The manager shook his head. He was even paler than he had been.
“Was it anything of yours, sir?” persisted the officer, peering under the table.
“No.” The manager's voice was harsh.
“Odd sort of paper, too. Oh, here it is”—Pointer fished it out, “Did you see anything like it in Mr. Beale's hands last night?”
“I suppose on a modest estimate I had near a dozen people in this room yesterday.” The manager's voice was studiously level. “I should say that the probabilities are that any one of them dropped that little tag.”
“Shouldn't wonder,” agreed Pointer amicably. “Did you and Mr. Beale sit up long together last night?”
The manager hesitated for the fraction of a second. “N—no, not beyond saying good-night, after his refusing to let me give him my bedroom.”
“You didn't discuss Mr. Eames?”
“Not at all. Not at all.”
“Kindly look carefully around the room and see if anything is missing.”