“It is, sir,” intoned the Inspector. “It’s marked with the initials ‘R. F.’ in black marking ink.”
“On a white ground,” added Doyle.
“That’s great, Inspector,” said Guy. “That ought to be a most valuable clue.”
They went on to discuss the valuable clue at some length. Beyond it, the Inspector had no further news. In reply to eager questions he was forced to admit that he had not yet established the identity of the murdered Crown Prince, nor had he any information regarding the Man with the Broken Nose. He was, however, quite confident that the answers to both these riddles would be in his hands before nightfall. “Because some one’s bound to know, you see, gents,” said the Inspector in confidence, “and they’ll send the information along to the officer in charge of the case, you mark my words.”
His audience marked them, happily.
Finally, with regretful murmurs about duty and reports, the Inspector tore himself away.
“We’re all right, we’re all right,” Doyle crooned, as the trio strolled back to the house. “He feeds out of our hands. We’re all right.”
“But what about Scotland Yard?” demanded George, breaking half an hour’s rigid silence. “You won’t be able to take him in so easily.”
Doyle looked at him rather pityingly. “My dear George, there won’t be any Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard has nothing to do with crimes outside the metropolitan area. They only come if they’re sent for and the local police confess themselves baffled. Can you see our Inspector confessing himself baffled?”
“Humph!” said George, not altogether convinced.