"Yes, it's mine. At least, I think it is. I lost one just like it only the other day, anyway."
"That doesn't prove it's yours," said White. "It's a common enough pattern."
"I didn't say it did prove it. All I said was that it looks as though it might be mine. What's the mystery about? Where was the thing found?"
"In the shrubbery," replied the Inspector.
Alan put the knife down rather hastily. "Oh, I see! Well, what of it? I often go there, and I dare say it dropped out of my pocket."
"Exactly what I was thinking myself," said the Inspector. "I wonder if you know anything about the rest of my little collection?"
Alan glanced at the desk. "Good Lord, did you find them all in the shrubbery? No, I don't know whose they are. They certainly don't belong to me. What's that thing? A nail-file? Oh well, it probably belonged to the last maid we had. She used to file her nails into points, and paint them red into the bargain. That's why she got the push."
"Yes, that's very interesting to the Inspector," said White sarcastically. "If that's all you can tell him, you may as well make yourself scarce."
"Not on my account," said Hemingway. "I'm just off myself."
"Sorry I couldn't be of more assistance to you," said White, accompanying him out into the hall. "As for that other little affair - you'll keep it under your hat, won't you?"