“You say it was the Frog himself?” said the sceptical Elk. “I doubt it. The Frog has never undertaken a job on his own, so far as I can remember.”
“It was either the Frog or one of his trusted emissaries,” said Johnson with a good-humoured smile. “Look at this.”
On the centre of his pink blotting-pad was stamped the inevitable Frog. It appeared also on the panel of the door.
“That is supposed to be a warning, isn’t it?” said Johnson. “Well, I hadn’t time to get acquainted with the warning before I got mine!”
“There are worse things than a clubbing,” said Elk cheerfully. “You’ve missed nothing?”
Johnson shook his head.
“No, nothing.”
Elk’s inspection of the room was short but thorough. It was near the open window, blown by the breeze into the folds of the curtain, that he found the parcel-room ticket. It was a green slip acknowledging the reception of a handbag, and it was issued at the terminus of the Great Northern Railway.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
Johnson took the slip from him, examined it and shook his head.