and my town house is being remodeled." At that he let the
matter drop, but it came up unpleasantly enough, later.

At six o'clock the body was taken away, and at seven-thirty, after an
early dinner, Mr. Harton went. Gertrude had not come down, and there
was no news of Halsey. Mr. Jamieson had taken a lodging in the
village, and I had not seen him since mid-afternoon. It was about nine
o'clock, I think, when the bell rang and he was ushered into the
living-room.

"Sit down," I said grimly. "Have you found a clue that will
incriminate me, Mr. Jamieson?"

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. "No," he said. "If you had
killed Mr. Armstrong, you would have left no clues. You would have had
too much intelligence."

After that we got along better. He was fishing in his pocket, and
after a minute he brought out two scraps of paper. "I have been to the
club-house," he said, "and among Mr. Armstrong's effects, I found
these. One is curious; the other is puzzling."

The first was a sheet of club note-paper, on which was written, over
and over, the name "Halsey B. Innes." It was Halsey's flowing
signature to a dot, but it lacked Halsey's ease. The ones toward the
bottom of the sheet were much better than the top ones. Mr. Jamieson
smiled at my face.

"His old tricks," he said. "That one is merely curious; this one, as I
said before, is puzzling."

The second scrap, folded and refolded into a compass so tiny that the
writing had been partly obliterated, was part of a letter--the lower
half of a sheet, not typed, but written in a cramped hand.

"----by altering the plans for----rooms, may be possible. The best
way, in my opinion, would be to----the plan for----in one of
the----rooms----chimney."

That was all.

"Well?" I said, looking up. "There is nothing in that, is there? A man
ought to be able to change the plan of his house without becoming an
object of suspicion."

"There is little in the paper itself," he admitted; "but why should
Arnold Armstrong carry that around, unless it meant something? He
never built a house, you may be sure of that. If it is this house, it
may mean anything, from a secret room--"

"To an extra bath-room," I said scornfully. "Haven't you