It was Pointer's turn to get even. He gazed on his friend as on a man past praying for. “Any finger-prints? How many things were there, do you suppose, that that American and the Manager between them hadn't pawed over? There was a regular finger-mark jam over everything. Now I'll tell you another thing. His socks and small things were in the two top-drawers. Nothing could have been tidier. Even his spare shoelaces had rubber bands to keep them trim. His underwear, in the top long drawer, looked as if it were ready for an inspection, but his things in the bottom drawer—two pairs of trousers and a coat—seemed as though they had been flung in during an earthquake.”
“Inference—someone was chiefly concerned in pockets.” Jim was so interested that he forgot his rôle.
“Aye, just so. His trunk was in the same muddle. And remember, no letters, no papers!”
“You said his trunk and underwear were all oldish and all marked R.E.?”
“They are.”
There was silence for some time in the room. Then:
“I shall put a personal in all Monday's papers offering a reward of three pounds for any information concerning his watch. Thank Heaven, watches have numbers. That may lead us somewhere. Eames' clothes have a Colonial look to me, and his umbrella has a Toronto mark on it, but as far as I can see, the watch is our best chance to find out who he really is, and where he comes from. He entered himself as a dentist, but that pencil in his pocket was sharpened either by an artist or a draughtsman of some kind.”
“What about the American?”
“Aye, what about him? And what about the manager, too?”
“The manager? You think he shares your opinion as to the advantages of a hotel for—let us call it working off old scores?”