“Go ahead, sir. Go as far as you like.”
Chick sauntered up the gravel walk, and presently discovered the iron seat on which the girl had been found. He walked over to it across the lawn and sat down, in seeming enjoyment of the shade tree overhanging it, but in reality to make a careful inspection of the surrounding ground.
He could discover in the greensward at first only the marks left by the feet of the two policemen, whose heavy and lingering tread had obliterated any other imprints that might have been there when they arrived upon the spot. As he was about to go, however, he caught sight of a small piece of a yellow card half hidden in the grass back of the seat. He leaned over and picked it up.
It was part of a theater ticket, the coupon for a seat, and it was dated for the previous evening.
“The Alhambra,” Chick read. “By Jove, that’s the theater from which the girl said she had come. She evidently did not lie from start to finish. H’m! This may help.”
He had detected a faint aroma from the coupon, and he held it nearer to his nostrils.
“Violet perfumery, but of an inferior quality,” he said to himself. “That indicates that she’s a girl of only moderate means, who cannot afford an expensive extract. She carried the ticket in a bag with her handkerchief, which was scented. This may start me on the right scent, too, and I’ll proceed to follow it up.”
Placing the coupon in his notebook, he sauntered back across the lawn and passed out through the gate. He then saw that there was a narrow court beyond a row of dwellings on the opposite side of the street, which evidently was an outlet into the streets beyond.
Crossing over, he walked in that direction, and as he was passing the third house from the court he saw a polished brass plate on the vestibule door:
“Gordon Barclay. Artist.”