“Ay, Furneaux. I remember now. He worried old Tomlin last night about that box, which is kept in the loft over the club-room. So Tomlin and I, and Hobbs, just to satisfy ourselves, went up there as soon as Furneaux left to-day. And, what do you think? The box was unlocked, though I locked it myself, and have the key; and a hat and wig and whiskers I wore when we played a skit on ‘Trilby’ were missing. If that isn’t a clew, what is?”
“A clew!” repeated the bewildered Robinson.
“Yes. I’m telling you, though I kept dark before the other fellows. Didn’t you say Grant’s cheek was bleeding on Tuesday morning?”
“I did.”
“Well, the whiskers were held on by wires that slip over the ears. One wire was sharp as a needle. I know, because it stuck into a finger more than once. Why shouldn’t it scratch a man’s cheek, and the cut open again next morning?”
“By jing, you’ve got your knife into Mr. Grant, an’ no mistake,” commented Robinson.
“You yourself gave him a nasty jab at the inquest,” sneered Elkin.
“I was just tellin’ the facts.”
“So am I. I think you ought to know about that hat and the other things. I would recognize them anywhere. Furneaux had something up his sleeve, too, or he wouldn’t have pumped Tomlin... Woa, boy! So long, Robinson! I must put this youngster into his stall.”
“I’ll wait, Mr. Elkin,” said Robinson solemnly. “I want to have a word with you.”