Dillingford gave him a lighted candle at the desk and he started upstairs, his mind full of the events and conjectures of the day. Uppermost in his thoughts was the dazzling vision of the afternoon, and the fleeting smile that had come to him through the leafy interstices. As he entered the room, his eyes fell upon a white envelope at his feet. It had been slipped under the door since he left the room an hour before.
Terse reminder from the prudent Mr. Jones! His bill for the day! He picked it up, glanced at the inscription, and at once altered his opinion. His full name was there in the handwriting of a woman. For a moment he was puzzled; then he thought of Miss Thackeray. A note of thanks, no doubt, unpleasantly fulsome! Vaguely annoyed, he ripped open the envelope and read: "In case I do not have the opportunity to speak with you to-night, this is to let you know that the little man who says he is a book- agent was in your room for three-quarters of an hour while you were away this afternoon. You'd better see if anything is missing. M.T."
He read the note again, and then held it over the candle flame. Surprise and a temporary indignation gave way before the thrill of exultation as the blazing paper fell upon the hearth.
"'Gad, it grows more and more interesting," he mused, and chuckled aloud. "They're not losing a minute's time in finding out all they can about me, that's certain. Thanks, my dear Miss Thackeray. You are undoubtedly deceived but I am not. This chap may be a detective but he isn't looking for evidence to connect me with last night's murders. Not a bit of it. He is trying to find out whether I ought to be shot the next time I go snooping around Green Fancy. I'd give a good deal to know what he put into the report he sent off a little while ago. And I'd give a good deal more to know just where Mr. Jones stands in this business. Selling sets of Dickens, eh? Book-agent by day, secret agent by night,--'gad, he may even be a road-agent!"
He made a hasty but careful examination of his effects. There was not the slightest evidence that his pack had been opened or even disturbed. Naturally he travelled without surplus impedimenta; he carried the lightest outfit possible. There were a few papers containing notes and memoranda; a small camera and films; a blank book to which he transferred his daily experiences, observations and impressions; a small medicine case; tobacco and cigarettes; a flask of brandy; copies of Galworthy's "Man of Property" and Hutchinson's "Happy Warrior"; wearing apparel, and a revolver. His purse and private papers rarely were off his person. If the little book-agent spent three-quarters of an hour in the room he managed most effectually to cover up all traces of his visit.