"Mr. Cazalette, have you found out anything from your photographic work on that tobacco-box lid?" I asked. "You thought you might."
Much to my astonishment, he turned and shuffled away.
"I'm not through with that matter, yet," he answered. "It's—progressing."
I told Miss Raven of this little conversation. She and I were often together in the library; we often discussed the mystery of the murders.
"What was there, really, on the lid of the tobacco-box?" she asked. "Anything that could actually arouse curiosity?"
"I think Mr. Cazalette exaggerated their importance," I replied, "but there were certainly some marks, scratches, which seemed to have been made by design."
"And what," she asked again, "did Mr. Cazalette think they might mean?"
"Heaven knows!" I answered. "Some deep and dark clue to Quick's murder, I suppose."
"I wish I had seen the tobacco-box," she remarked. "Interesting, anyway."
"That's easy enough," said I. "The police have it—and all the rest of Quick's belongings. If we walked over to the police-station, the inspector would willingly show it to you."