“I don’t quite get you.”
“Don’t go too fast. I was merely satisfying myself as to the line your inferences had taken.”
Baddeley looked doubtfully at him. “You think I’ve missed something?”
Anthony patted him on the shoulder. “Naturally—we all have, haven’t we—or the murderer would be kicking his heels in Lewes Jail by this time—there’s no urgent necessity for you to be despondent because of that.”
“That’s all very well,” returned the Inspector—“but you see this happens to be my job—my bread and butter depends on it—I can’t afford to miss things and get away with it.”
“Don’t abandon hope yet,” responded Anthony. “I am becoming more optimistic as we progress. You’ll clap your handcuffs on the criminal yet. Now tell me something else. You collared Prescott’s papers when you first ran your eye over his bedroom. Find anything?”
“Nothing of any consequence. Here they are.” He fished in his breast pocket. Then produced an ordinary brown leather wallet which he handed over to my companion. About a shilling’s worth of postage stamps, and half a dozen papers were all it contained. Anthony looked through them.
“Hotel Bill—July—’Varsity Match probably, two letters from his mother”—he scanned them through—“not important—a communication from the O.U.D.S.—another from the ‘Authentics’—and a tailor’s bill. H’m—nothing here apparently.” He returned the wallet to Baddeley.
“Did you get his check-book?”
“You bet your life I did. Care to have a look at that?” He smiled.