“That's the Foxhills' mark, sir,” the constable hastened to explain. “But it beats me what Peter Hay was doing with these things. That one there”—he pointed it out—“comes from the Foxhills' drawing-room. I remember seeing it, one time Peter and I went round the house when he was shutting the windows for the night. It's valuable, isn't it, sir? Peter told me these things were worth something—quite apart from the silver in them—and I suppose he'd learned that from somebody or other—one of the family, most like.”
Sir Clinton left the silver articles alone and picked up the money which lay in one corner of the drawer.
“One pound seven and four pence ha'penny. Would that be more or less what you'd expect to see here, constable?”
“Somewhere round about that, sir, seeing it's this time in the week.”
Sir Clinton idly picked up the savings-bank book, looked at the total of the balance, and put the book down again. Evidently it suggested nothing in particular.
“I think you'd better take charge of these ornaments, inspector, and see if you can make anything out of them in the way of fingerprints. Handle them carefully. Wait a moment! I want to have a look at them.”
The inspector moved forward.
“I may be short of chalk, sir, but I've a pair of rubber gloves in my pocket,” he announced with an air of suppressed triumph. “I'll lift the things out on to the table for you, and you can look at them there.”
Slipping on his gloves, he picked up the articles gingerly and carried them across to the table. Sir Clinton followed and, bending over them, subjected them to a very careful scrutiny.
“See anything there?” he demanded, giving way at last to the inspector.