“He had a stick; but I’m almost sure it wasn’t this one.”
“Would any one else be likely to know?”
“I don’t think so. There was no one else about.”
At this point the day porter struck in. “I wonder why you’re so curious about that stick,” he said.
“That, I am afraid, is my business,” said the inspector. “Now, can you tell me where Mr. Brooklyn usually goes of a night?”
“Sometimes to a theatre or variety show. But most often he goes to play bridge at his other club.”
“Where is that?”
“It’s a small place—the Sanctum, in Pall Mall. Only a few minutes from here.”
After a few words more the inspector took his leave en route for Duke Street. The stick he held in his hand had become a clue of the first importance. Its presence in Prinsep’s study seemed to show that its owner had been there on the fatal night. More and more Walter Brooklyn was becoming involved. But how had he got in? That was the mystery still.
At the Sanctum, Inspector Blaikie at first drew a blank—a blank which he had expected. Walter Brooklyn had not been to the club on Tuesday. Nothing had been seen of him since the previous Saturday night.