The paper was the Morning Express of March, 1929.

“The story itself!” shouted Nigel. “Look, Alleyn, look! And there’s Wakeford’s signature, reproduced across the top.”

“Was that done with all his articles?”

“I think so. All the middle-page, special articles. The ‘Mex’ always did it.”

“It’s quite a clear-cut reproduction,” said Alleyn. “Good enough to forge from, any day. And an easy one to copy, too.”

“Of course,” said Fox slowly, “the deceased would be interested even if he had no hand in the matter.”

“Quite so,” agreed Alleyn absently. He read some of the letterpress. “It certainly points very directly at Saint,” he said. “There’s another paper left That will be the account of the libel action.”

“You’re quite right, sir — it is.”

“Yes. Well, now we turn to little Arthur’s bedroom. We are looking for a small strong box. Perhaps a cash box. What are you staring at, Bathgate?”

“You,” said Nigel simply.

The bedroom was extremely ornate, and smelt of stale incense. “Quite disgusting,” muttered Alleyn, and opened a window. They set to work again, leaving Fox to deal with the bathroom. He made the first discovery — a hypodermic syringe in the cupboard above the basin. Nigel found another in the bedside-table drawer, and with it a little oblong packet.

“Dope,” said Alleyn. “I thought he was still at it. Let me see.” He examined the packet closely. “It’s the same as the lot we got from Sniffy Quarles,” he said. “ ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.’ ”

“That’s right,” said Inspector Fox, and returned to the bathroom.

“I adore Fox,” said Alleyn. “He’s the perfect embodiment, the last loveliest expression, of horse sense. There is nothing in this chest of drawers, nor in any of the pockets of Mr. Surbonadier’s suits, except — hullo, what’s this?”

It was another letter, this time a very humble affair, written on common paper. Alleyn handed it to Nigel, who read:

“Who’s Bert?” asked Nigel.

“Albert Hickson is the property master’s name,” said Alleyn.

“One up to Fox,” said Nigel.

“He’ll think so — yes. So Trixie got it for him. I must see Trixie again.”

He got a chair, put it by the wardrobe and stood on it. Then he reached up and groped at the back of the top shelf.

“Stand by!” he said suddenly.

Nigel hurried to his side. From behind a leather hat box Alleyn drew out a small tin, very sturdily made, and bound with iron.

“That’s what we’re looking for,” he said.

How the devil did you know he had this?” asked Nigel.

Alleyn climbed down from his perch, put his hand in his pocket and produced a small key hanging on a long, very fine, steel chain.

“We found this round his neck. It suggested something of the sort to me. These boxes are made by one particular firm and the keys are rather individual. Now let us open it.”

He inserted the little key and turned it twice. The lock gave a sharp click and opened. Alleyn lifted the lid.

“More paper,” said Nigel.

“Yes. Wait a moment.”

Alleyn put the box down on the glass top of the dressing-table. From his pocket he took two pairs of tweezers and, using them delicately, lifted out a sheet of blue notepaper. It was folded. He opened it up carefully, and bent over it. Nigel heard him draw in his breath.

“Don’t touch it,” he said, “but look.”

And Nigel looked. On the paper two words were written over and over again:

“Edward Wakeford. Edward Wakeford. Edward Wakeford.”

Without a word Alleyn went out of the room, returning, followed by Fox, with the newspaper they had found in the trunk. He folded down the heading of the special article and laid it beside the paper on the dressing-table. The writing of the signature was identical.

“Why, in Heaven’s name, did he keep it?” whispered Nigel.

“You may well ask,” said Fox. “Human nature’s very rum, sir, very rum indeed. Vanity, as like as not.”

“Vanitas vanitatum, ” Alleyn murmured. “But not this time, Fox.”

The second paper proved to be another letter. It was signed H. J. M., and began: “Dear Mr. Saint.”

“Hullo!” said Alleyn. “Here’s the ex-footman coming out in a blaze of dubious glory. He mentioned this. It’s from Mortlake. ‘Please find enclosed my cheque for five hundred pounds in settlement of our little debt. The goods have all been disposed of, as per arrangement. The trade in Shantung silk is particularly satisfactory, but I have great hopes of celanese next June when our Mr. Charles comes over. Yours faithfully— ’ Oh, joy, oh rapture, my Foxkin, this is Mortlake himself! It’s a relic of our last little catch. Do you remember? Please to remember, my Fox.”

“I remember all right. Shantung was heroin and celanese was cocaine. We rounded ’em all up except Mortlake.”

“And ‘our Mr. Charles’ was none other than Sniffy Quarles, who got five of the best, bless his little soul. This will just about settle Mr. Mortlake. So that’s what Surbonadier had had up his sleeve for Jacob Saint.”

“Well, sir, I must say it begins to look more as if Saint’s our man. Although you’ve got to admit Trixie’s letter still points my way.”

“Aren’t you both excited?” Nigel observed perkily.

“You must allow us our drab thrills. There’s nothing more in the box.”

Alleyn refolded the papers, using the utmost care not to touch the surfaces. He put them in a black japanned case that Fox produced. Then he shut the iron-bound box, returned it to the wardrobe shelf, and lit a cigarette.

“Bailey had better get to work on the papers,” he said. “There’s nothing else here. I’m going to call on Miss Vaughan. No. Wait a moment I think I’ll ring her up.”

He sat on the bed, nursing his foot and rocking backwards and forwards. An expression of extreme distaste crossed his face. He took up the telephone directory, consulted it, and with a fastidious lift of his shoulders, dialled a number on the bedside telephone. The others waited.

“Is that Miss Stephanie Vaughan’s flat? May I speak to her? Will you say it’s Mr. Roderick Alleyn? Thank you.”

A pause. Alleyn traced his finger slowly round the base of the telephone.

“Is that Miss Vaughan? Please forgive me for bothering you. I am ringing up from Surbonadier’s flat. We intended to go through his papers this afternoon, but I find it’s going to be a very big job. There are some letters.” He paused. “Yes. I realise it is very disagreeable and I think it would be easiest for you if you could meet me here, and should there be any questions I can ask them straight away. That is extremely kind of you. I am locking the place up now and leaving it, but I thought of returning about nine this evening? Could you come then? May I pick you up? Oh, I see. At nine o’clock, then. Good-bye.” He hung up the receiver. “What’s the time?” he asked.

“Five o’clock,” said Nigel.

“Fox — will you take the papers back to the Yard and let Bailey have them? And tell the constable outside he can go.”

“Go!” echoed Fox dazedly.

“Yes, and don’t send anyone to relieve him. I’m staying on here myself.”

“Until nine?” asked Nigel.

“Until nine — or earlier.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Yes,” said Alleyn. “You can get hold of Felix Gardener again. You can tell him the police believe Surbonadier to have written the article in the Morning Express. Ask him if he can give us more information about Surbonadier’s Cambridge days. Anything at all that he can remember. There may be something he’s holding back. He’s feeling jumpy, you tell me. If he’s got the idea we’re suspecting him his natural reaction will be to disclaim any previous relationship with Surbonadier.”