“I’ve got it!” cried Anthony, and slapped his thigh.
“What’s that? What’s that? Have you thought—found something?”
“I have and I have. Now, another thing: was the handle of the thing old and battered and worn at the edges and filthy and split?”
Sir Arthur smiled. “No; I’m afraid you’re wrong there, Gethryn. It was almost brand-new.”
“Exactly!” said Anthony. “Exactly. All polished and convenient. Oh, ours is a nice case, ours is!”
“My dear boy, I’m afraid you go too fast for me.” Sir Arthur was puzzled.
“That’s nothing,” Anthony said. “I go a damn sight too fast for myself sometimes.”
“But what are you driving at? What’s all this about the wood-rasp?”
“I won’t give you a direct answer—it’s against the rules of the Detectives’ Union—but I invite you to bring your intellect to bear on the position of this scar here. You’ll see that it’s roughly twelve inches by two and lies ten inches from all four edges of the table—right in the middle, in fact. Then think of the nice new handle on the wood-rasp.” Anthony appeared well pleased. “ ‘O frabjous day, Calloo callay!’ Rappings from Doyle!”
Sir Arthur shook his head. “I suppose you’re not mad?” he said, smiling.