“I know what it is, because I’ve seen it at the studio,” said the girl, “and you know too, don’t you, Mr. Brixan?”
Mike nodded.
“It’s the central link of a handcuff,” he said, “the link that has the swivel.”
It was covered with spots of rust, which had been cleaned off—by the girl, as she told him.
“Those are my two finds. I am not going to offer you my conclusions, because I have none!”
“They may not have been thrown from the car at all,” said Michael, “but, as you say, there is a possibility that the owner of the car chose that peculiarly deserted spot to rid himself of two articles which he could not afford to have on the premises. It would have been safer to throw them into the sea, but this, I suppose, was the easier, and, to him, the safer method. I will keep these.”
He wrapped them in paper, put them away in his pocket, and the conversation drifted back to picture-taking, and, as he had anticipated:
“We’re shooting at Griff Tower to-morrow—the real tower,” said Jack Knebworth. “It is one of the landmarks—what is there amusing in Griff Tower?” he demanded.
“Nothing particularly amusing, except that you have fulfilled a prediction of mine,” said Michael. “I knew I should hear of that darned old tower!”