I pointed to an item half-way down the column of Personal Notices. You yourself, my lady, may read it there if you happen to have saved a copy. It ran as follows:
“RANGOON: The asters are in full bloom in the garden at Canterbury. They are very beautiful—especially the white ones.”
Bray grunted, and opened his little eyes. I took up the issue of the following day—the twenty-eighth:
“RANGOON: We have been forced to sell father’s stick-pin—the emerald scarab he brought home from Cairo.”
I had Bray’s interest now. He leaned heavily toward me, puffing. Greatly excited, I held before his eyes the issue of the twenty-ninth:
“RANGOON: Homburg hat gone forever—caught by a breeze—into the river.”
“And finally,” said I to the inspector, “the last message of all, in the issue of the thirtieth of July—on sale in the streets some twelve hours before Fraser-Freer was murdered. See!”
“RANGOON: To-night at ten. Regent Street. —Y.O.G.”
Bray was silent.
“I take it you are aware, Inspector,” I said, “that for the past two years Captain Fraser-Freer was stationed at Rangoon.”